Free Leaving Jetty Road by Rebecca Burton

exasperated. “Who wants to talk to a brick wall?”
    When she saw the look on my face, she was horrified. She almost fell over herself trying to apologize.
    “I didn’t mean it like that! I
didn’t.
I just meant
—relax.
Just be yourself, and everything’ll be okay.”
    But that’s my point.
Brick wall.
That’s exactly what I am. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
    Other girls seem to follow all these complicated unwritten rules I don’t know anything about. With boys, especially . . . but with other things, too. They just seem to
know
what to wear, what to say, how to act. It comes naturally to them, somehow; it’s something they were born knowing.
    And I feel so awkward, so heavy, so out of place. Sometimes I think that if I knew the rules—if I could learn them somehow—I’d be all right.
    But it’s not just that I’d be all right. If I knew all the rules, I’d be
normal.

chapter eleven
    Running
    A s the rain grows heavier and the wind gets colder—as we wrap up in our tartan winter-uniform skirts and blazers—I take up running.
    There’s no doubt about it: exercise helps you lose weight. I’ve lost ten pounds now, since Easter—which is more than I’ve ever managed to lose in my life. Even my mother, who’s the queen of dieting (that is, the queen of yo-yo dieting), would be proud of that number. And people have started to notice, believe it or not. For the first time ever, I’m getting all these
compliments.
    One day in the rec room, even Sofia says, “Being vegetarian really seems to suit you, Lise. You look great.” Then she grins, leans over to me, and whispers conspiratorially, “So tell me your
secret,
Miss Mawson.”
    I’ve lost ten pounds . . .
    “I don’t know,” I lie. “Maybe all those lentils and tofu
are
good for you after all.”
    “Hmm,” she says, a look of distaste crossing her face. “Think I’ll stick to pasta and cheese.”
    The bell rings then, three times. I stand up, stretch, glance out the window.
    “Look at the way Miss Stirling runs,” I say to Nat and Sofia, pointing through the window across the schoolyard to a figure hurrying toward the staff room.
    “Late again—”
    “The woman’s always in a rush.”
    “No, but look at the way she
runs,
” I say impatiently, trying to get my point across. “She barely lifts her feet off the ground. No wonder she’s such a pathetic gym teacher.”
    Nat empties orange peels out of her lunchbox into the rubbish bin. “Since when are
you
the expert on running?”
    “I run,” I say indignantly, before I can stop myself. “Every morning, before breakfast.”
    Sofia and Nat look at me in astonishment.
    “You must be joking.”
    “Since when?”
    I can see what they’re thinking. Is this
Lise
we’re talking to? Round, lazy Lise, who took up piano in Year 11 so she could avoid after-school athletics?
    “It’s
good
for you,” I say crossly, and walk away.
    But the other thing about exercise, apparently, is that it kills your appetite. That’s what all the health magazines say. I have to admit, I thought that was as good a reason as any to get serious about it.
    What gave me the idea to take up running—as opposed to something else, I mean, like swimming or cycling—was Nat’s mother. I was over there one day a few months ago and Mrs. Jordan came into Nat’s bedroom to say hello. She stood in the doorway, chatting, asking me how I was, what was going on in my life—all the things she usually asks me when I’m over. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and she had a headband around her forehead, so I asked her if she was going off somewhere to play sports. The question just came out, without me even thinking about it. It’s always been like that for me with Nat’s mother: I’ve never felt remotely shy with her. I don’t know why. Somehow, she’s just so easy to talk to.
    “I’m going for a run,” she told me, in answer to my question.
    I was surprised. “I didn’t know you were a