It started off as a joke. It wasn’t one anymore.
“Rosie, you can’t do this,” I whispered.
Cheating during a race is one thing. Cheating during the New York City Marathon? Insanity.
“They’re gonna find out,” I grumbled.
And why wouldn’t they? It’s not like she was being inconspicuous, finishing middle of the pack. She finished 11th. 11th! The woman had lost her damn mind.
“Keep rubbing,” she hissed, flashing that infamous Ruiz temper.
And so I did. I kept up appearances. I kept rubbing ointment on her fresh legs, praying no one would ever figure any of this out.
The Weekday One Hundred 