The Running Dream (15 page)

But I know she’s there.

I know it’s her.

I wonder about her appearing in the dream. The dream’s been the same for so long, and this new dimension feels a little … invasive. This is
my
dream. My escape to the place I love most in the world. The roads, the river, the trees, the bridge …

Sherlock gives me a hopeful nudge and lets out a soft whine.

“Sorry, boy,” I tell him. “After school we’ll throw the ball, okay?”

He hasn’t given up on our old routine but seems to like the new one just fine. I give him a hug and a nuzzle, and it crosses my mind that after I get my leg, I could walk him over to Rosa’s.

The thought, in its own small way, makes me feel better.

T
HERE IS SOMETHING DIFFERENT
about Fiona. Something … radiant. She denies it, but I don’t believe her. “Are you in love?” I finally ask during science. She assures me she’s not.

“Then what is going on with you?” I whisper. “And don’t tell me nothing!”

She finally caves, but only a little. “You’ll see!”

“See what?” I demand, but she refuses to say any more.

So now I’m suspecting that it’s not about her at all—that it’s about me.

But what could it possibly be?

More cupcakes?

She leads me to Kyro’s room at lunch. “Why?” I want to know. “What is going on?”

She’s bursting at the seams. “Kyro has something
amazing
to show you!”

“What?” I demand.

“Stop asking! This is his surprise.”

From the buildup I’m expecting a room full of people, but it’s just Kyro.

Kyro and his laptop.

Kyro has ancestors from Poland and Ethiopia. He has dark skin and light eyes and the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. The fingers are long and graceful, and they do a little flip upward near the tips. But the overall impression is one of strength; that his hands could move mountains.

Kyro’s hands are busy on the keys of his laptop when Fiona and I come in. “Jessica!” he says with a smile, then hits a few keys and turns to Fiona. “How much did you tell her?”

“Nothing!”

He grins. “I’m impressed.”

“You should be!” she says with a laugh.

“Will one of you
please
tell me what this is about?”

He motions me over. “Have a seat.”

So I sit in his seat and watch his computer screen as he activates a YouTube video.

It’s footage of a track. A race. Some big event.

The commentator is speaking in a language I don’t know.

Italian?

“What is this?” I ask.

“Shhh,” Kyro says. “Just watch.”

There’s a close-up now. A close-up of something I don’t recognize. It’s got little nails sticking out of a rubberized pad, and the pad is connected to a long, dark piece of curved metal.

And then the camera pulls back and I see that there are two of these spiky padded pieces of curved metal and that they’re attached to … legs.

It’s a runner?

Yes.

A runner on curved, spiked feet.

“That’s Oscar Pistorius,” Kyro says softly. “He’s a four-hundred-meter sprinter, and a
double
below-knee amputee. Those are running prostheses.”

“He
runs
on those?” I gasp, because it doesn’t seem possible. His legs are sickles. Hooks. I don’t understand how he can even stand on them, let alone run.

And yet he walks along the track, and then … he gets down in the starting blocks.

I hold my breath, not believing my eyes.

Kyro leans in and points out the other runners. “Look what he’s competing against.”

Every other runner getting into blocks has two legs.

Two flesh-and-blood legs.

The runners are set and the gun goes off, and the guy with hook legs fires out of the blocks just like the rest of the runners.

I watch, my heart pounding.

He can run!

He can
run
.

And not only can he run, he’s
fast
. While other runners struggle through Rigor Mortis Bend, he gains ground, finishing the race in second place.

My jaw drops when the screen displays his time. “A forty-six nine?” I gasp.

Kyro grins. “Impressive, even on regular legs.”

Kyro shows me two more videos—one with a woman
named Amy who’s missing one leg below the knee just like me and runs
marathons
, and another with an amputee my age racing for her track team.

When they’re done, he closes the laptop and looks right at me. “What do you think?”

“What do I
think
?” Thoughts race through my head.

It’s amazing.

Unbelievable.

And freakish.

These people look like
cyborgs
.

Since I lost my leg, I’ve wanted to cover up. Hide what I’m missing. Make others forget there’s something different about me.

There’d be no covering that up.

Is running worth becoming a cyborg?

Kyro gently prods me for an answer. “What I’m asking is would you want one?”

My heart races at the thought of being able to run again, and my moment of doubt vanishes.

“Yes!”

He nods. “Okay, then, here’s the situation: Running prostheses are expensive. We already have plenty of problems with insurance companies covering your basic medical issues, but even if we didn’t, getting them to pay for one of these is almost certainly out of the question. So we had a team meeting yesterday and formed the Help Jessica Run campaign. Every runner volunteered for at least one of four committees: Bake Sale, Raffle, Car Wash, and Community Donations.” He takes a deep breath. “Our goal is to buy you a running leg
so you can get back on the track and compete on the team your senior year.”

I look from Kyro to Fiona and back again.

I want to say something, but what can I possibly say?

There are no words for this moment.

And I’m almost afraid to believe that I actually might be able to run again.

A
T HOME
I
’M STILL HAVING TROUBLE
believing it’s true.

I’m going to be able to run again?

I watch the YouTube videos on our computer over and over, and slowly it sinks in.

I’m going to be able to run again!

I make my mother watch them.

She’s amazed. “I have never seen anything like that!”

I make my sister watch them.

She’s … direct. “That is
freaky,
” she says after seeing the clips.

“It’s
awesome,
” I tell her, and give her a playful shove.

She wants to watch them again, and when we’re done, she says, “You’re really going to get one of those?”

“My team is doing this huge fund-raiser and they’re going to buy me one! They’re doing bake sales and raffle tickets and car washes.…”

“Seriously?” Kaylee asks.

“Seriously.”

My dad, however, is secretly not convinced. I hear him in
the kitchen later, talking to my mom. “How are cookies and raffle tickets going to raise twenty thousand dollars?”

I hold my breath, eavesdropping from around the corner.

Twenty thousand dollars?!

For a curved piece of metal?

The team will never be able to raise that much money!

“Don’t give her doubts,” my mom whispers sternly. “She’s happy. She’s hopeful. She
needs
this.”

My dad’s voice is hoarse as he whispers, “But if it’s a pipe dream, it’s cruel! And what about the hospital bills and the twenty thousand for her regular prosthesis? Does he have any idea what we’re going through to cover
those
bills?”

I hold my breath harder.

Twenty thousand?

Twenty thousand?

My mind is reeling.

If a leg costs that much, what did the hospital cost? For that matter, what did it cost to cut off my real leg?

“Look,” my mom whispers. “Let’s hire that lawyer and let’s apply pressure. But let’s not say anything negative about the team’s plan to raise money. They’re just trying to help.”

“The lawyer wants half of whatever settlement we reach, and it might take years!”

“So let’s interview another lawyer. And if they tell you the same thing, well, half of something is better than half of what we’ve got right now.”

My dad sighs, and I can feel the tiredness that he seems to carry around everywhere. “Why can’t they just step up to their responsibilities? Haven’t we been put through enough?”

The kitchen falls silent, and even though it’s hard to hop quietly, I do my best to hurry away without being found out.

And I do get away, but I can’t escape the guilt.

Maybe the team’s money should go to pay my medical bills.

Or pay for my regular leg.

Maybe there really are more important things than running.

I feel like such a burden.

Is it fair to even hope?

F
IONA PICKS ME UP FOR SCHOOL
the next morning, and she’s a little chatterbox, which I find exhausting. Especially since it feels like I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. “They cost twenty thousand dollars!” I finally blurt. “Twenty
thousand
dollars!”

She pulls into the student parking lot. “What do?”

“Those running legs. I looked it up online.”

She shrugs. “So we’ll raise twenty thousand dollars.”

I blink at her for a full minute, then shake my head and slouch in my seat. “You’re dreaming.”

She just smiles at me and starts chattering about something else.

First and second periods seem to drag on forever, and at break I seriously consider going home “sick.” But I’ve already missed way too much school, so I tough it out, convincing myself that it’s important to stay.

At lunch Fiona decides we should eat in the courtyard. “It’s gorgeous out today! Who wants to be inside?” She parks me on a bench near a scrawny elm tree, where I feel strangely
invisible as she goes off to fetch two mandarin chicken salads. Everyone seems to have somewhere to go, someone to see. It’s not that people are trying not to look at me—they’re just into their own things. It feels like I’m in a movie where everyone has a role and a place and a purpose, and I’m one of those silent extras they pay to sit and look like they’re part of the show.

I’m relieved when Fiona returns. “Sorry that took so long!” she says, handing over my salad. She checks me over. “You doing okay?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I was so up yesterday, but I’ve definitely crashed back to earth today.” I snap open the salad lid and sigh. “It’s nice of the team to want to help, but do you remember how long it took to raise two thousand dollars for a new discus cage? It was almost two years! How are we ever going to raise
twenty
thousand?”

“Look,” she says, zigzagging dressing across her salad, “you are not a discus cage. You are a flesh-and-blood person who this tragic thing has happened to. People will
want
to help.” She smiles at me. “Give them a chance.”

This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. A dark cloud has formed between me and the dream of running again.