Free In Between by Jenny B Jones Page A

my schedule. What kind of madness is this?
    Oh, well, I ate lunch on a toilet, nearly broke my neck falling on the floor, and was made to feel inferior by Vincent and Angel due to my lack of a criminal past.
    It can’t get any worse.

Chapter 14

    “T oday we will be doing push-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, sprints, medicine ball passes, and, if you’re lucky, line drills!”
    My day just got worse.
    “In honor of our new student, Katie Parker, we’ll be starting with twenty-five extra push-ups! Get to it! Get to it! Nose to the floor!”
    With a groan, I drop to the floor and do push-ups until I’m shaking.
    Can’t go much longer. My arms are Jell-O. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .
    “I’m Coach Audrey Nelson, and I’m here to turn you into a lean, mean, athletic machine,” a sinister voice whispers near my ear.
    In my peripheral vision, I see Sergeant Evil squatting next to me, watching my progress—or lack of it.
    “How you doin’, new girl? You think you’re ready for this class? Did you think PE meant you’d be walking laps around the gym? Did you?” Coach Nelson’s voice escalates for all to hear, and if I weren’t so intent on reminding myself to breathe, I would be embarrassed.
    How many more? I spy girls to my left and right rolling over in defeat, clenching their abused arms. I will endure. I will out push-up these Chihuahuas.
    Sweat drips off my face like rainwater, and my arms and shoulders are on fire.
    Anything, I’ll do anything to make this insanity stop.
    “Twenty-five more, ladies!”
    After another grueling set of push-ups, plus some pull-ups, crunches, squats, and other torturous activities, Coach Nelson blows her shiny whistle and demands we get into pairs. I’m so exhausted I just want to drape myself over the bleachers like a wet spaghetti noodle and wait for the feeling to come back into my arms and legs.
    “Wanna pair up?”
    Angel with the Mohawk. I was so busy burning off a year’s worth of calories I didn’t even notice she was in the class.
    “Yeah, sure.”
    The whistle blows again, this time with a command for us to toss the medicine ball to one another. I don’t know if I can. I think I left my arms back there at half court.
    “Gimme twenty-five good ones, or we up it to fifty!”
    Coach Nelson weaves through the pairs, assessing the quality of work.
    “She’s a sweetie,” I say in a whoosh, as the ball is torpedoed into my hands.
    “Today is Meltdown Monday. It’s our hard day.” Angel shares this tidbit in between the grunts and groans accompanying her attempt to stay upright.
    “So Wednesday will be better?”
    “Yeah, that’s washed-up Wednesday. We do laps in the pool all period.”
    Oh, well, that sounds easy. Sure. Laps for ninety minutes. No problem.
    I’m afraid to ask, but I must. “And Friday?”
    “Fried Friday. The class is forty-five minutes long on Friday, and Coach Nelson devotes the entire time to abs. You won’t be able to sit up until Sunday.”
    “Can’t wait.” I heave the ball to Angel.
    “Gimme ten laps then head for the showers!” As if screaming her orders isn’t enough, Coach Nelson blows the whistle hanging so proudly against her In Between Chihuahua polo.
    As I’m entertaining visions of the coach choking on her Gatorade, Angel drags me along beside her, and we run our first lap around the gym.
    “So what are you doing this weekend?”
    “Uh . . .” I can hardly breathe. I think I’m going to die. I’m not going to make it. “I . . . uh, I guess nothing. Hanging out at the house.” Inhale. Exhale.
    “Some of us are going to get together Friday night and hang out. You should come with us.”
    I will be dead by then. Death by cardio. Overdose on strength training.
    “Yeah, I’ll check my schedule.”
    “Tomorrow, when you sit with us at lunch, you can get to know everyone.”
    “Sure. Thanks.”
    One. More. Lap.
    “We’ll fill you in about Friday night.”
    “Uh-huh.” I meant to say ‘Thank