The Running Dream

  “I made that mistake once, okay? I sure wouldn’t do it again.”

  “You made—” I glance at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Does the name Merryl ring a bell?”

  We run along in silence for a bit. “Are you saying …”

  “We broke up.” He shakes his head. “It was just a mistake. She was a mess at Lucy’s funeral, and I got caught up in feeling sorry for her. But it was a terrible reason to go out with her.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say softly, because really, I don’t know what else to say.

  “And of course I felt sorry for you, but …” He stops running. “Didn’t you read what I wrote on your running leg? Does it say, I feel sorry for you? No! It says, You inspire me. I want to be around you because you inspire me! You’re amazing. I think you’re the most …”

  I stop running, and I look at him.

  His hair is pressed off his forehead and sticking out at the sides. His T-shirt is still soaked, and he’s covered in sweat.

  He is gorgeous.

  “… incredible person …”

  And I did read what he wrote on my running leg. I read it over and over and over.

  “… I have ever known.”

  He’s looking at me, too, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at my hair, which is surely a mess, or thinking about the sweat I’m covered in.

  He’s just looking into my eyes.

  “So what are you saying?” I ask meekly.

  He looks at me a few moments longer, then answers with a long, salty kiss.

  SHERLOCK BARKS, howls, and spins in a circle.

  I pull away and laugh, then tell Gavin, “He’s saying, ‘You kissed a one-legged girl who’s pushing around a wheelchair with potting soil in it!’ ”

  He looks at Sherlock. “And she kissed me back!” He turns to me, and he’s smiling. Really smiling. “So … does this mean you don’t think I’m annoying?”

  I shake my head, and as we start walking toward my house, I let him push the wheelchair and tell him, “I’ve actually been trying hard not to like you. Besides, I was sure you had a thing for Fiona.”

  “For Fiona?” He lets that sink in. “No wonder you were always ditching me.”

  So we talk and catch up and confess all sorts of silly things, and when we’re on my street, he says, “So is this wheelchair thing to build up your strength? Running with this would not be easy.”

  “No. Well, yeah, I guess so.” I shake my head a little. “I just had this idea, but now I don’t think it’ll work.”

  “So what’s the idea?”

  And in that moment I decide to tell him. “You know Rosa, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, she lives around the corner from me. On Marigold?”

  “Okay …”

  “It’s a long story, but she sits out on her porch in the mornings and sees me run by. I go back and talk to her and … well, she asks me about running a lot. Why I do it, what it feels like … and she has this thing about the finish line.”

  “About the finish line? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but she’s very philosophical about it. I think she sees it as this amazing moment … one she’ll never experience.”

  He raises an eyebrow at the wheelchair. “So you’re … You want to get her over a finish line?”

  “I don’t know. First I thought about just taking her on my loop … but then the idea grew into maybe I could do the River Run with her in November. Kyro had the team volunteer last year during cross-country—we handed out cups of Gatorade and water at the mile stations—and there were wheelchair racers and lots of people running for causes.” I shrug. “I thought it would be the perfect run for Rosa.”

  “That’s a ten-mile run,” he says quietly.

  “I know. But it’s the only one around here.” I frown. “But after today I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it.” I eye the wheelchair. “That’s maybe twenty-five pounds? Rosa’s small, but she’s got to weigh close to a hundred.” I shake my head. “I didn’t even make it two miles.”

  “But this was your first try?” When I nod, he adds, “And look at this wheelchair. It’s a toy compared to some of the ones I’ve seen. Maybe if you had a chair with bigger wheels. One that was designed for racing?”

  We’re standing at my walkway now. I love the serious look on his face; how he’s trying to find ways to make this work.

  “And how long have you been running again? A month?”

  “Not quite.”

  “See? Like you’ve even had a chance to build up your own strength?”

  I think about this a moment. “So don’t throw in the towel?”

  “Give it a chance.” He thinks, too, then asks, “Does she know about this?”

  “Rosa? No. I haven’t told anyone. I wanted to see if it was even possible.”

  He smiles and reaches out for my hand. “So you want to try again tomorrow? I’ll meet you here at, what, six?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He pulls me in closer. “Sure.”

  I laugh and I smile and I look into his eyes and see my little idea blooming inside him. Suddenly I feel stronger.

  Like maybe this isn’t so crazy.

  In this moment, anything seems possible.

  AFTER GAVIN LEAVES, I run inside to call Fiona, but there’s a slight problem:

  My dad has seen everything.

  He doesn’t say this exactly, but from the arch of his eyebrow and his position in the family room, I know he has.

  I face him, wondering how to explain.

  The boy … the wheelchair … the potting soil … there’s a lot to explain!

  But I’m feeling really happy, and what’s to hide?

  So I sit down and start.

  First with the boy.

  “His name’s Gavin Vance. He’s the one who wrote that newspaper article about me. I’ve had a crush on him for ages.”

  This is received with a single nod.

  One of cautionary approval.

  And then, being in a heady, sharing sort of mood, I explain the wheelchair, the potting soil, and Rosa, like it’s all perfectly normal.

  There’s no nod for this part, just a knit brow and a dubious frown.

  Mom enters the room and asks what’s going on, and after Dad and I exchange looks, I explain everything all over again.

  The part about Rosa and the River Run doesn’t actually sink in because she’s completely fixated on Gavin.

  “So … is he your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know.” I give a little laugh and a shrug. “But we have a date to go running with a wheelchair and potting soil tomorrow at six.”

  “AM?” she asks.

  I grin. “Yup.”

  “Does that count as a date?”

  I shrug. “Does to me!”

  She looks to Dad for his opinion, but Dad’s been thinking about something else.

  The wheelchair.

  “I don’t want to say you’ll never make it ten miles with your friend in that wheelchair, but it’ll be slightly less impossible if you let me put some better wheels on it. And I’m sure she’d appreciate a more comfortable seat.”

  “Huh?” My brain shifts from Gavin to the River Run. “Really? That would be great!”

  He nods. “Let me talk to Ed at the Bike Barn—get his advice. I’ll be out that way on a job this morning.”

  I go over and hug him. “You are the best!” I pull back and look at him. “I don’t tell you that enough, do I?” I hug him again. Tight. “You are the best.”

  “Well,” he says, and he’s smiling, “I like the mood this Gavin fella has put you in, that’s for sure.” He kisses me on the temple and says, “Now I’d better get to work.”

  Mom walks him out, and before she can return to cross-examine me, I’ve escaped to my room with my cell phone. News like this can’t wait for a “reasonable hour.”

  I’ve got to talk to Fiona!

/>   THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER BREAK are some of the best of my life. Gavin runs with Sherlock and me in the mornings, and then Fiona, Mario, Gavin, and I spend time together when we can—at the park, or in Old Town, or just hanging out at a coffee shop, talking and laughing about nothing and everything.

  Cross-country practice has already begun, and although I can’t go out for the team this year because most of the race-courses are over uneven terrain, dirt hills, or gravel paths where my running leg’s not designed to go, I run laps around the track and continue to do speed work. I race the straight-aways, then jog the curves. Or I sprint a 200, then jog a 200. Or if the team’s doing street work, I join them for that. For most of us, cross-country is what we do to build up our base for track. Kyro unofficially requires it unless you’re doing another fall sport, and although I was never a fan of distance running before, Kyro’s “you’re on your honor to run this weekend” is what got me into running the Aggery Bridge loop.

  So I’ve been working hard and improving at a pretty good rate. I’m up to at least eight miles a day, five of them with the wheelchair—a wheelchair that my dad’s made much easier to push. It now has big wheels, a padded seat, and a broader footrest, plus a serious seat belt and a hand brake for safety. He’s also welded a crossbar between the handles so I can push one-handed if my arms need a break.

  He didn’t stop there, either. He replaced the potting soil with twenty-five-pound sandbags, got me bike gloves for my hands—which are a lifesaver—and added pouches to the sides for water bottles, which is something I’ve really needed in this heat.

  I also got a good tip from Hank—I put antiperspirant on my stump. I was sweating and getting hot spots on my leg, having to dry out my liner mid-run to keep from getting blisters. The antiperspirant has really helped.

  I’ve been avoiding Rosa’s house because I didn’t want her to know what I was planning until I was sure I could do it. I’m still not sure that I can—not even close to sure—but my mom brought up a good point: “What if her mother doesn’t want you to do this?”

  So the Saturday before school starts I finally decide that it’s time, and I jog over to Rosa’s house with Sherlock and the wheelchair.

  Rosa sees me coming. “Jessica!” she calls through the screen door. It’s only ten in the morning, but it’s already eighty degrees out—a good day to stay inside. “Hey, what’s that?” she asks, motoring out onto the porch.

  “Is your mom here?” I ask.

  “Mo-om!” she calls over her shoulder, then turns back to my wheelchair. “Who built that? What’s in the seat? Where are you going?”

  Rosa’s mom is on the porch now, too. “Hello, Jessica! Do you want to come in? It’s awfully warm out here.”

  “Uh, no. I just need to ask you something.”

  Rosa shakes her head. “All of us are asking questions! Who’s got answers?”

  I smile at her. “I do. To answer yours first … my dad retrofitted my wheelchair so I could run with it.”

  “You run with that?” Rosa asks.

  I nod. “And what’s in the seat is one twenty-five-pound sandbag, and”—I pick up the white kitchen trash liner that’s next to it—“two five-pound sacks of flour.”

  They both look at me like I’ve got sunstroke.

  I laugh, but I’m suddenly feeling very foolish. I focus on Rosa. “You know how you ask me about running? How you talk about the finish line? How it’s some mystical thing that you wish you could experience?”

  Her eyes are growing wide.

  “Well, I’ve been running with this almost every day, adding weight to it, trying to build up to—”

  “Really?” she asks, and her eyes are enormous. “You’re going to run me in that?”

  “What are you saying?” her mom asks, and there’s definitely concern in her voice.

  “Well … I’m thinking Rosa and I could do the River Run together. It’s a ten-mile race, which is long, but it’s the only community run around here. It’s in November, so I have about two months to build up my endurance. But before I go any further with my training, I thought I should make sure it’s okay with you. And make sure Rosa wants to do it.”

  “Yes! I absolutely want to!” Rosa squeals from her seat. “Yes!”

  Mrs. Brazzi seems very skeptical.

  “My dad’s put on big tires and a padded seat to make the ride comfortable, plus there’s a wide seat belt and a hand brake for safety.” I feel like a used-car salesman, and Mrs. Brazzi is looking at me like I am one. “I promise I’ll be safe,” I tell her.

  “Please, Mom?” Rosa asks.

  Mrs. Brazzi sighs, then looks at me. “It’s you pushing, right? No one else?”

  I nod.

  She looks at her daughter.

  Looks at me.

  Looks at the chair.

  Finally she sighs again and says, “If this is what you girls want …”

  “Awesome!” Rosa cries. Then she looks at me with wide eyes and says, “Can we try it now?”

  I think about it, then give a little shrug. “You probably ought to try out the chair and see how it feels.”

  So while she powers down the porch ramp in her motorized wheelchair, I remove the sacks of flour and the sandbag from the running wheelchair. Then Rosa locks her wheels and does a transfer. She’s wobbly on her legs, and they won’t really support her, but the transfer is actually very smooth.

  Her mother fusses with the safety belt and says to Rosa, “I’m going to get you a helmet.”

  “No!” Rosa cries. “No helmet!”

  Rosa says it so forcefully that Mrs. Brazzi and I are both startled.

  “I don’t want to be the weird kid in the helmet,” Rosa says quietly. “And I want to feel the wind.”

  I think back. How many times have I told Rosa about facing into the wind; cutting into the wind; feeling the wind run cool fingers through your hair?

  More than I can count.

  “Believe me,” I say to Mrs. Brazzi, “I won’t be going that fast.”

  She considers all this, then heaves another sigh. “Okay, then.”

  “Thank you, Mom!” Rosa cries. “Oh, thank you!”

  So I push off and run Rosa around the block.

  One short block.

  Rosa’s mother is waiting on the sidewalk when we return, and Rosa is ecstatic, bubbling about how much fun it is.

  Me, I’m pouring sweat and exhausted. I want to yank off my leg and jump in the mermaid fountain.

  It was only one block.

  One short block.

  Rosa and her mother have both come on board with this, but now I do seriously wonder about the sanity of it.

  If one block was this hard, how will I ever make ten miles?

  THERE REALLY IS NO BACKING OUT NOW.

  Gavin, Fiona, Mario, Mom, Dad, Kaylee … they all tell me everyone will understand if I decide it’s too hard, but I can’t quit now.

  I just can’t.

  So I confide in Kyro, and I ask him to help me. “I need to get strong enough to do this,” I tell him after school is back in session.

  We’re in his classroom, and I watch as his strong, graceful hands sort stacks of papers, clipping them into groups as he thinks.

  Finally he says, “Pushing close to a hundred pounds … plus the weight of the wheelchair … that would be hard for an able-bodied person.”

  “Hey! I’m able-bodied.”

  He eyes me. “You know what I mean.” Then he adds, “And more important, it’s the weight. How much do you weigh, Jessica? One twenty? One thirty?”

  With or without my leg?

  I just shrug.

  “So you’re pushing close to your own weight over ten miles.”

  “Look,” I tell him, “I’m going to do it. I’m asking you to help me.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods. “Okay.” He turns to his calendar. “What are we looking at? Eight weeks? And what are you up to?”

  “The River Run is the first weekend in
November. I did five miles with forty pounds this morning.”

  “Plus the wheelchair?”

  I nod.

  “And what was your level of effort?”

  “It was hard,” I admit.

  He nods again. “Okay. I’ll work up a schedule. And we’ve got to get you into the weight room. And on a muscle-building diet.” He eyes me, but there’s a twinkle behind the seriousness. “You thought the four hundred was bad?”

  I laugh, but I know I’m in for it.

  And that’s okay.

  It’s the only way I’ll get Rosa over that finish line.

  I STICK TO KYRO’S PLAN. I alternate running and lifting. I’m sore a lot. I ice my legs after hard runs. I hydrate the way he wants me to. I eat a lot of tuna. I take good care of my stump, watching for hot spots, avoiding chafing and blisters.

  I add another sandbag to the wheelchair.

  Guys in the weight room eventually accept me; eventually quit staring at my leg. I go in, work out, sweat buckets, and get out. I focus on the goal. Focus on Rosa’s happiness. Focus on the finish line.

  Gavin runs with me when he can, and we do our homework together almost every night. Kaylee’s a freshman now, and very impressed that my boyfriend is Gavin Vance. “He’s, like, popular,” she tells me one night.

  I laugh. “Yeah. Unbelievable, huh?”

  And then one Saturday afternoon I’m doing a long, slow distance run without the wheelchair when a funny thing happens.

  A stranger calls out my name.

  “Jessica!”

  I’m near Old Town, familiarizing myself with the River Run route, and when I turn, I see a woman with her two children waving at me from across the street.

  “You’re Jessica!” she calls.

  I laugh and wave. “Yes, I am!”

  “Good for you!” she calls back. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you!” I shout, and continue running.

  This buoys me through my run, and after this first time, it happens almost every time I run. People call to me from cars, wave at me from bridges, shout, “Run, Jessica!” from across the street … somehow the word has spread through our little town that the one-legged girl is running again.

  As I run, I wonder how many of these people helped buy my leg.