Roses and Rot by Kat Howard Read Free Book Online

arms loose, the muscles in my thighs warm. Grass bent and sprang beneath my feet, and I heard the rush of the river under the rush of my breath.
    I had started running my freshman year of high school as a way to not be in the house, to escape. Even that small escape hadn’t been easy, but it had been possible. According to my mother, “letting herself go” was the cardinal sin a woman could commit, and being overweight or out of shape were both major signs of a woman letting herself go. She checked the sizes on our clothing, and if theywere what she considered to be too large, the clothes would disappear from our closets, leaving us the choice of whittling ourselves back into the size she felt was appropriate, or using our own money to buy replacements that would disappear at the next inspection. So if I wanted to run, all I had to do was tell her that I thought I was gaining weight. She would narrow her eyes, pinch the flesh under my arm or on top of my thigh, and tell me that I certainly could stand to tone up. The freedom was worth the humiliation.
    I learned to love the motion of running, the action itself. The fact that I could trust the muscles in my legs to carry me, if I needed to go. Running made me feel strong and capable. Like, if I ran far enough, I could outrun everything—that my thoughts would just go white, and there would be nothing in the world but movement.
    Once I had been able to move out of my mother’s house, I had stopped trying to outrun my life and ran for the pleasure I felt in movement. Legs and arms the tick of a metronome, distance disappearing beneath my feet. Now, I ran to clear my thoughts, to untangle plot threads, to ground myself in my own skin, something that was necessary to counterbalance all of the hours I spent living solely in my head.
    I kept to the path, weaving through the fellows’ houses, then the studios, then the other buildings that ringed the Commons—including what looked like a completely empty There—then farther out, into the woods. The air smelled rich, green as the trees, and a breeze cooled the sweat against my skin. Birds called their evening greetings, and something else, smaller than I was, chipmunk or squirrel, ran through the forest as well.
    The sun slid farther toward the horizon, and I turned around, looping my steps back on themselves.
    I emerged from the forest and ran back through the populatedareas of campus. The mentors’ houses, the fragrant air of the rose garden, the artists’ studios. Some of the dancers’ studios had walls of enormous glass windows. They could be curtained over for privacy, but tonight, Marin had left hers uncovered. As I ran past, I saw them, Marin and Gavin, dancing. I stopped.
    I don’t forget how talented she is. I’ve seen Marin dance almost my entire life, and I’ve seen her talent since I was aware enough to know what that meant, to know how much better she was than the other girls onstage in pink tights and tutus. I’ve gone to her performances and watched recordings. But sometimes the reality of her ability slips from my mind until I have a reason to be reminded of it, and here, like this, she was breathtaking.
    Marin exploded through the air, in and out of Gavin’s arms. Every arch of her wrist, every movement described by her leg, was like watching a story in a language I hadn’t known I understood. When they danced together, it was clear that Gavin was the best partner Marin had ever worked with. I could hear the music, just seeing them move. They were the song.
    My abused muscles quivered in the cold, and I stood, transfixed.
    It was a catch and lift they were working on. Marin flung herself into the air toward Gavin, and his hands pushed her higher still, until she was poised just on the edge of his grasp.
    Then a toss and she flew again, spun, and dropped back into his hold, but only after almost, almost falling. Beautiful in its peril, trust enfleshed.
    Again and again they ran through the motions,