The Running Dream (22 page)

She laughs too, so I say the next thing that pops into my mind. “I love the morning air on my face—it’s one of the best things about running. The rest of your body’s warm, but your face is cool.” I laugh again. “I totally get why dogs like to stick their head out of car windows. Running’s like that but with fewer bugs in your teeth.”

She laughs again, then sighs and says, “I wish I could feel that.”

“What?” I kid her. “Your mom won’t let you stick your
head out the window while she’s driving? What kind of mom do you have?”

“A good one!” Then she says, “Now racing.”

“Huh? Oh—what do I like about racing?”

She nods, so I give
that
some thought and finally tell her, “It’s electric. From stepping into your lane until you cross the finish line … every cell of your body is charged.”

“Going over the finish line must be wonderful.”

I laugh. “Especially if you’re the first one there.”

“But … it means you finished. You made it. Even if you don’t get a medal.”

I look at her. “You’re very philosophical about the finish line.”

She gives a thoughtful nod. “It’s symbolic.” I nod too, because I’m sure I know what she means, but then she adds, “Because it’s also the starting line.”

For some reason this thought startles me. And I think about all the races where this is true—the 400, the 800, the 1600, all the relays—and it shocks me that I have never looked at it this way.

Maybe because of staggered starts.

Maybe because starting
feels
so different from finishing. At the starting line you’re amped, set, coiled. At the finish line you’re completely spent.

So the thought that they’re the same line gives me a very strange feeling.

A sort of
uncomfortable
feeling.

Like discovering someone very close to you has been leading a secret double life.

M
ONDAY DURING MATH
Rosa slips me a note:

Running or racing, which would you choose?

She slips me questions like this a lot.

Or statements.

Or combinations.

Baby steps are blessings
.

Wind is mysterious. Where does it go?

Sometimes they seem so off-the-wall, but they always make me think. This time I consider the question, but I also think about Rosa thinking about running. Why does she spend her time pondering something she’ll never be able to do? Why is she interested in it at all? Why in the world would she philosophize about the finish line?

I jot back,
Running
.

I know immediately that it’s what I’d choose.

Still.

It’s the first time I’ve actually thought about it.

B
Y
T
UESDAY WE’VE GIVEN UP
on getting more donations from Gavin’s newspaper article.

It’s been over a week, and they just haven’t arrived.

Wednesday morning the bake sale table is missing from the courtyard, and at lunch there’s only one person staffing it. Plus all the “baked goods” are store-bought, so no one’s buying.

Then Thursday morning there’s a message in the announcements:
All track team members are to report to Coach Kyro’s classroom at lunch. Be prompt. No exceptions
.

“Sounds ominous,” Fiona mutters.

“Maybe it’s just about today’s meet?”

She shakes her head. “We went over that at practice yesterday.”

By lunch I’ve convinced myself that the meeting is to scold the team for giving up on raising money for my leg, and I walk into Kyro’s room feeling dread.

Why should my team be expected to raise twenty thousand dollars?

It’s crazy.

What’s worse is I don’t want them to resent me. Or feel like failures because they couldn’t do the impossible.

Within the first five minutes of lunch, over ninety people have crammed into Kyro’s room. Even Merryl.

“Guys!” Kyro finally says, holding one graceful hand high. “I’ll make this quick.”

Everyone falls silent.

“Item one!” he says. “I’ve noticed a lackluster attitude growing among you.”

I close my eyes and think,
Oh boy. Here we go
.

He levels a look across the room. “That didn’t take long. We’ve been fund-raising for two weeks, and already you give up?”

No one moves a muscle, but I can feel it—everyone’s shrinking away from me.

“Where’s your spirit?” he asks. “Where’s your determination, your drive? You hit a little headwind and let it knock you flat? Hasn’t being on this team taught you that around the bend of every headwind comes a tailwind?”

We just look at him.

“Item two!” he says. “The office delivered this to me today.” He holds up a stack of envelopes. “For some reason the helpers in the front office didn’t know who to give ‘Jessica’ mail to, so they collected it in a box.” He smiles at us. “So here’s our tailwind. The checks range from five dollars to two hundred and fifty, and our new grand total is four thousand seven hundred and sixty-five!”

A roar fills the room.

“Item three!” he shouts, and we all fall quiet. “We have a patron. Someone who insists on staying anonymous. They have pledged a dollar for every dollar we raise, up to ten thousand dollars.”

“Wait,” Mario Reed says. “So that means we’re already up to … like … ninety-five hundred?”

“Very good!” Kyro says. He looks around the room. “We are almost halfway there, people!”

Cheers fill the room again, and this time people pump fists and pat me on the back and give me double thumbs-up.

Kyro lets it go on for a minute before raising his hand again. “Last item!”

“There’s more?” people whisper to each other.

“We will have visitors at our meet this afternoon. Channel Seven is sending a local news crew out to do a story on the team, and on Jessica.”

“Wait,” Mario says again. “We’re gonna be on TV?”

Kyro nods. “They saw the article in the paper and want to help get the word out.” He looks at me. “You will be there today, right?”

I’m smiling and laughing and crying all at the same time.

“You bet,” I tell him as I wipe my face dry.

“How do you feel about wearing a uniform?”

I hesitate. It was one thing to wear it at a car wash when I didn’t know I was going to be in the paper. It’s another to wear it knowing I’ll be on TV.

Mario starts a chant. “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

It doesn’t take long for everyone to chime in. “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

I pinch my eyes closed.

How can I not?

“Okay,” I blurt out. “I’ll do it!”

“YAY!” the team cheers.

“Remember, people,” Kyro calls out. “This is the last league meet. Let’s win this thing!”

From the roar that follows, there’s no doubt that that’s exactly what they plan to do.

T
HE TEAM IS LOVING
having a news crew around. They make a show of everything, especially crossing the finish line. So far the crew is not talking to me, so I try to forget they’re even there and not feel too self-conscious about my very visible fake leg. I do my best to act normal, and I shadow Fiona as she moves from event to event.

The only time I really forget about my leg is when Shandall comes in second in the 100-meter dash. I cheer my head off for that, because she usually gets edged back to fourth, and the best she’s placed all year is third.

“Way to
go
, Shandall!” I yell as she prances into the infield.

She works her way over to me. “That felt so good,” she pants. “Girl, I was
flyin’.
”

“Yes, you were!” I bump her fist when she puts it up. “Flying with
flames
shooting from your feet!”

Shandall laughs. “Glad you could see ’em, ’cause I could sure feel ’em!” She cocks her head at something behind me and lowers her voice. “You’ve got company.”

I turn around and see the TV news crew standing behind me. “Jessica?” the news lady asks. Her blond hair is tied down with a scarf. She’s wearing a designer sweat suit and cute little Pumas—nothing like what she wears when she’s anchoring the news. “I’m Marla Sumner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I shake her hand. She’s smaller than she looks on TV. And even prettier.

“This is my photographer, Andy Richards,” she says, indicating the man lugging a large black camera bag, a tripod, and a big-lens video camera.

He flashes a smile, then gets busy with his equipment.

“Your coach says you’re okay with being interviewed?”

I nod.

“Good.” She looks around, then points to a spot farther infield. “Why don’t we do it over there. I’d like to get the finish line in the background.”

It doesn’t take long for them to set up. Marla tells me to look at her, not the camera, and the first thing she has me do is state my name. After that she’s off and running with questions. I’m nervous at first, but since the camera’s a little off to the side, I try to block it out and just answer her questions. She’s very attentive and nods a lot, and before too long she’s done. “Thank you so much, Jessica,” she says. “This is an important story, and we want to do what we can to help.”

“I appreciate that,” I say softly.

“How do you feel about us coming to your home? I think it would add a personal dimension if we could include your family in the story.”

“Uh, I think that would be okay. You should ask my mom and dad, though.”

So I give her our phone number, thank her again, and set out to find Fiona, because her heat of the 800-meter has just been called.

I run into Gavin Vance instead.

“Hey!” he says. “I heard the good news!”

I look down, because holding his gaze is just … unnerving. “Nice little snowball you got rolling.” I glance up.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, if it wasn’t a worthy story, they wouldn’t be here.”

“Thanks,” I tell him again, then start moving across the infield.

“It’s Fiona’s race, right?” he asks, following me. “You heading up to Rigor Mortis Bend?”

I cock my head a little. “Wow. You better watch out. People might start thinking you’re part of the team.”

This seems to please him, and he falls into step beside me as I trek up to the 300-meter mark. “I’m starting to feel a little like it, actually.”

I snort. “Yeah? Well, you’ve got a lot of wind sprints to catch up on, buddy.”

He laughs, then says, “But I did take your advice.”

“About?”

“Running for more than just office.”

I keep moving. “So you what? Went for a run?”

He nods. “I’ve been a few times, actually.” He laughs again. “The first one was torture. It’s been a long time.” We walk in silence for a few steps, and then he says, “You’re amazing!”

This catches me off guard, until I realize he’s talking about the fact that I’m walking on a pipe.

“Kyro asked me to wear the uniform,” I say with a frown. “I’m not trying to be an exhibitionist or anything.”

“Are you kidding me? Who thinks that?” He shakes his head. “Do you realize how fast you’re walking?”

The gun’s gone off for Fiona’s race, so I pick up the pace even more.