A Slice and a Half of Apple with a Teaspoon of Peanut Butter

I have always hated going to the doctor. They ask too many questions, and they stare at me intently with kind eyes while I try to answer.

This appointment in particular has been worrying me for the last day, ever since the incident at soccer practice yesterday, when Eliza was tearing down the field during a scrimmage and I went in for a slide tackle, winning the ball, and instantly felt a sharp pop in my knee and excruciating pain shooting through my body.

The whole thing was my fault; I should have gotten to the ball sooner. I was a junior, one of the stars of my high school soccer team, and yet it sometimes felt like I was slowing down, losing my sharpness on the field.

I had no idea why.

Now I’m sitting here, my leg stretched out in front of me, trying not to hear a doctor tell my mom that I need to stay off my leg and that my soccer season is over.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said out loud. They turned to look at me, surprised, as if they’d forgotten I was there - me, the patient, the daughter. “It doesn’t hurt that much.” It didn’t; I’d been walking on the leg all day long.

“Additional injury to the ACL will mean surgery, and a much longer recovery,” the doctor said, her voice kind.

“No soccer,” my mother said. Her voice was less kind and had more of a “you will listen to this doctor or else, Zoe” vibe.

I nodded reluctantly.

“No anything, really,” the doctor added. “Do you run?”

My eyes shot over to my mother, whose face was firm, resolute. I scrunched up my toes inside my shoes, squeezing as hard as I could. I felt like I was going to throw up, but that was impossible - I hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

Everything was written on my mother's face. We were going to do what this doctor told us to do. Today would be the first day in over a year that I would not go for a run.

The running habit started when I was young and my hero was my dad.

Two or three times a week, he’d lace up his running shoes and shoot me a big grin. “Want to run with Daddy, Zo-Zo?” he’d say, and I’d squeal and run to put my favorite pink sneakers on. In the beginning, we ran really short distances, to the corner, and then around the block. But after time, when he noticed my strength was building, we started going for longer runs together.

Dad was probably jogging, looking back. He was spending time with me more than he was exercising. Like, I doubt he burned any calories stopping every twenty feet so I could look at a butterfly.

I’m faster now, and I can run for ten miles without stopping.

However, these days, I run by myself.

The next day, I tried to sneak out before school, but Mom caught me.

“Are you trying to injure yourself further?” she asked me straightforwardly.

I folded my arms stubbornly. “It barely even hurts!”

Things with my mom have been weird for a while now - it’s been so hard for us to connect. I usually skip breakfast and I don’t like to eat meals with her and Leo, so we’re like two passing ships in the night.

That’s why it was weird when she knew exactly what to say to send me back to my room and away from the front door. “You're already missing soccer,” she said. “Do you want to miss out on track, too?”

It wasn’t a threat. She was worried about my recovery time, and she knew that, as much as I loved soccer, it was missing the spring track season - the most important season if I wanted to win any college scholarships - that would make me truly fall apart.

“Fine,” I said icily, and I stormed upstairs.

I felt shaky all morning. My teammates kept coming up to me and expressing condolences, which was weird because it wasn't like I was dying. Yet it also felt totally appropriate, because what sucks more than missing the rest of a sports season when you’re a high school athlete?

Honestly, I wasn't even thinking that much about the soccer season during the school day. I’m sure my teammates were trying to figure out if we’d still be able to make the playoffs without me, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I was sitting in my classes, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to figure out how people exercise when they have a bum ACL and can’t run five miles a day.

The daily running started a couple of days after Dad’s first trip to California.

It was weird. Mom told us that he had to go on a work trip, but the way she said it, I could tell she was lying. I'd heard them arguing sometimes at night. I remember racking my brain, trying to think if I had heard the word California at all in their arguments, but I couldn't recall it.

Why would he have gone on a work trip and not told us ahead of time? If not me, then at least Leo, my eight-year-old brother?

It didn’t make any sense.

Leo started giving Mom a really hard time in the mornings. He wanted to call Dad, but Mom said it was too early in California. Then he wanted to cuddle with Mom in the mornings, which she said he was getting too old to do. Sometimes when I woke up early, I could hear him crying quietly in his room.

I couldn't handle seeing him that way, or hearing him cry, especially when I was just as confused as he was, and felt like I couldn't help at all.

That’s why, two days after Dad left for his “work trip,” I grabbed my shoes and was out the front door before six, trying not to think about those long runs with dad when I was younger or wonder where he was and why. I left feeling heavy and lost, and when I got home I felt lighter - light and lean and calm. I skipped breakfast that morning and decided I would go for a run the next morning too.

The part of the school day that was probably going to be the hardest to get through was lunch. I considered going to the library to read a book, but Eliza intercepted me.

“You can't just wallow in your misery,” she said. “You're still part of the team, and you still get to eat at the team table.” When I tried to protest, she grabbed me by my wrist and pulled me along.

I never ate the school lunch, and I avoided the cafeteria whenever possible. And so, while I appreciated Eliza’s concern, I felt intensely uncomfortable with this change in my routine. I couldn't remember if I had packed anything in my bag that I could eat. My thoughts were racing. The last thing I wanted was to be around other people while I was eating.

I follow a pretty strict diet right now. I’ve found that if I eat light, though with a little bit extra on game days for some energy, then I feel lighter and faster and more confident. Not everyone gets it, but they leave me alone mostly. If I am in the cafeteria eating, every once in a while there’s a jerk who makes comments, and then my face gets all red - but then the jerk moves on and the embarrassment passes and it’s fine. I’m not going to let go of that light, powerful feeling just to please some dorky sophomore who’s trying to get my teammates to laugh.

I sat down next to Eliza. The other girls were already eating, some devouring sandwiches and salads and pizza, some munching on leftovers from their family dinner the night before. It all looked pretty gross to me. I took my time looking through my backpack, feeling around for what I might've brought for an occasion like this. I was relieved when I felt something round and solid - it was an apple, with a little packet of Justine's peanut butter, a snack I had packed two days ago, never eaten, and forgotten about. The apple still looked great, reddish-pink and fresh. Smiling at the other girls, I rose and went up to where the utensils were to get myself a plastic knife. I took my time, walking as slowly as possible, without walking so slowly as to attract attention from others. We got thirty minutes for lunch, so the more time I could spend away from the table, the easier it would be to get through it.

Once I was back in my seat, I set my apple on the table and used the plastic knife to slice a piece off. I opened the peanut butter package and squeeze a teaspoon-sized amount onto the apple slice. Then I lifted it to my mouth and took a small bite.

I felt nervous.

The thing is, when I overeat, I feel terrible. I'm not dumb enough to think that I automatically gain five pounds every time I eat something I shouldn't, but my body will just feel heavy. It’ll feel heavy and I'll feel uncomfortable and anxious.

I counted to 100 as I chewed the bite of apple and peanut butter.

That was the whole thing about the running. For over a year, I’d had a routine. What I ate was normal for a day when I ran five to ten miles in the early morning and played soccer after school. If I wasn’t running, I couldn’t eat like I usually did.

I continued chewing, taking my time, watching the minutes on the clock tick by. I moved to cut a second slice of apple as slowly as I could, moving the knife back and forth as if I were sawing a piece of wood.

The bell rang before I finished cutting. Relieved, I took the apple and peanut butter packet, got up, and walked over to dump them in a trash can.

When I turned back toward the table where I’d been sitting, I felt my stomach twist. There was a pair of girls whispering and looking my way. When they noticed me watching, they looked the other way.

When I got home, the house was empty. Leo was at school until four o’clock, and Mom usually picked him up on her way home from work.

After three total “work trips” to California, Dad had announced to me and Leo that his company was transferring him out there. They weren’t getting divorced, he assured us, but he and Mom were taking some time apart. He seemed sad, but there was a note of something in his voice.

Excitement, I think.

So Dad wasn’t there.

I collapsed onto the living room couch, gazing at the clock on the wall. I could have gone to soccer practice, but I knew I’d be tempted to run and play and my coach would tell Mom. It was three-fifteen. What was I going to even do with myself for the afternoon?

The house phone started to ring. That could only be Dad. Why we even still had a house phone was weird to me.

I reached behind me to grab the phone. “Hey, Dad.”

“Munchkin,” he said. His voice was sweet and kind, so I knew Mom had told him.

“Yeah. It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. I’m just going to watch TV or something.”

“You know, I got hurt once,” he said. “During football season in high school. It - well, it sucked, Zo Zo. I’m so sorry you have to sit out. It’s not fair.”

I considered this.

It wasn’t fair. Yet so many other things were worse. It wasn’t fair that Leo didn’t have his dad at school on Career Day. It wasn’t fair that Mom was stuck home with us while Dad was smiling in photos with some woman we didn’t know on Instagram.

“It’s fine, Dad.”

“I’ll come home next weekend,” he said. “I’ll take you out for ice cream. And we’ll go for a run, okay? Like we used to. Love you, kiddo.”

I paused for a moment, confused. I hung up without saying anything else. I felt heavy.

When I heard Mom’s car in the driveway, I got up and went upstairs to my room. I figured I’d do some planks, maybe some push-ups - maybe Mom would get me some weights. When it was dinnertime, I’d ask if I could eat in my room and do my homework, and Mom would say yes because she’d think I was just bummed about soccer. Then I could eat what I wanted without anyone commenting, and sneak the leftovers down to the kitchen later.

When dinner was done, I could see if Leo wanted to watch a show on the couch with me, curled up under a blanket.

Thinking about Leo made me feel even heavier. I ran my hand over my stomach; all I’d eaten that day was a slice and a half of apple with some peanut butter. I had a protein bar in my backpack that I could eat. Maybe I could just eat half. Half, and I wouldn’t feel heavy and could hang out with my little brother.

I sat on my bed, considering.

I’d just skip it for now, just in case.

This was all so dumb. My leg didn’t even hurt that much.

Everything was fine.