Chapter 1.

When I explain my plan, Grandma tells me not to bother. She says my father is the reason the sky is gray—always gray like everything else in Benton, including our dog. I pat the floor. Ash ambles over and nudges my hand with his wet snout. I scratch behind his ears.

"Your father could suck the color from anything he touched, aging it on the spot. He's the reason I'm old." She laughs. "Might want to reconsider your trip, Elaine."

"You're being dramatic," I say.

Grandma stands and, without grabbing her cane, limps over and lifts my chin with two thick fingers, demanding my gaze with her cloudy green eyes. I feel the momentum of the slap she wants to deliver. Because Mom is in the kitchen, within earshot, I am emboldened and stare back. There is a spark in her eyes then, something like lightning, and I scoot over, begin fiddling with my phone.

The last time Grandma lost her temper, I was seven. She paced the living room, looking for me, yelling because I had cut up her bra to make my doll a new dress. When she found me hiding behind the chair next to the fireplace, she spun around with such velocity that it seemed the contents of the room lifted and moved with her. A sturdy handheld radio, an antique, fell from the mantel and hit me just above the ear. It didn't hurt at the time, but I was upset enough to let Mom think I was in agony and to watch, pleased, as Grandma placed her cards and sweaters into an oversized canvas bag, all gloomy-eyed about the move to Uncle Don's trailer a few miles away.

Grandma was only gone a week, that delicious week, but she came back looking as though we'd sent her to prison. "How can anyone live like that?" she kept asking us, nodding her head back and forth. She was appalled by Uncle Don's constant flatulence and poor grooming habits, not to mention his inability to remember to put the milk away after cereal.

Now, Grandma spends most of her time asleep or in a mildly threatening state of near-wakefulness. She says she gets more accomplished in her dreams than she does during the humdrum of waking life. Sure, she gets angry regularly, but she doesn't lose her temper—not in the same way. Instead, she lets her anger out in quick-witted insults that sometimes cut so deep that I'd prefer the slap. Her eyes contain the storm, and it's most visible with any mention of my father.

Mom enters the room holding two spoons heaped with raw brownie mix. She hands me one, looks at Grandma, and says, "Rattle never made things gray, or any color, for that matter. How about focusing on something positive, eh? When the girl goes back to school, it's countdown to the big track meet, then graduation." She winks at me, and I place my phone face-down on the table.

"Rattle didn't help her with any of that. She did it on her own," Grandma says. It's almost a compliment, but she quickly takes it back by adding, "I'm just saying. Why doesn't the girl think about boys, like a normal teenager? She should have had a boyfriend or two by now, rather than running herself into the ground, then going off on some crazy trip to find a loser—"

Mom puts up her hand, a stop sign, and Grandma purses her lips.

"I'm focused! Grades and track matter more than any Benton boys. Besides, I could have a boyfriend if I wanted one."

I feel the warmth of Grandma's breath as she hovers. "Every girl wants a boyfriend in high school. You're all just a bundle of hormones and teeth."

I examine the chocolate on my spoon, and though I would ordinarily take small bits of it onto my tongue and savor the sweetness, a thing I don't allow myself much of during training, I do something I know will unnerve her. Locking her gaze, I unhinge my jaw and open my mouth as wide as I can. I put the whole spoonful in, quickly realizing it's too much and resisting the urge to gag, instead letting the mixture soften on my palate. Grandma's eyes rage.

"Very ladylike."

"Chocolate shot!" I say, my mouth still sticky with the thick batter. I am about to cough, and need water, but I give Grandma a glimpse by opening my mouth wider instead. Before yelling at me, she looks at Mom again.

"She acts like she's seven, not seventeen! For heaven's sake!"

"Mother, lay off. It's a high-stress time for Elaine. Lay. Off." Mom puts the other spoon in her mouth the same way I did and smirks defiantly. She always takes my side, but this is because Grandma is mean. Acerbic might be a better word.

"You two are out of control," Grandma says.

A look of familiar regret crosses Mom's face before she swallows the mass of chocolate. She says, "Don will be happy to entertain you if you want to play the mean old woman this week, you hear?"

Grandma waves this off. "Oh, you know I mean well, Josephine. I worry about this kid is all. She doesn't have her head in the right place. She's in fantasy land, and she's too old for that."

Mom winks at me. She reaches for my spoon and tucks her long dark hair behind a tiny ear with three diamonds dotting the lobe. I examine her shadow-heavy eyes, searching for the hopefulness I used to see glimpses of. I know she's proud of me, but I worry she's lost confidence that anything will ever change for her.

She says, "Your father would be damn proud of you right now." She looks past me, as though she sees him. I can't help but look back too, toward the empty space leading to our front door.

I stand, kiss Grandma on her cool cheek as I pass, and take the spoons back from Mom's hand before they fall. "Your opinion is the only one that matters," I whisper. I squeeze her arm and toss the spoons, ready for Grandma's exasperated gasp when they clang against the sink.

I'm known around Benton, not only for being Rattle's daughter but also for running the loop faster than any other girl in the history of Benton High. Faster than most of the boys, for that matter. I'm a champ when it comes to the mid-distance, but my championship status stops at the local scene.

Two years ago, I started writing about my race times, eating tips, and visualization strategies. I've read a lot of books about training and techniques, and I've always taken my running seriously, but all the effort has never mattered more than it does senior year—my last chance to attract the attention of a recruiter. I can't rest on my laurels. Who cares if I am featured in the local paper or win a race if, five years from now, I’ll just end up working a crap job and dreaming about what could have been? I need to set new records. I have no choice.

The sad fact is, I haven't seen any recruiters, and my test scores aren't as good as I know they could be. For a while, I thought I could defy the odds by posting my running times and race pictures to a blog I started called Catch Me: Elaine's Running Life. But I haven't had many hits. I have eight followers: Joey, a theater kid who wears checkered belts and always quotes—or misquotes—Mamet plays; Uncle Don, Mom, two people who live in South Korea and have cartoon profile images; my bestie, Michaela; and Owen, a nice guy who is in love with Michaela and runs long-distance. Then there's Anonymous, no location and no image. It could be my father. It'd be appropriate, the mere shadow outline of a man's profile.

Only my friends post comments. No recruiters, no coaches.

Grandma was right last year when she said, "Big fish in a small pond. No, not even a pond, a puddle." She'd said it right after track finals, laughing as she shoved a forkful of steak into her mouth at what was supposed to be my celebratory dinner. I should've been rejoicing, but the truth stung worse than my cramped quads.

I wrote about my frustration, in list form: "10 Reasons No Recruiters Come to Benton." I got an immediate response from Owen, who wrote, "Keep moving forward," which I found equal parts kind and annoying. Later, I got a more pessimistic response from Joey: "The comparative scales are unbalanced in the Rust Belt."

"Maybe, but it won't stop me," I wrote. Determined emoji. I wait for a recruiter to take the bait. I know how unrealistic it would be that some college recruiter from Stanford or Florida State would happen on my blog, but I keep checking nonetheless.

Benton, Ohio, is a small town known for Sal's Pizza and Jenny's Ice Cream, not championships of any sort. I often wonder if this trapped feeling is why my father left without thinking about recourse. Sometimes I feel the desire to just keep running, to find a new reality, and I wonder if it’s in my genes.

What tempted my father to leave is one thing, what made him do it with a daughter and wife—I don’t know. I’d like to know. I’ll leave the right way, stay in touch and give back. But to get out, I’m realizing that an opportunity needs to arrive, and I’ll have to be better than good. I’ll have to be so fast that my running times will be impossible to ignore.

I set local records in both the 400- and 800-meter races my freshman year and broke them both by junior year. I know what it is to set a goal and to work toward it. I know I can push harder, but I also know it will require an insane amount of focus. I imagine myself on my best day. I see myself just ahead, and I surge. I see the whole race in my mind. I glance at the corner of the room.

When I finally get the chance to shake my father's hand, I won't mention how tired Mom is. I won't mention my desire to go to college or interest in economics. I won't mention anything about running, or Grandma's expensive medications, or even the constant questioning in my mind. I won't mention anything at all. I won't even ask him why. The only thing that will matter if I meet him is that my grip is firm.