The Running Dream

  So I’m a little flustered as I go into my spiel about cutting back my homework, and during it Ms. Rucker’s expression never cracks. She just watches me closely.

  Absorbs.

  It’s like data in, process, response.

  Only the response seems to be taking a very long time.

  Obviously, she doesn’t like the data I’m feeding her and has no intention of returning anything but Request denied. So I open my binder and produce the assignments I’ve completed and say, “I’ve been doing the odds and checking my answers. It’s going to be a lot of work to catch up and keep up with the new assignments.”

  She takes my papers, looks them over, then says, “Doing the odds seems reasonable.”

  And that’s it.

  No smile.

  No nod.

  No quiver of any emotion whatsoever.

  She simply returns to wiping the boards clean and asks, “Will you be sitting with Rosa?”

  For a moment my mind’s a blank. Then I realize she means the special-needs girl who sits at the back of the classroom.

  The girl in the motorized wheelchair.

  The girl who rarely talks and, when she does, is very hard to understand.

  I didn’t even know her name was Rosa.

  “There’s plenty of room at that table,” Ms. Rucker says without looking over her shoulder.

  Inside, I panic.

  Yes, I’m missing a leg, but the rest of me is … well, it’s normal.

  Do people think I’m special-needs now?

  Is that how they see me?

  No! They can’t!

  But … but if I start sitting with special-needs kids, that is what people will think.

  It just is.

  Ms. Rucker turns and gives me a cool, blank look.

  She wants an answer.

  My mind is a flurry of contradictions. I want to lie and say I’m nearsighted. That I need to be up front in my own chair. That I hop just fine.

  But I also think about my terror in returning to school. Feeling like a freak.

  Is that how Rosa feels?

  I’ve never stared at her, but I have … overlooked her.

  No—the truth is, I’ve totally acted like she isn’t there.

  It’s been easier.

  Less uncomfortable.

  For me.

  “Sure,” I tell Ms. Rucker. “I’d be happy to sit with Rosa.”

  She cocks her head ever so slightly, then turns to finish wiping the board.

  So I get situated alongside Rosa, and Fiona dashes off to class. Then the tardy bell rings and everyone falls silent, waiting for Ms. Rucker to speak.

  There’s no let’s-welcome-Jessica-back. Just business as usual: homework out, papers exchanged, lesson reviewed.

  Midway through this process Rosa surprises me by committing a cardinal sin—she passes me a note.

  I read it and sin right back. And after several exchanges Rosa’s told me that she has been in a wheelchair her whole life, that she can walk but only with arm crutches, and that she was born with cerebral palsy. I also find out that she’s only a freshman, loves sushi, thinks math is easy, and eats lunch in Room 402.

  You can join us, she writes. We’re fun!

  I also learn that she already knew my name. And Fiona’s.

  Fiona seems very nice, she tells me, adding a big, long-lashed smiley.

  She’s amazing, I write back, adding long, curly hair to the smiley.

  Rosa gives me a lopsided grin, then writes, When do you get your leg?

  Depends, I scribble back. Maybe next week?

  Already? WOW! Congratulations! You are SO LUCKY!

  My eyes sting when I read that, and it makes something in me break.

  Or connect.

  Or just change, somehow.

  I suddenly really get that I am lucky. I’ll never do a fifty-five flat in the 400 again, but I will stand on my own again.

  This wheelchair won’t be with me every day of my life.

  AFTER SCHOOL FIONA’S ROLLING ME across campus in the direction of the courtyard when she says, “I just realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Guess who wasn’t at your party today?”

  “Uh … who?”

  “Merryl.”

  I shift my backpack in my lap. “Did I miss her? No!” I twist to glance at Fiona. “Forget about her, would you?”

  Fiona grunts. “Hard to do.”

  “Look, I know you hate her, but I’m starting to think you’re obsessing about her because you like him.”

  She stops wheeling and comes around to look me right in the eyes. “What kind of friend do you think I am? You’re the one who likes him. The whole thing bugs me because he should be with someone like you, not her!”

  “Fiona, please. Stop this.”

  But she doesn’t. “I—we—thought he was smart. You know, principled. Remember his speech when he was running for class president? You said it was the most amazing thing you’d ever heard. And it was!” She starts pushing me again. “How could he let himself be snowed by Merryl?”

  “Uh … she’s gorgeous?”

  She grunts again. “Guys are so shallow.”

  “Look. It goes both ways. Most girls don’t like Gavin because of some speech, or because of his op-ed pieces in the school paper, or because he started a townwide warmth drive. They like him because he’s cute.”

  “Well, see? You’re different. And I’m sorry. I know I’ve been kind of annoying about him. It just makes me mad to see her with him when she’s such a princess and you’ve gone through so much.”

  I twist around again. “Well, keep your cool, because here they come.”

  Gavin and Merryl are quite a distance across the courtyard, but they’re on the same walkway we’re on, and they’re definitely closing in. Merryl is linked to Gavin in her classic way: both of her arms hugging one of his as she looks up adoringly at him.

  It’s strange, but it doesn’t really bother me.

  I guess I’ve got bigger issues now than clinging to an old crush.

  Still, what I really want to do is steer clear of them. Go in a different direction. Go four-wheelin’ across the grass. I just don’t want to have to deal with him or her.

  But as I’m suggesting this to Fiona, Gavin notices us. He stops for an instant, then hurries toward us, leaving Merryl clinging to air.

  “Jessica!” he calls.

  “I hate being a charity case,” I grumble.

  He smiles as he approaches. “I’ve been watching for you all day! I thought you’d be in the courtyard at lunch.”

  Fiona’s right about his chin scruff. It gives him an edge.

  A very attractive edge.

  As if he needed it.

  Merryl’s already scurried over, and the first thing she does is latch on to Gavin again. “Hi, Jessie!” she says. “Soooo good to see you!”

  I can feel myself bristle.

  Like I need her phony friendliness?

  Fiona moves up beside me and keeps her focus on Gavin. “The track team had a party for her in Kyro’s room. The whole team was there.” She eyes Merryl. “Well, almost the whole team.”

  Gavin looks at Merryl, who releases him with one hand so she can hold back a gasp of regret. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I completely forgot!!”

  “Easy to do, I suppose,” Fiona says, turning a sarcastic eye toward the big, bold WELCOME BACK banner in the Greek theater. She sweeps around behind me and says, “Well, we’ve got to get moving. Places to go, things to do.”

  “Wow,” I gasp when we’re out of earshot. “You were kinda brutal.”

  “I have never known anyone so phony and self-absorbed,” she mutters. “Guys can be so dumb.”

  We get to the car and I’m suddenly tired.

  “You made it,” she says when we’re both belted in. “How are you feeling?”

  I laugh. “I’m feeling sorry for you that you have to go to track practice! You were up all night putting tog
ether this amazing day for me, and now you have to go do what? Wind sprints?”

  She cranks the motor. “It’s actually just a team meeting. And Kyro knows I’m going to be late.”

  “Just a team meeting?” But then I realize why. “Are the Glenwood Relays tomorrow?”

  She nods.

  As we drive along, I think about Gavin being with Merryl, and I’m surprised that it really doesn’t bother me. Maybe it’s the contrast between subjects. Gavin versus the Glenwood Relays—right after the last invitational meet, someone died.

  Someone else lost her leg.

  Besides, if Merryl’s the kind of girl Gavin likes, then maybe I gave him too much credit.

  These thoughts swirl inside me for a little while, and I let them stew. But in the end the conclusion doesn’t change. I’m not just consoling myself, or fooling myself into believing I don’t want him because my chances of having him have gone from slim to none.

  It’s really just simple.

  I’m over Gavin Vance.

  MOM’S WATCHING FOR ME when I get home.

  I knew she would be.

  She has SunChips and cheese waiting for me in the kitchen—my favorite after-school snack.

  We sit and talk, and it makes me feel good that she’s so interested in knowing all about my day, but honestly, how can I explain it? I tell her the basics—that my homework load is greatly reduced, that Fiona was amazing, that there was a big party for me in Kyro’s room, and that people were nice to me—but I don’t mention the stares or averted eyes. I don’t tell her about Gavin, or Merryl, or Mr. Vedder’s question, or Ms. Rucker’s cool demeanor, or sitting with Rosa. I’m too tired to revisit any of the tough stuff.

  But tired or not, there is one thing I have to know about.

  “Mom …?” I ask as she’s refilling my juice glass.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Kyro mentioned there’s a problem with insurance. What’s going on? And why does Dad think it’s Kyro’s fault?”

  The juice slows to a dribble as she looks directly at me. It runs down the pitcher, then drips onto the table. “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  The pitcher wobbles a bit as she puts it down. “He shouldn’t have mentioned a thing.” She shakes her head a little. “Your father will be furious.”

  “Why? I don’t get that. I don’t get it at all.”

  “Because you, of all people, shouldn’t be worried or even thinking about insurance. He had no business telling you that there’s a problem.”

  “He only told me because I asked.”

  “About insurance?”

  “No. About why Dad’s mad at him.”

  “Your father’s not mad at him, really. He’s mad at the situation, and I think that in the beginning Kyro got the brunt of that.”

  “Well, Dad made me think he was mad at Kyro, so I asked, okay?”

  Mom sighs. “Well, now he will be.”

  “He’ll be mad at Kyro? Look, none of this, none of it, is his fault. He’s aged ten years since the wreck. He wears a Lucy bracelet, okay?”

  Mom heaves another sigh.

  “So tell me what’s going on with insurance! I don’t understand what the big problem is.”

  I stare at her as she considers this for what seems like an eternity. Finally she takes a deep breath and says, “It’s nothing that time won’t take care of. Everything will be okay. It’s just that payment is clogged because the different insurance companies are dragging their feet, each pointing the finger at the other.”

  I frown at her. “What does that mean?”

  She closes her eyes, takes another deep breath, holds it for another eternity, and finally says, “Jack Lowe didn’t have insurance.”

  “The guy in the truck that hit us?”

  “Right. See, normally, since the accident was his fault, his insurance company would pay your medical bills. But he didn’t have insurance. His truck wasn’t even legally registered. He had current tags, but the police think he peeled them off another vehicle to avoid getting stopped.”

  I let this sink in. “But … who does he work for? Don’t they have insurance?”

  She sighs. “He worked for himself. He was a freelance junk hauler and got paid by the job.”

  “So that’s it? There’s no insurance, no money?”

  “Well, he’s still liable, or his estate is now. And he did own property—a sizeable chunk of it up near Penn Lake, where his widow lives.”

  “So … what, then? Will she have to sell it to pay for the hospital bills?”

  My mother nods. “Yes, but of course she doesn’t want to, so she’s hired a lawyer to fight it. Meanwhile, the school district and the bus company are both claiming no fault and so far haven’t picked up any of the expenses.”

  “Wait. The busses aren’t owned by the school?”

  “That’s right. Apparently they’re owned by a subcontractor with separate insurance. It’s all very complicated, with lots of people in lots of offices claiming it’s not their liability.”

  A question hovers in my mind.

  “But … don’t we have insurance?”

  My voice is small because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  “We do on your dad—health, life, disability.… We’ve got the works on him.” She shakes her head and wipes the juice up with a napkin. “We used to have it for the rest of us, but the cost was so high that we let it go … and we never imagined this.”

  I let this all sink in, then ask, “So who’s been paying the bills?”

  Her lips pinch together as she breathes in through her nose. “As I said, it’s going to take some time to sort this out.”

  “But meanwhile? And how much money are we talking about?”

  “Meanwhile, it is not your job to worry about this. It will all work itself out, okay? Your sole focus should be getting back into life.” She smiles at me. “Which it sounds like you did a great job of today.”

  I’m quiet. Thinking.

  She gets that way too.

  Then she stands and clears our paper plates. “If you don’t mind,” she says softly, “let’s keep this conversation between the two of us. I don’t know who your dad would be madder at—your coach or me.”

  Keeping it between us is not hard to do. Dad works late and then is gone early. He hasn’t been around much since I came home from the hospital, and now I understand why.

  I still have to see doctors.

  I still need to get a leg.

  Someone has to pay the bills.

  SATURDAY I SUBMERGE MYSELF in homework. I actually like it, which feels odd. Homework has always been something to dread.

  Now it’s something I can do.

  I try hard not to think about the team running at the Glenwood Relays.

  I try to block out memories of the fun we had there last year.

  I try to block out how the last invitational ended.

  Dad and Mom and Kaylee move me back into my bedroom on Sunday because I insist on it. I’m good at scooting up the stairs now. I hop around everywhere, or use the crutches. I can actually pinch a crutch with my armpit and carry something while I move.

  And I discover crawling.

  Rediscover, I suppose. I don’t know what took me so long to try it. It’s quicker than hopping, but I only do it on rugs or carpets—and only when I’m alone, because seeing me crawl really bothers my mom.

  Sunday night I take a shower. It’s gotten easier, especially now that Dad’s bought a real shower seat and installed a step on either side of the tub curb so I don’t have to land on the door guide.

  I do my usual routine, then shut off the water and treat my stump the way I’m supposed to. I massage it, rough it up with the hand towel, beat it with the towel folded.… It can take a lot more pressure than it used to, and I push the towel therapy until I can really feel it.

  Even with the rough treatment, there is no shooting pain. And the scar’s red, but it’s no longer tender or swollen.
I still get phantom pains, but not as often, and they’re not as severe. It’s like my stump is giving up being angry. Giving up fighting back. Like it’s ready for a truce.

  I maneuver out of the shower, and as I’m dressing, I think about my leg.

  Not the one I’ve lost.

  The one they’ll build me.

  How does that work?

  What will it be like?

  Hank tried to explain it when I was in the hospital, but I couldn’t bear to listen. He had a brochure with pictures of legs. They had plastic feet, a pipe for a calf.… They were Frankensteinish.

  In my mind he became Hankenstein.

  Somebody I didn’t want to see.

  But now … now the idea of a leg—any leg—seems better than crutching.

  Or wheeling, or hopping, or scooting, or crawling.

  What a liberating luxury walking would be.

  It’s the first time I’ve thought about this without someone else bringing it up. It’s the first time I haven’t thought that the only leg I want is the one I can’t have.

  It’s the first time I’ve felt ready.

  And suddenly I want it now.

  PART III

  MONDAY DURING SCIENCE a note from the office gets delivered to me. There’s a single line scrawled beneath the checked REPORT TO OFFICE IMMEDIATELY box:

  Dr. appt.

  I’m a little stunned. I knew Mom was going to get me an appointment with Dr. Wells, but I wasn’t expecting one so soon. I strap on my backpack, and Fiona helps me down the ramp. I’m crutching my way around school today, and it’s been going okay, except for the ramps. I have a tough time with them, which I find strangely ironic.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say to Fiona as she starts to follow me to the office. “You need to go in there and take notes for us, okay?” She hesitates, but I shoo her off and hobble across the campus.

  It’s quite a distance to the office, and I’m relieved to finally get there. The backpack has become heavier with every step, and my arms are sore. But my mom’s waiting for me, full of energy. “Dr. Wells had an eleven-thirty cancellation. If we hurry, we’ll make it!”