The Running Dream (9 page)

It’s like she’s reached the end of her leg of the relay.

She gave it her all.

She’s exhausted.

Collapsing.

I know what that feels like, and I know what this means.

It’s my turn to hold the baton.

S
OMEHOW
I
WIND UP STANDING
in Angelo’s crowded foyer for nearly twenty minutes while half a dozen two-legged people sit.

“Unbelievable,” Fiona whispers as we finally follow the hostess to a table. “What is wrong with people?”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, but I’m relieved to be seated. Relieved to have left the foyer and the awkward glances of a mom who wouldn’t actually look at me, and her kid who wouldn’t stop.

We open our menus, but it’s just a formality.

I’m getting the lasagna.

She’s getting the eggplant parmesan.

“Oh!” she says, snapping her menu closed. “They’ve added mandarin chicken salad to the lunch menu.”

“They have?” I ask, searching the menu.

She laughs. “Not here; at school!”

The waiter returns shortly to take our orders, and when he’s gone, I sip my water and ask, “So what else is new at school?”

Fiona’s eyes get wide.

I never ask about school.

I hate hearing about it; hate thinking about it. I break out in a cold sweat every time she starts chatting about it.

She reaches across the white tablecloth and nearly knocks over the single-carnation centerpiece as she grabs for my wrist. “You’re coming back! Really? You’re ready?” She bounces in her seat. “Finally, finally, finally!”

I look down. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be
ready.
” I glance at her. “But I think I’m ready to try.”

She bounces again, saying, “Tomorrow would be perfect! It’s Friday. One day, then the weekend … You can get your feet wet, you know?” Her cheeks flush and she covers her mouth with a hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, then shake my head. “But
tomorrow
?” The thought sends me into a panic.

“Look,” she says softly, “you can put it off, but that’ll just make it worse.”

I think about this, about what Kaylee said, about how I’ve pushed away everyone I know because I’m always thinking, No. Finally I give a little nod and say, “It
would
only be one day, and then I’d have all weekend to get over people staring or ignoring or—”

“Or putting their foot in their mouth?”

I grin at her. “Yeah. That too.”

“So is this a yes?”

I take a deep breath. “This is a maybe-yes.”

Fiona laughs. “That’s a big improvement over absolutely-no.”

The waiter brings some steaming bread, which I’m happy to dive into. “So,” I say, “catch me up.”

Fiona grabs some bread. “Oh! Well! First off, everyone misses you. They ask me every day how you’re doing.”

“Really?” It comes out quiet. Like I’m hurt.

Which I guess I kind of am.

Fiona leans forward. “Of course they do!”

I shrug.

She frowns a little. “When you’re gloomy and won’t talk to people, they don’t know what to do, okay? It’s not their fault.”

I look away. “I know.”

“So, yes. Everyone misses you and asks about you and wants to know when you’re coming back.” She eyes me and says, “Gavin’s asked about you at least three times.”

“Gavin?” I shake my head. “Why? Does he need more information for his story?”

“He seems sincere, but …” Her voice trails off and she scowls.

“But what?”

She shakes her head.

“Just tell me.”

She takes a deep breath, then blurts, “Merryl’s managed to work her magic on him.”

I feel myself flush. “They’re going
out
?”

She rolls her eyes. Frowns. Rips apart her bread.

And then she nods.

After I compose myself, I say, “Look. Get real—he wasn’t interested in me when I had
two
legs.”

“What does that matter? You’re the same person!”

No
, I think as I sip my water,
I’m not
.

“Well, forget about him,” she says. “What do
you
want to know about?”

This is a good question, and it’s one I really don’t have an answer to. I want to know everything about school.

And nothing about it.

It hurts to realize how unnecessary I am. From what little I’ve let Fiona tell me, school life seems the same as always. Track meets happen. The same flitty people are still flitting about. The same teachers are keeping to their same routines. The same lunchtime activities and rallies and club meetings still take place.

I fell off, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.

Lucy
died
, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.

Still. As much as thinking this upsets me, I’m starting to see that I need the merry-go-round much more than it needs me, and in the end my choice is to hop back on or get left in the dust.

So I take a deep breath and ask about the one thing that means the most to me.

The one thing I absolutely don’t want to hear about.

“How’s track?”

All her little fidgeting motions stop. She studies me a moment, then says, “We lost to Mount Vernon by six points. They swept the four hundred and won the four-by-four-hundred. It lost us the meet.”

I have a twinge of comfort.

Maybe the merry-go-round at least slowed down with me gone.

“Did Marcy pick up my leg?” I ask.

Her mouth drops open and she blinks at me.

I blink too, realizing what I’ve just said. “I meant my leg of the relay!”

“I know what you meant,” she says, and her face is twitching all over the place.

I snicker, then blurt out, “Did she pick up my leg!” and suddenly we’re both hysterical.

I wipe my eyes with my napkin, and somewhere inside me I can feel a shift.

I’m turning a corner.

Leaving one long, hard section of track behind me.

I smile at Fiona.

It feels so, so good.

A
FTER LUNCH
F
IONA HELPS ME
organize the homework that she’s continued to collect for me.

Six classes, three weeks … it’s a daunting amount of work.

But Fiona’s upbeat and optimistic, and since we have five out of six classes together, she’s very familiar with the assignments.

“You know what?” she says after she’s helped me make a checklist for each of the courses. “There’s no reason you should have to do all those assignments. Some of them are total busywork.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that tomorrow we’ll ask every teacher which assignments they’ll let you slide on.” She shakes her head. “Look how much you have to do. This is crazy!”

“So I shouldn’t do any of them yet?”

She thinks a minute, then says, “Start with the math, but only do the odds. You know, half of them? You can check your answers in the back of the book, and if you’re getting it, just move on.”

I frown. “I don’t know if Ms. Rucker’s going to go for that.”

“If she doesn’t, she’s ridiculous. Tell
her
to lose a leg and come back with all her homework done.”

Mom comes into the family room. “Who are we discussing?”

Fiona and I exchange glances. “Ms. Rucker,” Fiona grumbles. “She’s such a machine.”

“That’s your math teacher, right?” Mom’s trying to be casual, but she’s beside herself that I’m organizing my schoolwork. She’s had several conversations with my counselor about me making up work and returning to school, but I’ve been a complete brick wall about it. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks brightly.

I shake my head. “I think we’ve got things under control.”

“How about some drinks, then? Apple juice, water, soda, Gatorade …?”

“Apple juice,” Fiona and I say together, and when Mom leaves, Fiona puts aside my newly organized binder and sets me up with paper, pencil, and my math book. “You want to get going on that while I park right here and do my homework?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a laugh, because it’s obvious she’s not going to take no for an answer.

We work diligently and I make good progress, especially with Fiona tutoring me through the math problems. And even though I’m having no trouble concentrating, I’m surprised to catch Fiona spacing out a couple of times.

The third time I notice it, I ask, “What are you thinking about?”

She says, “Huh?” then flutters off some answer that makes very little sense.

“What?”

Just then Mom comes into the room and asks Fiona to stay for dinner, but Fiona says, “I … I can’t. I’ve got to get home. Tons to do!”

I want to ask, Like what? but in the back of my mind I’m getting the picture.

Fiona’s planning cupcakes and streamers and banners.

Loudspeaker announcements and music.

She’s planning my return to school.

In a flash, Fiona has packed up and is whirlwinding out of the room. “I will be here a little after seven tomorrow morning!” she says, pointing at me. “Be ready!” Then she darts from the room.

Mom chases after her and catches her out on the walkway, and now it’s my turn to watch through the window.

Mom hugs her.

Holds her cheeks.

They talk and laugh and hug again, and then Fiona’s hurrying to her car and Mom’s waving goodbye.

“She is one amazing friend,” my mother says as she comes back into the family room.

I nod.

“You’re really lucky to have her.”

I nod again.

And I would say more, but once again I’m overwhelmed.

This time in a good way.

I
CAN’T SLEEP
. I’ve got a mixture of butterflies and panic.

So I get up, get my history book, and start reading.

Eventually it puts me to sleep.

“Sweetheart!” my mother whispers, softly shaking my shoulder.

I turn a groggy eye toward the clock.

5:45.

I definitely need more sleep.

My mind stumbles to a comforting conclusion: I can always try going back to school … later.

Like Monday.

Or Tuesday.

Or next Friday.

Or—

“Jessica!” Mom’s shaking my shoulder again.

I will her to go away, but I’m too tired to project much resistance. “I know,” I murmur, but somewhere in the fog of my mind I’m aware that I don’t know what I know. Whatever it is can’t be much.

“Were you up all night reading?”

“A lot of it,” I murmur.

She takes the history book off the bed. “Homework is not that important!” she scolds.

I grunt, then hide under the covers.

I just want to sleep.

Escape.

“Jessica,” she says, gently pulling the covers off my head. “It’s important that you go to school today.”

“I’m too tired,” I tell her, and pull a blanket over my head.

And then I remember.

Fiona.

Fiona and her cupcakes and banners and welcome-back balloons.

I groan and peek out of the covers. “Please tell me she’s not making a big deal out of this.”

Mom studies me, then lets a little smile escape. “You know her better than that.”