The Running Dream (25 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Fiona and I run into Annie and Giszelda in the courtyard. “You guys were awesome!” I tell them. “So funny.”

“The word,” Annie says with a haughty look, “is ‘lively.’ ”

“Yes,” Giszelda says, looking down her nose at me. “We are
lively
.”

“Indeed,” I say with a laugh. “And funny, too.” Shandall joins us, and I say, “Speedy Feet! You were on TV!”

“I looked good, too, didn’t I?” she says with a grin, then hugs me. “Girl, I am so happy for you. You are going to have that running leg in no time!”

Then Mario and Graham and Melanie and Colin and a bunch of other track people join us, and our little gathering turns into a full-on celebration.

The whole day is like that. It’s really upbeat.

Really
fun
.

Even Ms. Rucker manages to say something nice. Well, for her anyway. “I hope your parents found a good lawyer. The
situation’s ridiculous.” Then she gets back to business, arching one eyebrow as she zeroes in on me. “Next note you pass puts you back in your assigned seat.”

I grin at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s an odd sort of twitch at the corner of her mouth before she turns and walks to the front of the classroom.

Rosa has rolled up in the middle of this, and when Ms. Rucker is far enough away, she whispers, “Was that a smile?”

“That may be as close as she gets,” I whisper back.

Rosa pulls her binder out of a saddlebag. “Gavin came into our lunchroom today. He was looking for you.”

“What? He did?” I’m embarrassed by how excited I sound.

“Uh-huh.” She gives me a lopsided smile. “He’s really cute.”

I tone things
way
down. “He has a girlfriend, Rosa. A really pretty one.”

“Merryl. I know.” She eyes me. “He could do a lot better.”

The tardy bell rings, and Ms. Rucker wastes no time announcing that there’ll be a test on Friday.

I groan, because I am not ready for a test. Not even close. So I really try to focus on the lesson, but I’m having trouble keeping up with Ms. Rucker’s overheads.

Rosa slips me a note.
Come over tonight. I’ll help you
.

I nod and put the note away, and that night after dinner that’s exactly what I do.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” my mother asks as I’m heading out the door.

“I’m sure. It’s nearby, and Sherlock needs a walk.”

“They won’t mind him being with you?”

“Rosa loves Sherlock.”

She’s following me down the walkway. “Tell me again who Rosa is? And how does she know Sherlock?”

“Mom! Stop! It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Her last name is Brazzi. She’s a math genius, and she lives on Marigold Street. I’ll call you from her house, okay?”

She lets me go, and as Sherlock and I play Frisbee along the way, I’m really glad I didn’t accept a ride. The air’s cool, but not cold, and with the days growing longer, there’s still plenty of sunlight and lots of spring color everywhere.

Rosa’s mother is as happy about me arriving as mine was worried about me leaving. “Jessica!” she says after Rosa has let me in. “I feel like I know you from the paper and the news”—she eyes her daughter—“and of course Rosa has told me all about you.” She makes me bring Sherlock in off the porch. “We can’t have him miss the party!”

I laugh. “Doing math does not exactly qualify as a party.”

But to the two of them it seems to. There’s a spread of snacks ready on the kitchen table, with bright blue paper plates and napkins. “This should keep your math energies high,” Rosa’s mom says.

I do remember to call my mom, and as I’m getting ready to hang up, Rosa’s mom says she’d really like to say hello to her. So I turn the phone over, and she takes it into another room to talk while Rosa helps me tackle math at their kitchen table.

Over the next two hours we submerge ourselves in finding
the sums of infinite geometric series, calculating iterate functions, and expanding powers of binomials.

We also manage to eat most of what’s on the table.

Finally Sherlock seems to sense that I’ve had about all the math I can take for one night, because he nudges me from under the table, where he’s been curled up, and lets out a little “
Aaarooo.
”

Rosa laughs. “I love the way he talks to you.”

Sherlock’s head pops up between us, and after Rosa’s had a chance to nuzzle with him, I collect my things and say, “All right, boy, let’s get going.”

“If you come back tomorrow,” Rosa says, “I’ll give you a pretest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Rucker is very predictable.”

“She
is
?”

“I’ll make you a test,” she says with a nod. “It’ll be a lot like hers. You’ll see.”

If she’s willing to do that, I’m willing to try. “Okay,” I tell her. “Same time?”

“Same time,” she says with a smile.

I thank Rosa and her mom for having me, then head home in the cool night air.

The house is quiet when I get home. It’s also dark, except for a little light coming from the kitchen. “Mom?” I call. “I’m home.”

“In here,” comes her voice from the family room. I find her sitting sideways on the couch, hugging a pillow.

I click on a lamp. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says with a sigh. Then she tilts her head and asks, “Why didn’t you tell me that Rosa has cerebral palsy?”

I sit down beside her and take a deep breath. “I was going to.”

“But why didn’t you?”

I don’t really know where to begin on this. It’s been a feeling more than a rational thing, but it’s true. I haven’t wanted to mention it.

I shake my head. “Rosa and I write notes in class.”

She waits. “So?”

“So … I didn’t talk to her at all before I lost my leg. I ignored her. But now …” I lift my backpack and zip open the smallest pouch. “Sometimes she writes things.” I pull out my growing collection of her notes. They’re little scraps, half sheets, strips. It’s a mess, really. It looks like a small pile of garbage.

“You keep them?” she asks.

“I don’t really know how to explain it.” I sift through the notes. “She has a way of …” I look up at Mom. “It’s like she opens my eyes.”

Mom considers this a moment. “Can you give me an example?”

I’m sifting through the notes again. “Here,” I say, pulling one out. “She asked me,
If you could change one thing, what would it be?
” I look up from the note. “Not like a wish; it had to be something real.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I could run again. But when I asked her the same
thing, she said”—I turn to the note—“
That people would see me, not my condition.
”

We’re both quiet a minute, and then Mom asks, “Do you feel bad because you didn’t do that before?”

I almost say yes.

But I stop.

And in that moment I understand why I keep Rosa’s notes.

“Not anymore,” I say quietly. “I feel good because now I do.”

A
FTER
R
OSA’S DONE
putting me through my paces the next night, I feel really confident.

“You will get an A tomorrow!” she tells me.

I snort. “That would be a first.”

“But not a last!” She’s smiling. “You want to come in at lunch for review?”

“I may just do that,” I tell her, because I’m making the connection between training to break a league record and training to ace a math test.

Repetition. Effort. Pain. Success.

There really is no shortcut.

So the next day I go to Room 402 at lunch and do my best to volley back right answers to Rosa’s ad lib math problems. She baits me to make mistakes by giving problems with my most common weaknesses, but I pull through okay.

When the warning bell rings, she tells me, “You will do great!” but it isn’t until math class is over that I believe her.

“How was it?” she asks when the tests are all collected.

“I’m afraid to say … easy?”

“Yes!” she says, and surprises me with a fist bump.

We hang around and talk over some of the problems, and then Fiona pops her head inside the classroom. “You ready?” she asks.

“Oh! I forgot!” I turn to Rosa. “Fiona’s taking me to Hankenstein’s today. It should be my last fine-tuning for a while.”

“Have fun,” she says, and her face has suddenly gone mischievous.

I turn around and discover that Gavin is now standing in the doorway behind Fiona.

“How would you feel about Gavin coming along?” Fiona asks, her eyebrows going all wiggly.

She’s obviously trying to do me a favor.

“Uh …”

“It’s okay to say no,” Gavin says over Fiona’s shoulder.

“You can go,” Rosa tells him.

I turn to her and whisper, “
What?
” which makes her break out giggling.

“I … I don’t know,” I tell Gavin. But Fiona’s giving me a secret fierce look, and I’m feeling a little heady and … odd. And they’re all staring at me. So I say, “Whatever. If you’re sure you want to, fine.” Then I turn to Rosa and whisper, “I’m going to sic Sherlock on you this weekend.”

She giggles some more.

“See ya, Rosa!” Fiona calls, and Gavin chimes in with “Bye, Rosa,” as we leave the classroom.

“Bye, guys!” she calls.

Her voice is happy, but it leaves a little ache in my heart.

She’s
the one I’d like to take along.

C
HLOE IS HAPPY
to see that I’ve got company. And when I make the introductions, she’s excited to find out that Gavin is the one who wrote the newspaper article. “It was awesome!” she tells him, then goes on to say how she caught the story on TV. “My friends and I are all rooting for you,” she tells me with a big, warm smile.

“Thank you,” I answer, but I feel a twinge of selfishness. She’s so kind and attentive. It makes it easy to forget that she’s had to go through an amputation and rehabilitation too.

Not to mention
cancer
.

I change into shorts, and when I return to the waiting room, Chloe says, “Hank’s ready for you. Are you all coming in back, or just Jessica?”

Everyone looks at me.

“Do you
want
to?” I ask.

They say they do, and I guess I feel bad making them stay in the waiting room, so I shrug and say, “Okay.”

And it would have been okay, except that after Hank tells me how great the TV news story was, the first thing he does is
check my socket fit. He makes me sit down and take off the suspension sleeve, and then he grabs the socket part of my leg and moves it around.

“You’re loose. We need to get you into thicker socks.”

Off come the leg and the liner.

Off come the socks and the nylon.

Suddenly I’m feeling very self-conscious.

Naked
.

Fiona looks down, and Gavin turns away and stays that way.

I’m reminded of how awful it looks. It’s not red and swollen—it just looks like flesh—but it’s still very graphic.

Very
gone
.

And all of a sudden I’m mortified.

Why in the world did I let them come back here?

Fiona’s fine, but
Gavin
?

I’m desperate to get this over with.

To cover up.

To get
out
of here.

Hank has me try on different thicknesses of socks until he’s satisfied that my socket fits right. Then we start with the adjustments.

I wish for music.

Conversation.

Sound of any kind.

Finally Gavin breaks the silence, but he looks at Hank, not me. “I saw a man at the airport once who had art painted on his prosthetic leg. It was a sunrise and the ocean. It looked really cool.”

“Wow,” Fiona says, then asks Hank, “Can you do that?”

“I can do fabric,” he says as I begin a test walk for him.

“Fabric?” Fiona asks. “What do you mean?”

“Any piece of cloth. It only takes about half a yard. When I worked in San Francisco, people brought in skull fabric, dolphin fabric, tie-dye, camo fabric … you name it. Around here our clients tend to be more conservative.” When I turn around, he catches my eye. “We could do that with your definitive leg if you want. It doesn’t cost anything extra. I just embed the cloth when I’m making the socket.”