Chapter 3
The metal locker slammed shut with a sharp clang. I spun the combination dial, effectively locking my phone in the dark.
Welcome to Vermont, my aunt Clara’s home was here.
My aunt Clara didn’t do warm hugs or sympathetic smiles. A former pro-marathoner, she lived on a sprawling, isolated farm where cell service was basically a myth. She took one look at my puffy face and defeated posture, then tossed a pair of trail runners.
"Five miles tomorrow. 5:00 AM," she said, her voice dry. "Don't be late. And forget starving yourself. We eat to fuel here, not to punish."
By 5:15 AM the next morning in the Vermont, my lungs were burning like cheap paper. Every step up the rocky dirt trail sent shockwaves through my frame. I wanted to puke. I wanted to quit. But Clara just jogged backward ahead of me, her stride effortless.
"Pick your knees up, Scarlett! You’re shuffling, not running!"
The first week was pure hell. Between the morning mountain runs, mid-day core sessions on the barn floor, and afternoon farm chores, I was too exhausted to even think about my old life. Clara overhauled my diet. No more junk food bingeing. Instead, it was grilled chicken, quinoa, eggs fresh from the coop, and mountains of greens.
Week one: down 8 pounds.
Week two: dropped another 7.
I was literally sweating out the pathetic girl who used to hide in oversized hoodies.
Then came week three. The scale froze. I hit the dreaded plateau. Old Scarlett would have cried, locked herself in a room, and ordered two large pizzas. New Scarlett? I laced up my shoes tighter and hit the mountain. I added two extra miles of brutal interval sprints.
By the end of the first month, I stepped on the scale. Down 30 pounds from the day I arrived in Vermont.
I looked down at my legs. The constant knee pain was gone, replaced by a dull, satisfying ache of growing muscle. That afternoon, during my run, something clicked. The pounding of my feet found a rhythm. The mountain wind whipping past my ears didn't feel like a punishment anymore. It felt like flying. I was finally remembering why I loved this sport in the first place.
It wasn't until week six that I cracked the locker open.
I powered up my phone. It buzzed violently in my hand, vibrating non-stop as a month and a half of notifications flooded the screen. Dozens of texts. Most of them from Mia.
Mia: [Are you ok at your aunt home?]
Mia: [When will you come back?]
Mia: [Okay, Nathan is actually getting annoying. He came by my house today asking for you.]
I tapped on the most recent message from yesterday.
Mia: [He asked again today! Wanted to know if you changed your number!]
[Nathan said, 'You’re just throwing a tantrum. You always do this. Give you a couple of weeks, you’ll come crying back.' Also... he took Chloe to the football retreat. Everyone is saying they're officially a thing now. I'm going to key his stupid truck, I swear to God.]
I stared at the glowing screen. There was no heartbreak. Just a cold, sharp clarity. Throwing a tantrum? Crying back? A cynical laugh escaped my lips. He really thought my entire existence revolved around him.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Me: "Don't key his truck, Mia. It's not worth breaking a nail over. See you soon."
I powered the phone off, shoved it back into the locker, and headed out for another run.
Week eight. The baggy sweatpants I arrived in slid right off my hips. I was down to 145 pounds. My jawline cut a sharp angle in the bathroom mirror, and my collarbones finally saw the light of day.
By week ten, Clara sent me down to the local gas station to pick up some bags of ice.
I walked into the store wearing a simple sports bra and running shorts, my hair pulled into a messy high ponytail. I grabbed the ice and walked up to the counter. The teenage clerk ringing me up completely botched the barcode scan. He just stood there, staring at me.
"Sorry," he stammered, his face turning red. "Do you... run track or something? Like, D1? You just have that... look."
I blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Uh, no. Just for fun."
When I got back to the truck, Clara was leaning against the door, smirking. "What?" I asked, throwing the ice in the back.
"Nothing," she chuckled, starting the engine. "Your mom did the exact same thing when she was your age. She gained weight, nobody looked twice at her. Then she dropped it, walked into town, and half the boys walked into walls staring at her. You've got her bone structure, Scarlett. Honestly? You're even more striking."
Week twelve. The final weigh-in.
I stepped onto the mechanical scale in Clara's bathroom. The needle settled perfectly.
130 pounds.
Exactly 60 pounds gone.
I stepped off and walked over to the full-length mirror behind the door. I stood there. I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me.
Standing at 5'9", my body was a masterpiece of lean, tight runner's muscle. The baby fat that used to bury my features was completely stripped away, revealing a cold, piercing bone structure. My narrow, peach-blossom eyes looked huge, and that little pale brown mole at the corner of my eye? It didn't look like a flaw anymore. It looked dangerous.
Ethan Carter's words suddenly echoed in my head. He hadn't been exaggerating.
I walked out to the living room and grabbed my phone from the locker one last time. I turned it on and opened my email. Sitting right at the top of my inbox was a message from the athletic department.
Rhode Island School of Design: Cross-Country Team Official Tryout Invitation.
I tapped 'Confirm Attendance'.
Tomorrow was freshman move-in day. Right now, Nathan was probably packing his bags for Princeton, soaking up the praise, expecting his loyal, chubby shadow to be waiting by his driveway to see him off.
I locked my phone screen and grabbed my duffel bag.
Look all you want in the Princeton crowd, Nathan. You're never going to find me standing behind you again.
