Free Breathe, Annie, Breathe by Miranda Kenneally

go!” he calls, and I sprint after him.
    He makes me run at full speed for thirty seconds. Goddamn it makes my legs burn. I’m panting when he lets me return to a jog.
    “Control your breathing,” he says.
    In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. Breathe.
    “Good,” he says. “Now let’s jog for a bit and then we’ll do some more bursts.”
    I give him my I’m-totally-freaked-out face.
    “You can do this, Annie. I’m pushing you because I know you can do it.”
    After that speed-burst thing, the jogging is easier. But I can’t do another one of those bursts. It hurt!
    “Relax your arms and shoulders,” he says, shuffling beside me. “Let that stress go. It’s holding you back.”
    I roll my shoulders and shake out my arms.
    “So I wanted to talk to you—”
    And my arms and shoulders tense right back up.
    “This week, you need to do speed bursts every day when you run. And I want you to start adding more peanut butter and eggs to your diet. You’re getting too skinny and you need to eat more as we start doing longer and longer runs.”
    Is this what he wanted to talk about? Peanut butter and eggs?!
    “I can do that.”
    He gives me a smile. I’m guessing he doesn’t know.
    “Ready for another sprint?”
    I shake my head. He shakes his head back at me. “Let’s go, Annie. Pick it up.”
    I jet forward through the dogwood trees. Matt stays with me the entire sprint, urging me on. We do three more sets of bursts. They make my chest ache like crazy—my heart doesn’t like the repeated starts and stops. Somehow I make it to the finish line, and with sweat dripping down my face, I kneel to the ground.
    “C’mon, Annie,” Matt says gently. He helps me to my feet. “You did great. Seriously great.”
    I roll my shoulders and swallow. I glance around to see if Jeremiah’s here. He’s not.
    Matt squeezes my arm. “Relax. Let all that tension out.”
    Let go , I tell myself.
    Let go.
    •••
    I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up again.
    I had to stop two times on the way home to vomit by the side of the road. I kneel and clutch the toilet seat, breathing deeply. I get sick again. Then again. Why is my stomach so screwed up? Those sprints today made me feel worse than when I first tried to run around the track, when Coach Woods caught me running like a baboon. At least I took those ibuprofen. How bad would I feel if I hadn’t?
    The bathroom door creaks open to reveal Mom standing there with a towel. She squats next to me and pats my back as I get sick. The lactic acid built up under my skin makes me feel tingly, and not in the good way. If I can’t even run nine miles without feeling this awful, how in the world will I make it to twenty-six?
    “Did you finish your run?” she asks quietly, patting my face with the towel.
    “Yeah. Nine miles.”
    “Wow. He would’ve been proud of you.”
    “Mom, don’t. Not now.”
    I feel her tense up next to me, and we both look away. I hear her sniffle. I feel bad for snapping at her, I really do, but does she have to bring Kyle up now ?
    “I can’t help it,” she says. “I just know he would’ve been amazed. Never talking about him isn’t healthy, sweetie. You need to let it out.”
    I lean against the toilet, resting my head on my arm.
    “I’ll call Stephanie,” Mom says quietly, brushing the hair out of my face. “I’ll tell her you won’t be at work tonight.”
    “No!” I blurt, and then I get sick again. I clutch the toilet and hate my stomach. Hate it. “I need the money.”
    “You can’t wait tables like this. People like it when their waitresses are healthy.”
    She’s right. If I show up at work all sweaty and red faced and getting sick every two minutes, Stephanie won’t let me wait tables anyway. But if I don’t go in, I’ll lose out on at least $75 in tips. This is my big moneymaker night!
    “Mom,” I cry. “I won’t be able to afford my training. I won’t be able to save money for college.