“Wow, Gene has some nicely shaved legs,” Abigail says.

I laugh. “He says they make him more aerodynamic.”

Helga leans down and whispers, “He should make a rug out of his leg hair and sell his man carpet on Etsy. I just think he has such a bright future, you know?”

“Ha,” I say, and Abigail laughs for real. What do you know about his future?

“Runners for the four hundred, please take your mark,” the announcer’s voice booms. “Runners for the eight hundred on deck.”

“Which one is Gene?” Abigail asks, craning her neck.

“Uh, four hundred?”

“Cham, you are the worst girlfriend,” Hilary says, suddenly adopting her British accent. “He’s the eight hundred, see?”

She points to Gene, who is obviously not taking his mark at the starting line next to Doug. Instead he swings his hairless legs back and forth.

“On your mark,” the announcer says, smiling giddily in his glass box at the top of the bleachers. “Get set. Go.” There’s a popping noise, and Doug and the runners from the other schools we don’t care about take off. Their legs chop the air, their hair slicks back, and their faces are strained with exertion, like they’re maybe giving birth to a win.

“Is that a dick I see?” Abigail asks. She forms makeshift binoculars with her hands around her eyes and scopes out a dude in purple shorts.

As I’m in the process of determining whether it is or is not a swinging male part, I spot Brendan way at the end of the bleachers. He’s alone, as usual, but he doesn’t actually look lonely. It must be nice to self-entertain for longer than four seconds.

“What was the deal with Brendan’s brother anyway?” I say casually.

Abigail takes her hands from her face. “It was really sad. He had leukemia and died when we were in fifth grade.”

Hilary nods solemnly and lowers her voice. “Really tragic. Remember how awful the funeral was?”

“Terrible,” Abigail says. “Brendan was always this quiet, normal kid, and he came back from that summer at the start of middle school just like singing all the time.”

“But his brother had just died,” I say. Brendan’s tutu is lavender today. “He probably didn’t know what to do or like how to be.”

“I know,” Hilary says, “and everyone felt so bad. But then he just got more and more obnoxious, and by high school it was like, okay, dude, I’m sorry your brother died, but you’re annoying AF.”

I don’t know what’s going on with my face, but Abigail and Hilary look at each other, then look at me. “I know it sounds bad when we talk about it now, but when it was happening it was just, I don’t know,” Abigail says. “It’s hard to explain. I guess you had to be there.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” We’re silent for a minute as conversations continue around us. The runners on the side of the track are doing warm-up stretches, their butts in their tiny shorts pointed toward us.