A Diamond in My Pocket

  * * *

  “Oh, Calli, I’ve always known something like this would happen. This is your moment to shine,” my mother says as she gives me a big hug. I pull her close, not wanting to let go. The gate attendant announces our flight is boarding, and I release my grasp from my mother and fling my arms around my father.

  “I’m proud of you, Calli.” The sincerity in his gentle voice almost brings tears to my eyes. “Now, go show them how Ohio girls run.”

  “We’ll take good care of her. There’s no reason to worry,” Ms. Winter assures my parents.

  Leaving my parents behind, Ms. Winter and I continue through security and walk to our gate.

  In the company of what I think of as the world’s most beautiful woman, I can’t help but notice how many heads turn her way. I’ve always been a people watcher. What can I say? I’m fascinated by the way people behave when they don’t know they’re being watched. Here in the airport these people, mostly men, but a few women as well, are shameless with their double-takes. Ms. Winter is obviously used to the attention and doesn’t seem bothered at all. No one is giving me a second glance, but I’m used to that, probably the same way she’s used to all the attention.

  It’s never been my desire to be the center of attention. I didn’t try out for cheerleading or drill team, and I never joined any clubs. I’m fine with being plain ol’ Calli Courtnae, void of the limelight and undiscovered by the boys. I help the “lack of attention” thing along, though. I don’t wear the current fashions or sport the latest hairstyles and my jewelry is kept to a minimum. In my opinion, teenage popularity contests are a waste of energy and I can do better things with my time than stress out about what others think of me. Besides, there aren’t any boys in my school worthy of getting dolled up over. I suppose Brand Safferson is the most sought-after guy because he’s Mr. Never-Fumbles-Always-Completes-The-Pass Quarterback, but he’s not all that good looking in my opinion. I think the other girls fawn over him because they think he’ll be a rich professional athlete someday, which only supports my theory that guys seem to be all about the looks and girls tend to be about the money. I’d like to think I’ll be different in that respect, but I haven’t actually been put to the test.

  At sixteen, I’ve made a mental comparison of myself to other girls, to their body shapes and dimensions, in an effort to figure where I stand in contrast. I’m pretty sure other girls do the same thing . . . at least I hope they do and I’m not the only one. From a scientific standpoint, tinged with a bit of anatomy knowledge, my facial features are symmetrical and considered to be normal. I have average breasts and hips for my age, however, I think my thighs are too muscular. My conclusion is my physical appearance is a bit better than average in comparison to the girls at my school. I’m not ugly, but I don’t know exactly how good looking I’m considered to be. I’ve never had a boyfriend to get the assurance that at least one guy, besides my father, thinks I’m beautiful.

  I understand it’s all relative—relative to what others think is beautiful. My parents will always think of me as beautiful, of course. I guess we’re always beautiful to our relatives. Intellectually, I don’t need to compare myself to others. Test scores tell that story. I’ve worked hard for my excellent grades and fully understand that good-looks aren’t important when applying for college.

  Ms. Winter and I find our seats and settle in for a long flight to Denver where we will be catching a connecting flight to Bozeman, Montana. From Bozeman we will drive to our destination and arrive by evening.

  Once we are in the air, I ask, “Ms. Winter, what can I expect when we get there?”

  “The training facility is a large building set high in the Rocky Mountains,” she answers while retrieving her bag from under her seat. She opens it and pulls out a small laptop she sets on the tray table in front of her. “As of now, there are close to two-hundred residents living and working at the compound. The tutors who will keep you current on your studies will work around your training schedule so you’ll be able to excel in both your sport and your grades.” She presses the power button and her laptop fires up.

  “Are there any other girls close to my age?” I try to picture the athletes who compete in the Olympics. The only images coming to mind are those of older, well-developed women.

  “Why don’t you rest? You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow and I need to do a little work.” Ms. Winter isn’t asking as much as telling me to quiet down.

  I lay my head back to rest, trying to ignore my jittery stomach. I try to imagine how my introduction to the other Olympic candidates might go. Something tells me they won’t be too thrilled to meet me.

  I think about the phone call I had with my friend Suzanne James last night. She pointed out that the other athletes might as well go home now, because I have timed faster than all of them. There’s no hope for any of them, she said, to get a gold medal. I had laughed and reminded her it wasn’t official yet, that it’s still possible the track meet was a crazy chance-happening.

  Suz hadn’t actually witnessed my race. She had been too busy flirting with some of the guys from the other school. She explained that when the cheering grew quiet, she turned to see what had brought the crowd to a hush. Some of the guys around her were in awe, saying things like, “Did you see that girl run?” and, “Holy crap, she was fast!” Suz told me she’s proud to have been able to say she’s my friend.

  I know differently, though. Most likely, she saw the admiration in the boys’ eyes when they looked at me, and she wanted some of that attention for herself. That’s just the way she is.

  I have a lot of people who talk to me and say “Hi” in the hall, but Suz is the only friend I hang out with. She befriended me in middle school and has stayed by my side ever since the firecracker accident, supporting me through my medical troubles. She’s cute and spunky with a fun sense of humor and lots of friends. I’m not bothered by her spending more time with her other friends, but I’m amused when she comes to me after she’s had enough gossiping, back-biting, and two-facedness.

  Suz tells me all the time I speak and think differently than all the other girls and I’m “über-mature” for my age. I don’t know about my maturity levels, I simply steer clear of the drama, that’s all. Maybe my brain works differently because I’ve always been surrounded by adults who constantly speak in medical jargon and use big words. Plus, once I began reading medical books, my vocabulary went up several notches.

  We like to hang out at the mall on the weekend and critique other teenagers’ behavior. One thing never ceases to amaze me: jocks are jerks. It’s one thing to be an athlete who cares about his grades and tries hard to achieve in his sport, but the arrogant, cocky, strutting, can’t-get-better-than-a-C jock is a true degradation of the human species—only one step up from troglodytes.

  The last thing I want to become is one of those conceited jocks Suz and I love to criticize. I’ll need to keep that in mind at the training compound. I hope I’ll fit in with the other athletes. I have to wonder what my future will hold now that I’m the fastest human on earth.