The Running Dream (27 page)

“Fifteen thousand?” I look around the room. “You guys are amazing!”

Another cheer goes up, and after Kyro explains that any extra money can go to helping my parents with my medical bills, he calls, “Item two!” and moves on to passing out banquet information and checking in uniforms.

While this is going on, I notice Fiona and Mario fluttering awkwardly around each other. It’s incredibly cute, and pretty obvious that he really likes her. And when people begin filing out of the classroom, Fiona’s eyes ask me if it’s okay if she leaves with Mario, so I smile and nod, like, Go have fun!

Soon it’s just Kyro and me.

“Quite a year,” he says to me, and we both laugh at the understatement.

“How can I ever thank you?” I ask quietly.

He smiles at me. It’s a kind, tired smile. “Just meet me on the track next year. That’ll be thanks enough.”

I nod, and even though there’s no handshake, the deal is made.

Which means there’s no room for excuses.

I’m going to have to learn to run again.

T
HE REST OF THE SCHOOL YEAR
sort of fizzles to an end for me. It feels like a waiting game.

First I wait for the prom to be over. During the weeks leading up to it, everyone seems to pair up. Then the only thing the girls want to talk about is their dresses and how they’re going to do their hair, and what their before and after plans are.

Fiona goes to the prom with Mario.

Gavin goes with Merryl.

I stay home and watch TV.

I try to be big about it but can’t help wondering if I’d have a date, too, if I wasn’t walking around on a pipe. I try to block it out, but the thought keeps springing up.

More weeds in my garden of worthiness.

At the track banquet the team presents me with a check for my running leg, which is an awesome and very emotional thing for me, but when I go to see Dr. Wells, he tells me that my stump is still changing and that I’m not ready for a “definitive prosthesis.”

I have to wait until the end of June.

Or maybe July.

The school year closes out with finals and all-too-frequent encounters with Gavin.

I manage to get a B or better in all my classes—even Ms. Rucker’s, where I’ve climbed up to eighty-two percent, thanks to Rosa. It’s Gavin I can’t seem to figure out. He’s still with Merryl, but when I see them together, he looks … quiet. When he runs into Fiona and me, he comes to life, laughing and smiling and talking about … everything.

But Fiona’s still with Mario, and I’ve still got a pipe leg.

I try not to define myself that way, but I can’t help it. And even though my gait is now smoother and people swear they don’t even notice, I never forget that under my pants is a pipe.

So the school year fizzles to an end, and I wait.

Fiona keeps me moving forward. She gets us
Preparing for the SAT
books for over the summer, because I didn’t take the test this year, and she wants to retake it in November. “This way we’ll both be totally prepared. Plus it’ll actually be fun to study, ’cause we’ll be doing it together and we won’t have any other homework!”

I know I’m supposed to take the tests, but it seems so pointless.

You don’t need SAT scores to get into the local JC, which is where it looks like I’ll be going.

Still. It’ll be something to do with Fiona, which is better than doing nothing.

Fiona also manages to get us job interviews at the Tremont Theater. It’s an old-timey single-screen movie theater that
shows foreign films and cult classics. A funky-cool place that’s run by a bohemian grandma named Greta.

I don’t mention my leg when I go in to interview, and Greta’s got hobbles of her own and doesn’t seem to notice that there’s anything different about me. She just talks to me about popcorn and pigeons, and hires me on the spot.

Fiona and I don’t actually start working there until school lets out for summer, and it turns out to be a pretty fun job. After we’re trained, Greta’s nice about giving us the same shift, and we do everything from selling tickets and making and selling popcorn to sweeping up between shows and shooing away pigeons.

Kids from school come in—especially the artsy ones. It’s kind of nice, because even though it’s a totally different crowd from the one I hang out with, they take their movies very seriously.

And then at the end of June Dr. Wells decrees that my leg is stabilized and gives me a prescription for my permanent leg.

Which means I can also get my running leg.

I go through the same routine all over again with Hank—casting, wait a week. Socket fit, wait a week. But then I have to wait another week for the leg fit.

And another week.

Hank has decided that what I need is an active foot for my everyday leg—a “flex foot” that will even allow me to run. “It’s not for track work,” he tells me, “but it’s a very dynamic foot—you’ll be amazed.”

But there’s a part on back order.

A
part
on
back order
.

Somehow I’ve almost blocked from my mind that I’m an assemblage of nuts and bolts and carbon graphite.

July is almost over when I finally get called in for my fitting. And since, after weeks of proving to her that I can, Mom has finally allowed me to start driving again, she lets me go to Hank’s alone. She usually likes to come to my appointments and hover, but she tells me she’s swamped. “Would you mind?” she asks.

“Not a bit,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. I love driving. It did take a little adjusting to learn to drive with my fake leg, because my ankle doesn’t flex and I have to control the gas and brake pressure by using my knee and thigh. But I’m good at it now, and it’s nice not to have my mom in the passenger seat, scared out of her mind that I’m about to crash.

Plus I know the appointment’s going to be a long one.

We’ve got two legs to fine-tune!

“You’ve got your cell phone, right?” she asks.

“Right.” It’s another thing I’ve had to wait ages for, and now that it’s replaced, I don’t go anywhere without it.

So I’m feeling, uh, footloose and fancy-free? But when I arrive at Hank’s, I learn that the running leg is not done. “A manufacturer delay,” Chloe explains. “Hank’ll call you in as soon as it’s ready.”

I try not to show how disappointed I am. The thought of running again has kept me awake nights for weeks. My heart starts racing, and I just can’t seem to settle it down. Some nights I sneak downstairs to watch the YouTube clips, just to convince myself that it’s not a dream, that I really am going to be able to
run
.

And now I have to wait.

Again.

But the minute I walk on my new leg, I forget about the running leg—at least for a little while.

My new leg is amazing!

It goes on a little differently than my first leg, and it uses what’s called a shuttle-lock system. A suction sleeve liner goes right over my stump, and it has a two-inch notched metal peg sticking out of the bottom of it. When I put my stump into the socket, the notched peg pushes down through a hole in the base of the socket. It makes a ratchety clicking sound as it goes in, and then I’m
connected
. The suction sleeve is locked into the socket, and the combination feels snug and comfortable … like it belongs.

And the foot! Under the rubbery fake toes are layers of black carbon graphite that look nothing like a real foot, but the foot flexes with me and gives some bounce to my step.

“I love this!” I say after the preliminary adjustments are done. “I had no idea it would be this much better than my first one.”

It still looks very Frankensteinish but more high-tech. Instead of a pipe, it’s got a two-inch-wide flat, black carbon-graphite bar.

“I’m going to need you to come back for fine-tuning like you did before,” Hank tells me. “And when we’ve got you dialed in, we’ll get you a cosmetic cover.” He smiles at me. “You’ll be standing pretty.”

I stop walking and take a good look at him. I wonder how I could ever have hated this man. Or, at least, how I could
ever have been so angry with him. “Thanks,” I tell him softly. “Thanks for helping me through this.”

He smiles at me. “I know it seems like a lifetime to you, but you’ve made outstanding progress in the short time you’ve been coming in.”

This time I feel like I deserve the compliment. I’ve worked hard on my gait; on learning how to adapt. And watching myself in the mirror now, I see that part of my problem was the tools I was using. The old leg was clunky compared to this one. With my new “flex foot” my gait looks smooth, my stride confident.

I feel almost … normal.

When we’re done and his tools are put away, he walks me out. “The one thing I can’t build for my clients is up here,” he says, tapping his head with a finger. “No matter how good the prosthesis is, if the mind isn’t willing, the leg won’t work. With you I know I don’t have to worry about that.” He grins at me. “You’re going to do and be whatever you want.”

I thank him again and wave a cheery goodbye to Chloe. Then I walk out of there, this time with a spring in my step.

W
HEN
F
IONA PICKS ME UP
for our movie shift that night, I’m excited to show her my new moves.

“Wow!” she says after I’ve done my best runway impression along our hallway. “You are
smooth.
”

I laugh and do a little dance. “It’s awesome.”

“So, you ready?” she asks. “Do you need to say bye to your mom or anything?”

I shake my head. “She’s out doing something with Kaylee, and Dad’s still at work.”

“Well then, let’s roll.”

The Tremont Theater has a little kiosk in front where tickets are sold. It
is
attached to the foyer, but it sticks way out, and tonight Greta is behind the window.

“She looks like a gypsy fortune-teller,” I whisper to Fiona as we approach.

“She sure does!” Fiona says with a giggle.

But something about it is odd. Greta never actually takes a position. She more moves around the place, supervising. “I wonder what happened. She never works the window.”

Fiona whispers, “She should, though, don’t you think? Look at her! It would be great for business. People would come up wondering about having their fortune told, and she could sell them on the movie instead.”

“Hi, girls,” Greta says through the window.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Sure it is. Just incredibly slow is all.” She waves a gnarled hand toward the entrance. “Go on. I’m sure you can find something to clean, anyway.”

Fiona holds the door open for me, and when I step inside, I’m struck by how quiet it is. And empty. It’s weird—there’s no one behind the counter, no one ordering food, no one at all anywhere. It feels like I’ve stepped onto an empty movie set. Or into a wax museum. Or—

“SURPRISE!”

Heads pop up from behind everywhere, and at first I’m just
shocked
, but as I start to absorb who’s there, I realize it’s the track team. And Kyro. And my parents. And my sister. And Gavin. And Hank and Chloe. And Marla Sumner, along with her cameraman.

“Well, girl,” Greta says from beside me, “I’d say the celebration has begun.”

I turn to her. “But what about …”

She snorts. “Honey, the place is all yours.”

Kyro’s heading toward me, followed by the rest of the crowd. He’s carrying an enormous rectangular box, wrapped in gold foil paper and a broad blue ribbon.

My mom’s crying.

My dad is, too.

My teammates are pogoing around like maniacs, so excited to be giving me this gift.

Hank grins at me, and through my tears I tell him, “You stinker!”

Kyro hands the box over, and he’s teared up, too. “Run well, Jessica.”

I carry the box over to the popcorn counter, and while everyone gathers around, I unwrap my running leg.

I already know what it’s going to look like. Hank and I’ve gone over it many times. It’s going to be a black J-shaped leg with a smooth foot instead of spikes. The spikes will get added later, when I’m ready to race. It’ll also have an awesome flame fabric that Fiona and I picked out, embedded in the socket.