Free On the Road to Find Out by Rachel Toor

more convinced than ever I wanted to go to Yale. I was a bit worried—though clearly not worried enough—about getting in. My test scores and grades were fine. But each of the colleges stressed the fact that their students had all done amazing, astonishing, unbelievable things before they turned eighteen. And the kids I met on the trip—you wouldn’t believe how many familiar faces turned up on the campuses; we could have hired a bus and all traveled together—were quick to tell anyone who would listen just how amazing they were.
    And if they didn’t tell you, their parents did. You could see the parents sizing up the other kids and saying things like, “Oh, you’re so lucky you don’t come from New Jersey. There’s practically affirmative action for people from less populous states.” Or, “I heard it’s much harder for girls to get in than for boys.”
    I think seeing these crazed, hypercompetitive parents was good for my mother. She backed off and said, “You’ll end up at the right place for you, Al.”

 
    13
    Saturday afternoon Mom and I went to the running store.
    Even though I’d gone past it a zillion times, I’d never really noticed it. I could not believe there was a whole store devoted to running.
    Are there also swimming stores?
    And badminton stores?
    As soon as we walked in the door, a tiny woman with a white-blond ponytail leaped up from a stool behind the counter and ran over to us. She said, “Dr. Davis! So great to see you!”
    â€œHello, Joan,” Mom said, and hugged her. “This is my daughter, Alice.”
    The woman had a smile as big as the ocean and grabbed me by the shoulders to look at me, which struck me as quite odd since we were complete strangers.
    She said, “Alice! I’ve heard so much about you. Still getting straight A’s?”
    I looked at Mom, trying to figure out who this person was, and when Mom gave me the look that said, Don’t ask because I can’t tell you , I knew the woman had been a patient. Doctors are not allowed to discuss their patients and my mom takes that seriously. Sometimes she’ll slip up and mention talking to someone, like a news anchor or some local celebrity, and I’ll say, “How do you know that person?” and she’ll get quiet and say, “I can’t say,” and then I’ll know exactly how she knows the person.
    â€œHow are you?” Mom asked, in a way that sounded too serious for the answer to be good.
    â€œGood,” Joan said. “Things are good.”
    Mom patted her arm and said she was glad to hear it. Then she told her we needed to get me outfitted with running gear.
    â€œI didn’t know you were a runner!” Joan said, her voice all bubbly again, as if she’d just found out I’d won a Nobel Prize. Her hair was pulled straight back from her face and when she turned to look at me, I could see she had lots of lines around her eyes, and freckles, so she clearly wasn’t one of my mom’s Botox chicks. She wore a stretchy long-sleeved shirt that fit so snug against her you could see the muscles in her stomach, a very muscular stomach. She sported loose yoga-y pants. The woman didn’t have a butter pat’s worth of fat on her. As hard as her body was, her voice was soft and girlish.
    â€œI’m not a runner,” I said. “I’m trying. Just started.”
    â€œIf you’re running, you’re a runner!” she said. “Now, let’s have a look at your feet.”
    Joan made me take off my shoes and socks and spent a long time examining my bare feet, which made me uncomfortable because my feet are ugly.
    I mean, everyone’s feet are ugly—except for Jenni’s—but mine are the worst.
    She watched me walk, made me stand, and finally sent me out the door to run down the block in a variety of shoes.
    I couldn’t tell much difference between them,