Quinn can hear the quiet slapping of her shoes over and over on the red, uneven track.
Reneé is supposed to call her, and a call from Reneé always stresses Quinn out. So she comes to
the high-school track where she can feel her lungs burn and that horrible coolness in the back of
her throat, saliva filling her mouth. She can feel the wind burning her skin with its crisp bite. Her
side cramps and her eyes water. Just one more lap, she tells herself.
It had been a week since Reneé’d been in rehab. Quinn was sitting on her couch,
watching TV but not really paying any attention. Reneé didn’t sound right on the phone. Quinn’s
mind raced, overthinking how Reneé said everything. Something still didn’t feel right. She knew
Reneé. The last time Reneé had gotten fucked up, Quinn knew it. Her eyes were glazed over; she
laughed at everything. And Quinn knew at the time that something was wrong. But she let her go
into her room alone. Quinn retreated to her own because she didn’t want to deal with it. It
wasn’t until an hour later that she walked in to ask if Reneé wanted some mac-n-cheese when she
saw her on the floor, puke to her side and covering her chest and mouth. Quinn didn’t even have
A license yet, but she found the keys on the kitchen counter. She didn’t remember much from that
night. She didn’t remember how she got Reneé into the car. She didn’t remember driving through
traffic to get to the hospital. She didn’t remember calling her parents to tell them what had
happened. But she remembered Reneé on the floor, and the puke. She’ll never forget that.
Two laps have come and gone. There is someone else on the track now, a man with an
‘80s-style windbreaker and a long, greasy ponytail. He has a thin string running from his pocket
to his ears. Headphones. Quinn stops for a second to catch her breath. Her water bottle and phone
are on a bench next to the track. She checks her phone. No messages. Dammit, Reneé. It’s
already 6:30. Quinn sends a quick text message: Hey, it’s Thursday. Monthly check-in,
remember??
She takes a sip of her water. It tastes like soap. It always tastes like soap right after she washes it.
It had been two weeks since Reneé’d gone into rehab. Quinn wandered around Reneé’s
room, and in her closet saw that ‘80s-style windbreaker that Reneé loved so much when she was
fifteen. She got it at the Goodwill. Quinn raised the jacket to her nose and breathed deeply. It
smelled like Reneé, but it never quite lost the smell of the thrift store. Reneé had always loved the
smell of thrift stores. Like old people, and a mix of every house she’d ever been in. Reneé said it
smelled like memories. Quinn put the jacket on. It fit perfectly.
It wasn’t fucking fair. This was her sister. Her fucking sister. And she was the one who
found her on the floor. She was the one who had to figure everything out. This was adult stuff.
She wasn’t ready for that. She was fifteen years old. And it seemed like the world was on her
shoulders. She took the windbreaker off and started pulling at the seams.
Another lap has passed. She still hasn’t called. Quinn’s mind races, images of Reneé on
the floor. Images of her sitting on her bed, needle in arm and tears on her cheeks, her lips purple
and blue. Images of her funeral, casket closed to mask those lips. It feels real, almost like a
memory. Quinn calms her breathing. It’s been three years, Reneé is twenty-one now. She’s been
clean. At least Quinn thinks she is, and that’s all that matters. Just keep running, she says to
herself. She always runs when she feels like this.
It had been eighteen days since Reneé’d been in rehab. Quinn was on the phone with her.
“Hey, Quinny,” she said. Her words didn’t sound like her. She was usually articulate,
sharp, clean. This time, her words ran together. She was high, Quinn knew it. But she didn’t know
what to do, what to say. Maybe she was just withdrawn.
"Hey, Rey. What's up?"
"Nothing much. I got my 6-month chip today, so that's cool, I guess." Bullshit.
"That's great. Proud of you" Quinn couldn't stop her voice from having that slight hint of disappointment and skepticism. But Reneé didn't notice, even though she shouldn've. Reneé could always tell when Quinn was upset. Except for when she was high.
"There aren't, like, any cute girls in here. It's honestly disappointing. They're all junkies.
Just like you, Quinn thought.
Three more laps have passed. Quinn is staring at her phone again, heart racing. It’s 7:05.
Why hasn’t she called yet? She looks up, and the man is still on the track. He’s passed Quinn
three times now, each time taking rhythmic, sharp breaths. There’s something almost therapeutic
about watching him. His ponytail swings across his bare back, perfectly on beat like a
metronome, and Quinn imagines that it tickles a little bit. She can almost feel it herself. Her hand
starts vibrating as she’s looking at him. She glances down at her phone, which
is illuminated with a name. Reneé. Quinn quickly swipes to take the call and raises the phone to
her ear.
"Reneé?"
"Hey, Quinn. How goes it?"
"It goes. I'm good. You?"
"I'm great. I miss you, though. So does Andrea." Andrea is Reneé's live-in girlfriend. They've been dating since Reneé got clean.
"I miss you guys, too. I can't believe you two moved in together. Holy shit, man."
Reneé laughs. “Yeah, neither can I. Seems like yesterday that...” Her voice trails off. She
inhales sharply. “Anyway, you’re graduating in like 3 weeks! That’s fucking amazing!”
Quinn lets out a small chuckle. “Thanks, Rey. Mom and Dad still barely talk to me about
it. They’re still hung up about everything you went through. I committed to Penn State, probably
psych degree. But they don’t really seem to care.” Silence. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Quinn says,
“shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Reneé sounds tired. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to become the
family spectacle. I never wanted to steal the spotlight.”
“Yeah, I know.” In a desperate attempt to change the subject, Quinn says, “By the way,
how’s Nick?”
“Nick’s good. He’s getting better, but it’s a really slow process, yanno? It took me years
to finally commit to getting sober. I’m just glad to be able to help him out. I’m glad to help all
those kids out.” Reneé has been working part-time as a group counselor in-training, specializing
in drug addiction and alcoholism. Nick is one of the kids who’s really fucked up, but he likes
Reneé, and so far, it’s been working.
“Yeah, about that,” Quinn says, “I don’t know how good of an idea it is to be so involved
in this. I know it’s been a while since you were in his place, but are you sure you’ll be able to
handle this?”
"Don't do this, Quinn."
"What?"
“You know what you’re fucking doing. I’m fine. I’ve been fine for two years.” Her voice
is shrill, shaky. She’s gonna cry.
“Reneé, I... didn’t mean it like that. I’m just worried about you.”
Reneé sighs.“Look, I know you were the one who found me. I know how much that
messed you up. But I’m trying, Quinn. I’m trying so goddamn hard and you have to let me live.
It’s been three years. And it’s still hard, but it’s so much easier now. So much easier. I’m happy
now. I have Andrea. I have this program. And I still have you, even though I put you through
hell. You mean the world to me, Quinny. But I need you to believe that.”
Quinn is crying now. “Of course I believe you. I’m just so scared. All the time.” She’s
struggling to speak through her tears, struggling to think. “I just can’t go through that again. I
can’t. Every time you don’t pick up or you take too long to text or I just don’t hear from you, my
mind goes back to that night and suddenly I’m fifteen again and I’m so goddamn scared. And I
can’t live the way I wanted to, you know? Like every time I go out with my friends and they
want to drink or smoke I just get so tense and scared and my mind races and I can’t stop thinking
about you. I’m afraid I’ll end up where you were. And it kills me that I think about you that way,
and I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do.” The man on the track is gone now.
“I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m so sorry. But we’re gonna have to let go of those scars
eventually, yeah?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry,” Quinn wipes a tear from her cheek and lowers her
phone to check the time. 7:20. “Rey, I, uh, I gotta go. I have homework, and I promised Mom I’d
be home by 8. I love you so much, okay?”
"Of course, Quinny. I love you too. Bye."