thunder in our hearts
TITLE: Running Up That Hill
CATEGORY: Friday Night Lights, Lyla Garrity, rated G.
WORDS: Six hundred.
SPOILERS: Zero.
NOTES: Just a little ol' future vignette amnestied from a larger piece. Not hurting anybody. Don't sue me.
The last summer Lyla ever spends in Dillon is unusually, unfairly beautiful, like it's got something to prove. The heat of the day fades at sunset, and she saves her daily run until the sky's good and dark and the streetlights divide her shadow in twos and threes. In most parts of town it's still safe to run alone on a summer night, something she'd never do on a college campus. Even here, Lyla keeps her cell phone holstered to her thigh, but she feels safe. Safe from strangers, anyway.
The tricky part is planning her route. There are too many places here where she used to fit, a little round peg with round holes everywhere she looked; too many corners she just can't turn anymore. Jason's block is awful even though he's moved out; she hates seeing how different the house looks with the ramps they built more than four years ago, or how Mr. Street still drives the same car he used to take her and Jason to see Shrek on their first date. She doesn't run past the elementary school playground, definitely doesn't go up to the high school to use the track. She tries not to go near the Riggins place, not in running shorts and a Demon Deacons T-shirt with the sleeves cut off--no, and not in a formal gown and pearls. Every time she bumps into Tim he gives her that look like he knows what she's feeling, feels what she's feeling. He's probably never had the faintest idea, but somehow every time it leaves her breathless.
Deep breath. No more running on the same roads her feet slapped happily for eighteen years. It took a lot of thinking, but she managed to work out a new route for this summer. The Dillon she runs through at night is a town she hardly knows, never gave a damn about, and wouldn't miss.
The thing is, Lyla knows she's essentially a happy person, just like everyone used to say she was. She loves most of the Kappa girls and gets along with the ones she doesn't; after Tyra Collette, Lyla believes she can make friends with just about anybody. She's carrying a 3.8 average, 4.0 within her major. She goes out with three different guys from the business school and she likes all of them, even if she's not in love. She's cheered three straight seasons of basketball (It's great, it's not that different, she tried to tell her father, but neither of them really believed that) and she's studying in Venice this fall. And she's excited--she's sweating now, and it's good, a cool breath on the back of her neck--and she's proud--coming up past City Hall, jogging in place until the traffic light changes--and she's happy.
Lyla's not one of those people who peaks in high school and never gets a handle on the real world.
On the way back to the house, she pumps her legs harder, sprinting the last quarter-mile back to her mom's driveway. When she reaches the garage door she braces one hand against it, wanting to slump, forcing herself to stretch instead. With one ankle pulled high behind her back, she looks up at the house. Most of the lights are out; her mom goes to bed early and her brother will be asleep in front of the TV. It's basically like coming home to a hotel. She will be, though surrounded, left more or less alone.
Still, she stands in the driveway until her breathing is even and normal, and her skin is cold.
CATEGORY: Friday Night Lights, Lyla Garrity, rated G.
WORDS: Six hundred.
SPOILERS: Zero.
NOTES: Just a little ol' future vignette amnestied from a larger piece. Not hurting anybody. Don't sue me.
The last summer Lyla ever spends in Dillon is unusually, unfairly beautiful, like it's got something to prove. The heat of the day fades at sunset, and she saves her daily run until the sky's good and dark and the streetlights divide her shadow in twos and threes. In most parts of town it's still safe to run alone on a summer night, something she'd never do on a college campus. Even here, Lyla keeps her cell phone holstered to her thigh, but she feels safe. Safe from strangers, anyway.
The tricky part is planning her route. There are too many places here where she used to fit, a little round peg with round holes everywhere she looked; too many corners she just can't turn anymore. Jason's block is awful even though he's moved out; she hates seeing how different the house looks with the ramps they built more than four years ago, or how Mr. Street still drives the same car he used to take her and Jason to see Shrek on their first date. She doesn't run past the elementary school playground, definitely doesn't go up to the high school to use the track. She tries not to go near the Riggins place, not in running shorts and a Demon Deacons T-shirt with the sleeves cut off--no, and not in a formal gown and pearls. Every time she bumps into Tim he gives her that look like he knows what she's feeling, feels what she's feeling. He's probably never had the faintest idea, but somehow every time it leaves her breathless.
Deep breath. No more running on the same roads her feet slapped happily for eighteen years. It took a lot of thinking, but she managed to work out a new route for this summer. The Dillon she runs through at night is a town she hardly knows, never gave a damn about, and wouldn't miss.
The thing is, Lyla knows she's essentially a happy person, just like everyone used to say she was. She loves most of the Kappa girls and gets along with the ones she doesn't; after Tyra Collette, Lyla believes she can make friends with just about anybody. She's carrying a 3.8 average, 4.0 within her major. She goes out with three different guys from the business school and she likes all of them, even if she's not in love. She's cheered three straight seasons of basketball (It's great, it's not that different, she tried to tell her father, but neither of them really believed that) and she's studying in Venice this fall. And she's excited--she's sweating now, and it's good, a cool breath on the back of her neck--and she's proud--coming up past City Hall, jogging in place until the traffic light changes--and she's happy.
Lyla's not one of those people who peaks in high school and never gets a handle on the real world.
On the way back to the house, she pumps her legs harder, sprinting the last quarter-mile back to her mom's driveway. When she reaches the garage door she braces one hand against it, wanting to slump, forcing herself to stretch instead. With one ankle pulled high behind her back, she looks up at the house. Most of the lights are out; her mom goes to bed early and her brother will be asleep in front of the TV. It's basically like coming home to a hotel. She will be, though surrounded, left more or less alone.
Still, she stands in the driveway until her breathing is even and normal, and her skin is cold.