Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

“Okay. Thanks, Bee.”

“See you soon,” she says.

I hang up and dig The Art of War out from beneath a stack of magazines on my dresser. Using the light on my phone, I open the book and start to read. The first part makes sense—the five factors, planning, all warfare being based on deception. But then Part II starts talking about chariots and how much it costs to raise an army. How the hell can that be relevant? I skim forward until I find something that makes sense to me: In war, then, let your great object be victory, not lengthy campaigns.

I keep reading. Part III is about when to attack and when to retreat. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. That’s sounds promising. Obviously I know myself, and after almost three years, I know Jason pretty well too. I’m starting to feel like Bee’s idea isn’t so crazy. I flip forward a few pages. Part V talks about combining direct and indirect strategies. The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon. I hold out my hand and imagined my manicured fingernails as talons. I see myself swooping in and snatching back Jason’s love. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision. I flip to the next part. March swiftly to places where you are not expected. That sounds like I’m supposed to attack quickly, an idea I like a whole lot better than sitting around doing nothing.

I’m only about halfway through the book, but I’m already feeling a lot better. Later today, I’ll talk things over with Bee. Then, I’ll officially start my battle.

Bianca arrives promptly at eight while I’m in the process of putting my hair in a ponytail. She follows me from the front door back to my room.

“Did you stay strong?” she asks. “Resist the urge to text?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And I even read part of The Art of War .”

She flops down on my bed. “Won’t your English teacher be pleasantly surprised.”

I start pinning back my flyaways. “Don’t talk about school.” For a second, I imagine going back as someone other than Jason Chase’s girlfriend. My heart starts to race. Who would that girl even be?

I don’t want to find out.

Bianca spends a few minutes admiring the newest poster of Caleb Waters tacked to the wall behind my bed. “Come on,” she says finally.

“Almost done.” I peer at my freckle tumor. “You don’t get it. You’re one of those people who can just roll out of bed and look good.”

She snorts. “No I’m not.”

“I’ve only been to about fifty sleepovers with you. I know what I’m talking about.” I turn around and give Bee’s thick braid a squeeze. “I, unfortunately, require a little more polish than you.”

“How much polish do you need to run?” She gestures at my posters. “Are you expecting to bump into Caleb?”

“Dude. I hope so. That’d be enough to make me forget about Jason for at least a day.” I drop the remaining bobby pins back onto my dresser. “Fine, I’m ready.”

“So how much did you read?” Bee asks as we head outside and start our usual three-mile loop through the main streets of Hazelton.

“I only got about halfway through,” I admit. “I feel like it kept saying to strike fast and be decisive. I think it’s time for me to do something.”

“All right. But remember it also says something about stupid haste being a bad idea.” Bianca turns the corner, her feet pounding the pavement in an even stride. “As long as you’re not just acting out of emotion.”

“Who? Me?” I’m pretty much always acting out of emotion, so I see what she means. “I’m not going to break down crying and beg Jason to take me back. Maybe that first text I sent was too quick, but now I’m ready.”

I pull even with her as we pass The Devil’s Doorstep. It’s a bar during the week and a live music venue on weekends—mostly for local punk and hard rock bands. The main windows are papered over with flyers announcing an upcoming concert for an all-girl group called Hannah in Handcuffs. I’ve never heard of them. The girls on the poster look like a cross between circus clowns and dominatrices.

Two guys sit cross-legged in front of the covered window, smoking cigarettes and flipping through the latest issue of the Riverfront Times , St. Louis’s alternative newspaper. They either didn’t make it home last night or have showed up extra early hoping to meet whoever is playing tonight when they roll in for sound check. Between the two of them, they have an eyebrow ring, two lip rings, and at least eight visible tattoos.

“They’ll probably end up as our coworkers someday,” I say, nodding toward the guys. “If Ebony wasn’t gay I’d totally think she was hiring herself a harem of rocker boys to seduce.”

Bee laughs. I lengthen my stride and concentrate on the way it feels when each shoe hits the pavement, on the way the wind flares my ponytail out behind me like a flag. I don’t usually get up before nine, and running feels different this early in the morning. Quieter. Less humid. Kind of nice.

Halfway through our usual loop, Bee veers off into an alley.

“Where we heading?” I ask.

She flashes me a mysterious grin over one shoulder. “It’s a surprise.”

“You hate surprises,” I say, but I let her lead.

The alley runs behind a strip of small businesses and ends at an abandoned lot overgrown with weeds. Bianca jogs from the pavement up onto the uneven ground, tromping down the high grass as she disappears back into a thick grove of trees. I should have known. Bee is such a nature bunny. She’s always going camping and hiking and stuff with her family.

I skid to a stop. I’m not a big fan of the woods or the bugs living there. “Bianca, where are we going?”

She ignores me and I have no choice but to follow her into the trees. We twist our way through the branches until we come out on a path that seems to spiral around the large hill that forms the northern boundary of Hazelton. I watch Bee’s thick braid flap like a horse’s tail. Somewhere in the trees, a bird trills. A butterfly flits past me, its pale wings beating furiously. Suddenly I hear the whoosh of cars. Bee slows to a stop at the edge of a sheer cliff cut into the side of the hill.

I catch up to her, my blood accelerating in my veins as I look down. We’re higher up than I thought we were. Below us, an eighteen-wheeler whizzes by on the highway, the driver oblivious to the fact he’s being watched. “This must be where the thugs come to drop rocks on windshields,” I say.

Bee exhales hard, winded from the steep climb. “You always focus on the negative. I think it’s great. It’s like looking down on the whole world.”

“I guess, if your whole world consists of an interstate, a strip mall, and a graffiti-covered airport terminal,” I mumble. A patch of forest stands beyond the airport’s high fence. The view sums up how I feel about Hazelton. A little bit of nature. A little bit of business. Not enough of anything.

“Hazelton isn’t that bad,” Bee says.

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Mizzou has the most affordable med school in the state,” she reminds me. “And they’ll accept all of my college and AP credits. I can have my MD in seven years, maybe six and a half if I go to summer school. Besides, Columbia is only two hours away.”

She’s told me this before, but it’s still weird to think of her not being around all the time. “Maybe I should apply there too. Mizzou’s got a great Division I schedule.” My ultimate dream would be to play soccer for Northwestern like Caleb Waters did. Both their men’s and women’s soccer teams are national contenders most years. Plus, Chicago! I could live in a big city and still be just a weekend train ride away from Jason. But I have about as much chance of getting into Northwestern as I would have getting into Harvard—about zero.