The Running Dream (11 page)

You can do this.

One down, five to go.

E
VERYWHERE
I
GO
, I feel like the elephant in the room. A lot of people do say hi and welcome me back, but a lot more don’t.

Fiona notices it, too, whispering, “Maturity check!” in my ear when people pretend that I’m not there.

I feel myself shutting down.

Withdrawing.

She gives me the same advice Kaylee did. “Smile,” she whispers. “Be open. If you’re friendly, they’ll be friendly.”

This is not easy for me. And it seems backward. But I don’t want to be treated like I’m invisible, so I try.

I also try to speak for myself and ask my teachers to excuse me from some of the homework. They’re all very nice about it, but what’s left is still overwhelming. Especially since I’m also diving into the middle of new lessons and new homework assignments.

After science class is over, Mr. Vedder returns my assignment list, and I’m surprised to see that instead of having me do a big project, he’s allowing me to submit a five-hundred-word essay, and he’s whittled my worksheets down to three.

“I wish I could excuse you from all of it,” he says as I’m checking it over. “What’s left is the bare minimum for the curriculum.”

I’m so relieved to be excused from the project that I gush, “No, this is great! You have no idea how much this helps, Mr. Vedder!”

He gives me a kind smile. “I’m just glad you’re back, Jessica. Anything you need, you just ask, okay?”

I nod and thank him and tell him to have a nice weekend, but as Fiona starts pushing me toward the door, he asks, “How are your parents doing with all this?”

The question’s quiet. Like he’s not really sure he should be asking but can’t seem to help himself.

It’s also the first truly personal question I’ve been asked all day, and an odd one because Mr. Vedder doesn’t even know my parents.

My skin prickles.

Why is he asking me this?

What business is it of his?

But then my mind flashes to the pictures of his daughter, Hannah, on his desk; to his stories about Hannah catching lizards in their driveway; pranking him on April Fools’; crashing her bike and breaking her arm.

Suddenly I get it.

He doesn’t know my parents, but he
is
a parent.

So I tell him the truth.

“It’s hard,” I say softly. “Ups and downs, just like me.”

He nods, then takes a deep breath and lets it out as he says, “I can’t even imagine.”

On our way down Mr. Vedder’s ramp, Fiona whispers, “That was awkward.”

“It was fine,” I tell her.

It’s lunchtime, and I’m famished. But Fiona’s not heading toward the courtyard; she’s steering me
away
from it.

“Hey, where are we going?” I ask over my shoulder.

“To lunch,” she says with a mischievous grin.

“Lunch” is located in Coach Kyro’s portable classroom.

“Lunch” consists of pizza, salads, cupcakes, sodas, cookies, and licorice.

“Lunch” is decorated with balloons and streamers and
WELCOME BACK JESSICA
written all over the whiteboards.

“Lunch” is a gathering of runners and friends and coaches. “SURPRISE!” they all shout, and blow party horns or shower me with confetti.

“Lunch” makes me cry.

I suddenly realize how much I miss these people.

It’s not just running.

It’s the team.

“You guys are the best,” I finally choke out, wiping the tears away.

Someone starts up with “For she’s a jolly good fellow …,” which makes absolutely no sense, but it doesn’t matter. And then someone shouts, “Speech! Speech!” like I’ve done something great instead of survived something awful.

I shake my head and wave off that crazy idea and simply say, “Eat! Eat!”

Everyone laughs and dives for food, because, come on—when is a runner
not
hungry?

As Fiona delivers me a plate with salad and a slice of pepperoni-pineapple, Kyro pulls up a desk beside me and says, “You have no idea how much we’ve missed you.”

I nod and attempt a smile. He looks grayer than I remember. Older. I notice a woven green-and-black name bracelet tied around his wrist.

The letters spell “Lucy.”

I look away, feeling bad that I haven’t spoken to him since the accident. I feel bad that he tried and I didn’t; that he came to the hospital and I didn’t want to see him. After three years of him believing in me, pushing me, tailoring my workouts, I’d become the fastest 400-meter sprinter in the league.

And I never even bothered to call him back.

“I’d really like to talk to you sometime,” he says.

I nod. “Me too. I’m sorry that I’ve been so … shut down.”

He shakes his head. “Who can blame you, Jess? Come on.”

I look at him and blurt out, “What’s going on with you and my dad?”

He seems to weigh things in his mind, then says, “There’s a tangle of insurance issues, and things are not resolving as quickly as either of us would like. I’m afraid your dad thinks I could be doing more to pressure things along, but it really is out of my hands.”

“It’s about
insurance
?”

He nods. “It’ll get straightened out, but these things can take time.”

I’m baffled.

My dad’s been down on Kyro about
insurance
?

How could that possibly be the coach’s responsibility?

But then I start wondering: So who paid for the hospital?

Or the ambulance?

Or the physical therapist?

Or the wheelchair or the crutches or the shrinker socks or the … or the
anything
?

Before this, it never even crossed my mind. I thought it was just … taken care of.

“Hey,” he says, standing. “I sure didn’t mean to put a damper on your party. Enjoy yourself, would you? We’ve waited a long time to celebrate your return.” He turns to my teammates, huddled around the food. “Hey! People! Get over here and talk to Jessica, or I’ll make you do laps!”

When Kyro barks, runners listen. In an instant I’m surrounded by love and chatter and half-eaten pizza. And despite the weirdness of my first day back, I’m happy to be there.

Happy to see that I’ve been missed.

M
Y ONLY CLASS WITHOUT
F
IONA
is math, and it’s the last period of the day. I have algebra II/trig; Fiona’s down the wing in pre-calculus. She swears she’s not taking calculus next year, and I refuse to take pre-calc. Enough is enough.

After fifth, Fiona rushes me clear across campus to the 900 Wing and is panting as she rolls me up to the front of the classroom, where Ms. Rucker is erasing the board.

Ms. Rucker is the one teacher we’re both nervous about. She
is
a machine. Never smiling, never flexing, never sharing anything personal.

Her life is all about numbers, and her demeanor is as severe as her haircut, which is a dark, straight, asymmetrical bob. I’m sure there’s a real person inside her somewhere, but after having her for algebra I and II, I’ve quit trying to find her. I’m just looking forward to being done with math, and being done with her.

She knows who Fiona is. Not only did she have her in class last year, but Fiona’s been getting my assignments from her. And obviously she knows who I am. Still, when she turns
from erasing the board, she doesn’t say anything like, Welcome back, or It’s good to see you. She simply sizes me up.

So I’m a little flustered as I go into my spiel about cutting back my homework, and during it Ms. Rucker’s expression never cracks. She just watches me closely.

Absorbs.

It’s like data in, process, response.

Only the response seems to be taking a very long time.

Obviously, she doesn’t like the data I’m feeding her and has no intention of returning anything but
Request denied
. So I open my binder and produce the assignments I’ve completed and say, “I’ve been doing the odds and checking my answers. It’s going to be a lot of work to catch up
and
keep up with the new assignments.”

She takes my papers, looks them over, then says, “Doing the odds seems reasonable.”

And that’s it.

No smile.

No nod.

No quiver of any emotion whatsoever.

She simply returns to wiping the boards clean and asks, “Will you be sitting with Rosa?”

For a moment my mind’s a blank. Then I realize she means the special-needs girl who sits at the back of the classroom.

The girl in the motorized wheelchair.

The girl who rarely talks and, when she does, is very hard to understand.

I didn’t even know her name was Rosa.

“There’s plenty of room at that table,” Ms. Rucker says without looking over her shoulder.

Inside, I panic.

Yes, I’m missing a leg, but the rest of me is … well, it’s
normal
.

Do people think I’m special-needs now?

Is that how they see me?

No! They can’t!

But … but if I start sitting with special-needs kids, that
is
what people will think.

It just is.

Ms. Rucker turns and gives me a cool, blank look.

She wants an answer.

My mind is a flurry of contradictions. I want to lie and say I’m nearsighted. That I need to be up front in my own chair. That I hop just fine.

But I also think about my terror in returning to school. Feeling like a freak.

Is that how Rosa feels?

I’ve never stared at her, but I have … overlooked her.

No—the truth is, I’ve totally acted like she isn’t there.

It’s been easier.

Less uncomfortable.

For me.

“Sure,” I tell Ms. Rucker. “I’d be happy to sit with Rosa.”

She cocks her head ever so slightly, then turns to finish wiping the board.

So I get situated alongside Rosa, and Fiona dashes off to class. Then the tardy bell rings and everyone falls silent, waiting for Ms. Rucker to speak.

There’s no let’s-welcome-Jessica-back. Just business as usual: homework out, papers exchanged, lesson reviewed.

Midway through this process Rosa surprises me by committing a cardinal sin—she passes me a note.

I read it and sin right back. And after several exchanges Rosa’s told me that she has been in a wheelchair her whole life, that she
can
walk but only with arm crutches, and that she was born with cerebral palsy. I also find out that she’s only a freshman, loves sushi, thinks math is easy, and eats lunch in Room 402.

You can join us
, she writes.
We’re fun!

I also learn that she already knew my name. And Fiona’s.

Fiona seems very nice
, she tells me, adding a big, long-lashed smiley.

She’s amazing
, I write back, adding long, curly hair to the smiley.

Rosa gives me a lopsided grin, then writes,
When do you get your leg?

Depends
, I scribble back.
Maybe next week?

Already? WOW! Congratulations! You are SO LUCKY!

My eyes sting when I read that, and it makes something in me break.

Or connect.

Or just
change
, somehow.

I suddenly really get that I
am
lucky. I’ll never do a fifty-five flat in the 400 again, but I will stand on my own again.

This wheelchair won’t be with me every day of my life.