The Running Dream

  I try to focus on walking.

  In one week I’ll have a leg.

  In one week I’ll learn to walk again.

  In one week.

  IT TURNS OUT TO BE A LONG WEEK.

  Not because I can’t wait to get my leg. I am looking forward to that, but it also scares me a little. What if it’s awful? What if I can’t figure it out? What if it falls off during school?

  No, it’s a long week because the track team officially invites me to the meet on Thursday, and I’m terrified of going.

  But how can I not?

  Already the bake sales and the raffle ticket sales have started. Saturday will be the first Help Jessica Run car wash.

  On the outside I’m grateful and happy, but inside I know it’s an impossible goal.

  They will never raise twenty thousand dollars.

  People tell me all the time that I’m still part of the team. They’re all excited to be buying me a leg. They’re so nice. So positive.

  They seem to have no idea what a pipe dream this is.

  When Thursday arrives, I’m still not ready. But it’s Liberty versus Langston—our main rival—and it’s on our turf. No busses to get on or traveling to do. All I have to do is hobble over to the track.

  So easy.

  And yet so hard.

  I haven’t even seen the track since I’ve been back at school. Not that it’s been difficult to avoid. It’s out past the gym and the locker rooms, past the basketball courts and the tennis courts and the baseball diamonds. It’s the last school structure before empty fields, and it sits on a small rise of land unprotected from the afternoon winds.

  Jocks snicker at runners. They think it doesn’t take much skill to put one foot in front of the other; that anyone can run track. And I guess people like Merryl Abrams contribute to that, but those of us who are serious about it grin and bear a lot more than players in some “real” sports.

  Basketball players wouldn’t dream of doing wind sprints in the rain.

  Tennis players call off practice if the courts are even a little wet.

  Volleyball players won’t have anything to do with the cold.

  And football players? They chalk talk or pump iron when the weather gets wicked.

  It’s the soccer players and the track teams that show all-weather grit. And at Liberty High the track teams are the only ones of any of the sports to ever win league. And the varsity girls are contenders almost every year.

  People don’t understand why we run. It seems so mindless to them. All you do is go around and around the track.

  That’s the funny thing about running. The deceptive thing about it. It may seem mindless, but it’s really largely mental. If the mind’s not strong, the body acts weak, even if it’s not. If the mind says it’s too cold or too rainy or too windy to run, the body will be more than happy to agree. If the mind says it would be better to rest or recover or cut practice, the body will be glad to oblige.

  My mother says I was born a runner; that I entered this world wanting to get up and go. Kaylee, on the other hand, has always hated running. Not because I love it, but simply because she hates it. She tried it a couple of summers ago, but after a week of easy jogs with me, she asked, “When do you stop counting your steps?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that.

  I’d never counted steps in my life.

  So maybe it’s something you’re born with. Or maybe it’s something you adopt. I just know that for me, running was like eating and breathing—it was something I had always done, and without it I felt miserable.

  Suffocated.

  Losing a leg was like having to learn to suck in air through the pores of my skin.

  Somehow I survived, but each breath was painful.

  And then Kyro showed me the footage of amputees running.

  And running fast.

  Air seemed to fill my lungs again. I was heady and happy and I could feel myself—a future me—running.

  I want to hold on to that.

  I want to believe.

  But twenty thousand dollars of reality has sunk in, and my lungs have shut down again. I feel like I’m trapped under a layer of ice, holding on to what little air I have, drowning under a cold, hard ceiling that’s keeping me from something that can save me.

  AFTER SCHOOL, Shandall Norwood catches me teetering with uncertainty near the tennis courts. “Hey, girl!” she calls, and zips over. “Why you standing out here?”

  I shrug. “I was going to go to the meet to cheer you guys on, but …”

  My voice trails off, so she finishes for me. “But you’re not sure you can handle it?” Her words come out gentle. Like she totally gets it.

  My throat closes down and my eyes fill up.

  “Aw, girl,” she says, putting her arm around me. “We’re gonna get you running again, you know that.”

  I shrug.

  “Look, if you can’t handle going to the meet, don’t come. Everyone’ll understand.”

  “But it’s Langston.”

  She understands this too. Langston’s got state-of-the-art everything. From their starting blocks to their jumping standards to their landing systems and cages and hurdles and bleachers, their equipment totally puts Liberty High to shame.

  It’s their track, though, that has us all green with envy.

  Ours is dirt.

  Theirs is a Tartan track.

  It’s the most amazing track I’ve ever run on. It’s clean, smooth, and fast, and it’s a beautiful royal blue. Whenever I race at Langston, I imagine that I’m running across water. It’s an incredible feeling.

  So Langston is our big league rival, and even though they have everything our team would love to have, we have the one thing a team can’t buy.

  Spirit.

  Maybe it’s a bond formed from years of running into the wind. Maybe it’s because Kyro calls us his family and expects us to treat one another that way. Maybe it’s just the fight of the underdog. Whatever it is, we have it, and Langston doesn’t. Oh, they act like they do, but you can feel it—it’s just a show.

  Shandall studies me, and very slyly she says, “Yeah, that Vanessa Steele’s gonna be prancin’ all over the place like she’s unbeatable or somethin’. Like you never even existed.”

  Blood prickles through my body.

  Vanessa Steele.

  She refused to shake my hand after I beat her at the Westfield Invitational.

  She’s probably relieved that I’ve been knocked out of the competition.

  I clench my crutches and start in the direction of the track. “Let’s go,” I tell Shandall.

  “Thatta girl,” she says, and falls into step beside me.

  We talk about her events, and I kid her a little about her discus release. Then, when we’re near the track, I stop for a moment and soak in the view. The starter’s already there and easy to spot in his red hat and coat, and the Langston teams are trudging through a warm-up lap. Our teams are scattered, warming up in groups, helping Kyro deliver things to the various officials and field judges. There’s JV girls, JV boys, varsity girls, varsity boys—four teams from each school is a lot to coordinate.

  “There it is,” Shandall says with mock reverence. “The Oval of Pain.”

  I laugh and tell her, “Go on. You’ve got to warm up, stretch out, and bring home some fives!”

  “I don’t know about that,” she says, “but if I get a third and we win by one, I’m takin’ credit for the whole shootin’ match!”

  “You do that!” I laugh.

  She takes off, and I swing forward toward the field.

  I want to wish my team good luck.

  And I want to stand among them and somehow believe that I still belong.

  I JOIN THE PRE-MEET LIBERTY HUDDLE, then stay infield to cheer on runners in the 4×100–meter relays and the 1600-meter runs. The heats go fast—JV girls, JV boys, varsity girls, varsity boys—but each race is still a long process.

  When the varsity girls line up for the 16
00, I head over to Rigor Mortis Bend and shout my heart out for Fiona each time she goes by. She’s ahead at the 800-meter mark, but I can see her tighten up during the third lap. She holds on for as long as she can, but at 1400 meters she loses her lead and has to fight with everything she’s got to stay in second place.

  She does get second, though, which brings in three points for the team, but she is not happy. “That’s six seconds slower than my PR,” she says, gasping for air when we meet up. “That third lap killed me. I just never recovered.”

  I give her a pep talk and a hug, and after she’s caught her breath, she mutters, “Time to play nice with the Manipulator,” and wanders off to the high-jump pit.

  I don’t tag along. I’m feeling kind of worn out, and I’m really not in the mood to make phony chitchat with Merryl Abrams. Especially since it’s pretty hard not to notice that Gavin’s over there with her. So when Kyro and some parent helpers start setting up hurdles, I take the opportunity to crutch across the track to the bleachers.

  Liberty High’s track has only one set of bleachers. It’s got steps up the middle, which divides it into two sections, one for home, one for away. Nobody pays attention to that, though. Even with our standing in league, usually the only people who show up at track meets are dedicated parents, plus the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend. It’s not like there are squads of cheering voices. Besides, it’s way more important to find a group to huddle with to help body-block the rising winds, and some afternoons anyone will do.

  As I hobble across the track, I feel like I’m getting stares from people in the bleachers. I can see parents whispering to each other about me.

  Or maybe I’m imagining it.

  Maybe they’re not noticing me at all.

  I go up the entrance steps, take a seat on the bottom bench, lay my crutches down, and unload my backpack. Then I sit through the 100-meter hurdles for the girls and the 110-meter high hurdles for the boys.

  There are legs, legs, everywhere.

  I watch them move so effortlessly.

  Pair after pair of perfectly tuned, beautifully timed legs.

  How could I never have seen them this way before?

  In between the races I watch the high-jump pit, out in the distance.

  Gavin’s still there.

  I feel my heartbeat grow faster inside my chest. I try to calm it, but it pounds maddeningly harder. Pretty soon, my breathing turns shallow, and then there’s the familiar flutter of butterflies in my stomach.

  This has nothing to do with Gavin Vance.

  It has everything to do with the hurdles being cleared.

  The 400-meter is next.

  Starting blocks are adjusted, and soon the JV girls shake out and get into position.

  I grip the rail in front of me as the starter calls, “To your mark! Set!” Then the starting gun cracks and my heart gallops away.

  I want to cheer for the girls. I want to dash to the infield and root them around Rigor Mortis Bend. But all I can do is death-grip the rail and fight back the lump in my throat.

  This is not my heat, but this is my race.

  My race.

  There’s a soft voice beside me. “Jessica?”

  I turn and see a woman I don’t know sitting beside me.

  Oh, wait. She is a little familiar.

  My mind scrambles to remember. She’s not one of our runners’ moms. She’s actually too well put together for any kind of track mom. Her hair’s long and sleek with subtle highlights. Her hands are perfectly manicured. But mostly it’s her clothes—they’re classy. Nothing sweats-like about them.

  Who is she?

  “I’m Claudia Steele,” she says softly. “Vanessa’s mom?”

  She has her hand out, so I shake it, but I’m stunned.

  “I just want to say how sorry I am,” she begins.

  I move to pull my hand away, but she holds it.

  “I don’t know the right words to use,” she continues. “I don’t know if there are right words.”

  In her eyes I see … sincerity.

  My hand stops pulling.

  “Thanks,” I tell her, and for a moment I forget that there’s a race going on.

  She does finally let go of my hand, but she doesn’t leave. Through the JV boys’ race neither of us says a word. And it’s odd to sit through the girls’ varsity lineup with her beside me.

  I wish her away. Her being there is making me terribly uncomfortable. But she just sits there, silently watching as Vanessa adjusts her trademark racing glasses, rolls her shoulders and neck, shakes out her legs, and finally gets down in the blocks.

  “This has to be very hard on you,” Mrs. Steele says.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the runners. Please, I think, just go away. But then out of my mouth slips, “This is my first time back.”

  I could kick myself.

  Why am I talking to her if I want her to go away?

  The gun goes off and Vanessa shoots from the blocks. She gathers speed and her stride lengthens. Her legs are long.

  Fluid.

  Beautiful.

  I close my eyes and try to stop my chin from quivering.

  What made me think I could do this?

  Vanessa wins the race easily, which gives Langston five points. But we get three for second and one for third, so Langston nets only one point.

  Still, it’s hard to take.

  Especially with my rival’s mother sitting beside me.

  I’m just thinking of an excuse to leave, since she’s not, when Vanessa comes clomping up the steps. She’s still wearing her racing glasses. “That track is a joke,” she spits out. “This whole place is a joke! My time was terrible!”

  I have an urge to flatten her.

  She’s made her mother uncomfortable too. And I can tell Mrs. Steele wants to say something to her daughter, but before she can, Vanessa holds out a hand. “Can I see my phone?”

  Her mother produces it from her purse, and as she’s handing it over, she says, “You recognize Jessica Carlisle, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, hey,” she says to me, checking for texts. She hands the phone back to her mother, then turns and walks away.

  “Vanessa!” her mother calls, but Vanessa says, “I’ve got to get a rubdown before the hurdles!”

  “Vanessa!” her mother snaps, but she doesn’t even get acknowledged this time.

  “Excuse my daughter,” Mrs. Steele says after a moment. Her hands are shaking as she refastens her purse, and when it’s closed, she faces me and says, “No, excuse me for raising such a self-absorbed daughter.”

  Then she stands and walks away, leaving me the same way she found me.

  Stunned.

  AFTER I GET OVER MY SHOCK, I can only think of one thing to do.

  Tell Fiona!

  I wait until the next race is over, then crutch across the track and make my way toward the high-jump area.

  Before I can reach it, Gavin intercepts me. “It’s great to see you out here!” he says.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him at any meet ever, so I tell him, “It’s great to see you out here, too,” but with limited enthusiasm. I nod over at Merryl, who’s a few yards away, pulling on her sweats. “How’d she do?”

  He glances over his shoulder at her. “She tried her best.”

  I hold back a snicker, because he seems to really mean it. Merryl’s best is about 4′6″ and involves a lot of drama. And since high jump is her only event, she’s always finding some excuse to leave after she’s eliminated. “So you taking off?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding? This is Langston! We’re the underdogs! We need to win this thing!”

  I give him a curious look. “Wow, Gavin. I had no idea you were so into track.”

  He laughs. “It’s sort of contagious, isn’t it?” There’s a sweetness to the blush of his cheeks that I try very hard to ignore.

  “You ever thought about running?”

  He shrugs. “I used to be fast in elementary school … but that was
a long time ago. And I don’t exactly come from a family of sportspeople.”

  I eye him. “You can be a politician and run, you know. And I’m not talking about for office.”

  He laughs again, then gives his chin scruff a thoughtful scratch. “That’s a whole new paradigm, isn’t it?”

  Merryl is suddenly upon us. “Hey, Jess,” she says, then turns to Gavin. “I have a killer headache. I really need to get home.”

  This creates an awkward moment, so I tell them both, “See ya,” and hobble over in time to see Fiona’s approach. The bar’s at 4′10″, and she flips over it with ease.

  “Nice!” I tell her when she comes back around. They have to cycle through all the remaining jumpers before it’s Fiona’s turn again, so I’ve got time to tell her what happened. “Guess who sat next to me during the four hundred.”

  “Who?”

  “Vanessa Steele’s mother.”

  “No!” She blinks at me. “On purpose?”

  So I tell her the story from beginning to end, and when I’m done, she gasps, “Unbelievable! The whole thing is unbelievable!”

  “Bartlett!” the pit judge calls. “Bartlett, you’re up!”

  “Gotta go,” Fiona says. She takes her mark, composes herself, rocks back and forth a few times, then approaches the bar and flips right over it.

  She returns to me, breathless. “I am so pumped right now!” she laughs. “Everyone will be when they hear about it!”

  I grab her arm. “Wait! No! You can’t tell other people!”

  “Why not?” she asks, incredulous.

  “Because …” I try to sort things out quickly in my mind, but I don’t really know why. It just feels wrong. “Because her mom was really nice.”

  “So?”

  “So … I think it’s … you know … bad karma.”

  She squints at me. “Bad karma? Vanessa Steele is what’s bad karma!”

  “Look, just don’t, okay?”

  She sighs. “Whatever you say.” Then she gets fiery again. “But I’m gonna yell my lungs out for Annie and Giszelda in the three-hundred hurdles.”

  “I’ll yell with you!” I say it with a laugh, because we always cheer for them. Annie and Giszelda are fun and funny, and awesome hurdlers.