Free The Fallen by Celia Thomson

her long brown-black hair over her shoulder like a younger woman, like a girl, like someone who didn’t have a ten-year-old and an ex-husband and a business. When she crossed the street, she kind of bounced.
    Chloe looked at the ten in her hand and thought about the differences between her mom and her boss, and the little ten-year-old she hadn’t known about until today, who split her life between her parents. Like Paul now. Chloe didn’t even have that option.
    She looked around: the streets were devoid of regular cars, let alone cabs. The faintest curl of cold air hit her nose, sharp and electric. When it faded, Chloe noticed the city-made warmth, the biological smell of trees and dirt and humans, men and women running about and excited, glad the workday was over.
    Chloe began to trot, methodically jogging like shedid in gym to do as little work as possible and not get noticed. Her breasts bounced uncomfortably in her not-designed-for-jogging bra.
    Then, without thinking, she opened up her stride and
ran.
    She ran like her body had been waiting its whole life to actually run, as if she had been held in check up until this moment. She didn’t even have to think about the movement of her arms or the placement of her feet and legs the way Mr. Parmalee was always shouting. She ran with wide steps, eating up the vanilla slabs of concrete below with hungry feet. And when her steps weren’t wide enough—she leapt.
    Houses passed in a blur, parked cars looked like they were moving. She jumped over fire hydrants and small bushes, not like a normal long or high jumper, but springing with her arms held curled at her sides to break her fall if she mislanded.
    She never did.
    When she crossed the street, she did it in the middle of the block and leapt onto the hood of a car that blocked the pedestrian walkway. She was gratified to hear the alarm go off in whoops. From there she found herself using a
parking meter
as a step closer down to the sidewalk, her left foot delicately resting on it for a moment while her right foot reached for the ground.
    The energy, strength, and speed she felt were just like in the fight with the homeless guy—but they lastedlonger. Not just an adrenaline burst. And there was no rage, no flight or fight—just the pure joy of movement, of almost flying through the deserted night.
    She cut through an empty lot, pretty sure it was a faster route home. Even though there was no moon that night and no streedights in the area, she managed to leap over dead tires, puddles of broken glass, and unpleasant-looking plants without nicking herself on a single obstacle.
    When she finally leapt up the steps to her house and let herself in, she wasn’t even winded.
    â€œJust in time,” her mother said, smiling. She was laying out cartons of Chinese.
    The clock on the TV said 7:57.

Eight
    â€œHey, Alyec,” Chloe called, waving to him across the hallway the next morning.
    â€œHey, King.” He waved back, but he turned around to continue his conversation with Keira. Chloe could almost
feel
Keira’s smugness as he dismissed her. It was infuriating. Chloe slunk away as if she had never stopped. Yeah, she should probably be happy about Brian. But Alyec was
hot.
Sexy. Drop-dead gorgeous. Covetousness inspiring. She snuck one look back to watch his wheat blond hair (or was it rye? What did they grow in Russia?) fall over his brow in waves like the fringe on an expensive pillow.
Maybe I should tell him that I’m a Ruskie, too.
    Or maybe, she thought, maybe she should choose one guy and stick with him. Either pursue Alyec or continue with Brian.
    Nah… this is way more fun.
    â€œHey.” Paul waved at her from the river of teenagetraffic that was going the opposite way, down the left side of the hall. He jumped into a free space next to her. “Take any long falls from tall buildings lately?”
    â€œI base-dived the Transamerica—does that