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Prologue - Lenny
Summer Before Sophomore Year at Mage Hollow High
NINE YEARS AGO
I don't count steps anymore. I used to tell myself to just get to the next pole, the far bench, the crack in the sidewalk where the path curves around the tree stump my brothers used to front flip off of. But for the last few months, running hasn't felt as hard as it did when I first started.
Maybe it's because I'm no longer forced to do it after the last bell rings now that my first track season's over. Maybe I'm more of a creature of habit than I'd like to admit. But somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing it as something I had to survive and started noticing it for what it is—a kind of stillness from the beloved O'Reilly Clan chaos.
This summer, I swapped red rubber for blacktop, and the endless oval of our high school's track for Mage Hollow Park's curvy—and slightly uneven—half-mile loop. But I've learned the terrain doesn't really matter. Somewhere between the aching muscles, burning lungs, and the side stitches that inevitably show up uninvited, running makes me feel… lighter.
It's quiet out here, especially at night. That's the beauty of a small town, I guess. It's as if the world shuts off once the streetlights come on. Like the sun tucks itself in behind the restored vintage buildings, nestling into the horizon just above the aged cobblestone streets, and the whole town settles with it.
You almost don't notice it happening at first, but the after-dinner strolls for ice cream dwindle one by one and the occasional glow of headlights slowly replaces the light from storefront windows as the welcome signs flip from Come On In to We'll See You Tomorrow.
It's predictable—peaceful—two things I'm not used to and that I never thought I cared about until one night I realized my run had become one of my favorite parts of the day.
The more lived-in part of the park comes into view again as the last upbeat song in my Run For Fun? playlist comes to an end—right on cue. I scan the playground as I always do as I round the last corner of the loop for the sixth and last time. Out of habit, my eyes trail up the length of the dark green firefighter's pole, across the shell of the sky-blue tunnel, and over the black woven rope bridge as I pass. But, like always, right before they reach the rippled yellow slide, I home in on my finish line—the bench beneath the oak tree with leaves just barely starting to change.
I slow my pace as I approach it, sweat clinging to my skin from the humidity still hanging in the air as the September night holds tight to the last technical week of summer. I set my phone down on the bench, my music still blasting from the speaker, and grab my water bottle beside it. I glance around casually for other runners—or Mr. Brooks walking his new cat on a leash—but as always, I'm the only one on this side of the park this late on a school night.
"This song is horrible."
Three sips into a full-on chug, the words hit me from behind. I whip around toward the sound, haphazardly shooting the water down my throat.
With both eyes only partially open, thanks to the immediate choking fit that follows, I spot a long, tan figure stretched out at the bottom of the slide. The coughing only gets worse as I unsuccessfully try to plug my throat before the water goes down the wrong tube.
But the body doesn't move.
Instead, it waits patiently, neck turned just enough to watch me suffer through a near-fatal combination of post-run breathing and self-induced waterboarding.
"You good?" the person asks.
A few painful seconds later, my vision clears, and a guy around my age comes into focus.
Excellent.
"I'm good," I say quickly, my breath still heavy from both my run and embarrassment. "What are you—"
The boy turns his head away as my words trail off, my lungs forcing my mouth to find air instead of sentences. He lifts one hand and tosses a baseball—something I only now realize he's holding—straight into the air.
"They make headphones, ya know," he says casually as he catches it barehanded just before it hits his face.
In perfect timing, the sound of my first cool-down song fades out, and I quickly bend to pause my playlist before the next one begins.
"They're these little things you put in your ears so the music plays on the inside," he continues, tossing the ball again, higher this time.
"Yeah," I huff, finally catching my breath. "I know what headphones are."
His brow lifts as he tosses it again, and I blame the leftover endorphins for my new tone. "Sorry," I half-sing, wiping something from my lip that could be either sweat or residual water. "No one's usually around this late."
The boy sits up slowly, and the glow from the nearest streetlight spills over him. I recognize him instantly as the silence settles between us.
Jace Holloway.
Mage Hollow High's newest student and, apparently, our express ticket to our first-ever baseball championship.
Jace takes a deep breath, rolling the ball between his thumb and first two fingers. "Nah, don't be sorry," he sighs, staring at the laces. "I was kidding. I'm, uh—" His hand falls into his lap as he brings his other one to the back of his head, brushing his palm up his buzz cut. "Just in a mood, I guess."
