Free Exposed by Susan Vaught Page A

office, her frown, and the fact I didn’t make weight.
    Thump, thump, thump
. The beat from the music imitates my heart, only slower.
    “Who gave you this?” Her eyes look ginormous behind her magnifying lenses. “Did you hire a trainer?”
    Thump, thump, THUMP, thump
…
    “Hire? Uh, yes. Sort of.” I clench my fists and try to keep my breathing even. “It’s … on the Internet, you know?”
    The Bear stares at me so long I scoot back in the chair and brace for the tirade. The icy look in her giant eyes makes me shiver inside. A stupid five-year-old part of my brain screams,
She knows, she knows, somehow she knows all about Paul and our chat. She’ll tell Mom.
But an older, less lame part of my brain insists,
That’s totally ridiculous
.
    And from outside, in the gym, where everybody probably thinks I’m dead or on the first bus to Fat Camp—
thump, thump, thump, THUMP.
    God, could somebody shut off the music? I can’t take it.
    Any second now, the Bear will just laugh at me and pop me back to the JV squad, and tell me good luck earning my way back up to varsity.
    Thump. Thump …
    She lets out a long breath and nods. Her fingers tap the papers as she speaks. “This is the first sign of you taking responsibility for
you
. Good. I am impressed.”
    Responsibility—me—whoa.
    Okay … she’s … impressed.
    Color me stunned.
    But
responsibility
. There’s that Mom-word again, the one she’s always using to beat Dad to death. And me, too, when she’s mad over something I’ve done—or not done. Responsibility, responsibility, responsibility. I go to school and practice and work my ass off at
everything
I do. How much more
responsible
can I be?
    The music outside the office fades, and the question marks floating through my brain must be showing on my face, because the Bear says, “You have so very much talent in many things.”
    What?
    “Twirling, poetry, the language—vhatever you decide to pursue. But no belief. No confidence. And no—vhat is the right term. Ownership?”
    More question marks float through my brain.
    “You look for fast vays. Easy vays.” The Bear waves both hands, a lot like she does when she imitates butterflies in our practices. “Fast and easy earns you nothing but debts you can’t afford to pay. Your father, he knows, poor man. There is no fast, easy vay to fight how your body’s built. Maybe vith a plan, ve see some real progress, yes?”
    My mouth drops open. All I can do is nod like a stupid bobble-head doll.
    The Bear exhales out her long nose. “I vill give you another chance. Thursday two veeks from now, you veigh vith everyone else.”
    I leap out of my chair and almost vault over the desk to hug her. At the last second, I manage to hold myself back. “Thank you. You’re—I’m—just thanks, Coach. I’ll—”
    She cuts me off with a wave, then gestures toward the door.
    Her meaning’s clear.
    Practice, Chan Shealy. You are already late.
    “And I should not see that number on the scale too far down, either,” she says loudly as I open the door.
    I stop and look back.
    Behind her desk, in the corner of that dark, dusty little office, the Bear reminds me of a mysterious wise woman hiding out in a faraway cave. Once upon a time, when she was younger, she might have been beautiful in that Devin-perfect way—only lots shorter, like some sort of Russian pixie.
    She taps her copy of my training plan again. “Following this. Moderation. Do ve understand each other?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I play bobble-head doll again, then run into the gym before she can change her mind.
    As I scramble onto the floor to take my place, Ellis tries to trip me, but she misses.
    “Don’t be a bitch,” Carny says, her high-pitched voice shrill over the music.
    Ellis wheels on the sophomore before I can step between them. “Back off, you little twit.” Her icicle blue eyes stab in my direction, and that fast, we’re in two lines, with Ellis, the other three seniors, and one