Free In Between by Jenny B Jones Page B

you very much. That sounds like a lot of fun, and I’m glad to have someone to eat lunch with,’ but I couldn’t get enough air for all those words.
    “Get those knees up! You sissies! I see you dragging! Who do you think you are? Do you think you can get away with that laziness? I want to see champions in my gym! Do you understand me? I’m training champions, not couch potatoes!”
    Coach Psycho roars out a few more orders and insults. She is really wearing on me.
    “She’s harsh,” I murmur to Angel as we finally approach the end of our last lap.
    “Yeah, tell me about it.”
    “I think you like to run! I think you want me to tack on more laps! Okay, then, ten more laps! Get those knees up!”
    No way.
    “Can you believe her? She’s evil. I hope she swallows that stupid whistle.”
    “Yeah,” Angel replies heatedly. “I hope she trips over her Nikes and splits her khaki shorts.”
    “I hope her athletic socks cut off her circulation and her hairy legs turn purple.”
    This is fun.
    Angel laughs. “Or I hope she develops a condition where she pees her pants every time she yells.”
    “Angel, five more laps for you! If you can talk, then you’re not working hard enough! Do you hear me, girl?”
    “She is such a drag,” Angel says in between breaths.
    “I’m talking to you! Did you hear what I said?”
    “Yes, ma’am!”
    Tweeeeeet! Tweeeeeet! Coach Nelson dismisses the rest of us to the showers.
    As I’m contemplating the countless joys of showering in front of strangers, a frizzy haired girl I recognize from Algebra II class walks beside me.
    “Mondays are hard, but it does get easier.”
    “Yeah, today . . . was . . . tough.” I’m still trying to catch my breath.
    “Just don’t get on Coach Nelson’s bad side, or it’s even worse.”
    Worse? How can it be any worse? If today is a demonstration of how she treats those she likes, I’d hate to see the torture she reserves for her enemies.
    “So Angel isn’t one of Coach Nelson’s favorites, I take it?”
    “One of her favorites?” The girl laughs. “She’s her daughter.”

Chapter 15

    “S o, how was your day?”
    This from Mr. Scott—er, James.
    The three of us, James, Rocky, and yours truly, are sitting in the breakfast nook in the kitchen as Millie busies herself at the stove preparing dinner. We’ve been sitting in awkward silence for the past twenty minutes—me pretending to do my homework; Rocky gnawing on some rag doll that’s had the life slobbered out of it; and Mr. Scott, who once again has his face in the paper, this time reading the stock report.
    “Um, it was okay.”
    “That good, huh?”
    And then this amazing thing happens. James puts the daily news down and looks at me—like he’s really interested.
    “Yeah, that good.” I hate to ruin the moment and not give him any details, since he was participating in this conversation, but what am I supposed to tell him? Hey, James, today I wrote a haiku, met Frances Vega, who is the most perfect perky person in existence, sat through Algebra II with kids like me who have math issues, had history with a teacher who probably knew your Moses dude, ate lunch on a toilet, met Angel and her merry band of eccentrics, and put on five pounds of new muscle mass in a single class of PE. Good day.
    “Who was your student buddy who showed you around today?” Millie stirs something on the stove that smells beyond good. I offered to help earlier, because it seemed the right thing to do, but she shooed me away.
    “Her name is Frances Vega.”
    “Oh, Frances!” the Scotts sing in happy unison.
    “She’s wonderful, Katie. Don’t you think Frances is wonderful, James?”
    “Wonderful. Great, great kid.”
    Yeah, she’s super duper. Spectacular. Fabulous.
    And she’s everything I’m not—good student, head of her class, well rounded, smart, sweet, good dresser, beautiful. Need I go on?
    My two foster parents look at me, expecting me to comment on the golden child,