Jessi's Gold Medal

by Ann M. Martin

  Just a few more minutes of sleep. That was all I needed. Maybe that would wash away the memory of the dream. I shut my eyes tight.

  I don’t know whether I slept or not, but my eyes finally sprang open when I heard a knock at my door.

  “Jessi? Are you up?”

  It was Mama.

  “Uh-huh,” I said in a groggy voice, my back to the door.

  I must not have sounded too convincing. The door opened and Mama peered in. “Are you all right, baby?” she asked.

  “Mm-hm,” I mumbled.

  She sat at the edge of my bed. “This doesn’t sound like the Jessica Ramsey I know. She’d already be eating her second bowl of cereal. You sure you’re feeling okay — or is this an imposter in bed?”

  I finally turned around and sat up. Mama was looking at me. She was smiling, but her eyes were full of sympathy and concern.

  “Mama …” I said, trying to think of the right words. “You know, you and Daddy don’t have to come to the Sports Festival today.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you, sweetheart?” Mama said.

  I nodded meekly.

  “But you’ve been working so hard, Jessi. Of course we want to see you.”

  “But Mama …” I felt close to tears, so I took a deep breath and tried to look away. “It’s not like ballet. I — I can’t get it right …”

  There it was. A tear started rolling down my cheek. Another one followed it, then another.

  Mama snuggled closer and put her arm around me. “You are being so hard on yourself. We know you just started this class a few weeks ago. I think it’s wonderful you can even be in the festival after such a short time.”

  “Yeah, but wait till you see the other girls. They really know what they’re doing.”

  “Jessi,” Mama said, “remember when we first moved here, and you thought all the classes at your new school were so tough? You came home with a seventy-five on a math test and you were heartbroken. You worked so hard and pulled your average up — but it’s never been as high as it was in Oakley.”

  “Yeah, but I’m doing the best I can,” I said. “You always said that’s what counts the most.”

  Mama nodded. “I still say it. And I know that’s the way you are, Jessi — no matter what you do, you do your best. With ballet, with schoolwork, with baby-sitting, and with swimming.” She paused and raised her eyebrow at me. “Unless you’ve been sneaking away to the movies all those evenings after school.”

  I smiled for the first time. “No.”

  “Well, then you’ve done all you can do, Jessi, and that’s enough. The results don’t matter, it’s the effort. And don’t you worry about embarrassing us. As long as we know you did your best, we’ll be proud of you.”

  “You mean that?”

  Mama laughed and gave me a big hug. “Of course I do! Now come on downstairs and eat your breakfast.”

  “Okay,” I said as she left. “And thanks.”

  Well, Mama’s words did mean a lot to me. At least they got me out of bed. I knew I had done my best, and I knew she and Daddy weren’t going to be ashamed of me. That was great.

  But what about the rest of the school? While my parents sat there, being proud of my “effort,” all of SMS would be laughing at Elise and me.

  Needless to say, I didn’t eat much. I trudged off to school with my stomach in knots. Thank goodness classes had been suspended for the festival. I don’t think I could have sat through one without spacing out.

  I felt like a big old sack filled with gloominess.

  Then something changed. My gloominess started to seep out. Maybe it was the blue sky and the refreshing spring breeze. Maybe it was the yelling and laughing I could hear almost two blocks from the school. Maybe it was the sight of banners and flags and posters all over the school grounds.

  As I got closer, I could hear someone trying to blow a fanfare on a bugle or trumpet. It was pathetically out of tune, but voices screamed “Charge!” afterward, then burst out laughing. In a corner of the playing field, several students and grown-ups were busily hammering and sawing, constructing a concession stand.

  It was exciting. You couldn’t help but feel it. I almost walked onto the field, until I remembered I had agreed to meet Mallory in front of the school.

  I only had to wait about five minutes before one of the Pike station wagons came rolling to a stop in front of me. Mr. Pike slid out, ran around to the passenger side, and opened the door. He helped Mallory out, then reached in for her crutches. “Jessi,” he said, turning to me with a smile, “I leave her in your capable hands.”

  “Okay!” I said.

  “Great! See you later!”

  “ ’Bye!” Mal and I called back.

  As he drove away, Mal began slowly hoisting herself toward the field.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Mal replied. “It’s actually not as bad as it looks. My doctor says I’ll only have to use these for a week or so, just to keep the weight off.”

  “Testing … testing … oh, what a beautiful morrrning …”

  “Booo!”

  “Stop the singing!”

  A few students were razzing one of the teachers who was testing a microphone. Mal and I laughed.

  “Everyone’s having such a great time,” Mal said. “And I had to go and sprain my ankle. Figures, huh?”

  I shook my head sympathetically, but I wasn’t convinced. Why couldn’t Mal just admit she didn’t want to be in the festival? I almost asked her right then and there, but it didn’t seem like the right time.

  I had the strangest feeling — if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Mal sprained her ankle on purpose.

  We made our way across the field, and I helped Mal take a seat in the front row of the bleachers.

  “When’s the synchro?” she asked.

  “The swimming events are last,” I said. “They’re at the pool complex and the whole crowd’s going to have to get up and walk there.”

  “You have a long wait,” Mal said.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  If I didn’t chicken out first.

  * * *

  By nine o’clock the stands were full of students, parents, and teachers. Stacey was sitting behind Mal and me, waiting for the swimming events, too. Mama, Daddy, Squirt, and Aunt Cecelia were seated toward the back. I could see a few members of my synchro class scattered around.

  Kristy, Claudia, and Dawn were on the sidelines. Every once in a while they would do some jumping jacks, but mostly they gabbed with each other.

  “Is this working?” boomed the voice of Mr. Taylor, the SMS principal, over the sound system. (He was sitting in a booth at the top of the stands.)

  “Yes!” screamed about three hundred kids’ voices.

  “I guess so! Well, thank you all for coming to the Stoneybrook Middle School’s Annual Sports Festival!”

  “Yaaaaay!” replied even more voices.

  “Before we get started, I have a few words to say …”

  “A few” turned into this long, boring speech. I think he thanked just about everyone in the school.

  When he finally finished, the cheering was so loud that Squirt started to cry. I could see Mama holding him while Daddy and Aunt Cecelia tried to comfort him.

  “The first event … the hundred-yard dash!” Mr. Taylor called out.

  Starting with the hundred-yard dash was a great idea. It’s a very short, very exciting race — and Kristy was in it! (Yes, in addition to the race with Alan.)

  “Yaaaaay, Kristy!” I shrieked.

  “On your marks … get set … go!” said Mr. Taylor.

  Bang!

  I couldn’t believe it — there was an actual starting pistol.

  “Waaaaaaaah!”

  There went Squirt again. At this point I was just hoping he wasn’t going to be scarred for life.

  You should have seen Kristy go. The sinews in her legs were bulging out. Her jaw was clenched, and her hair wa
s blown straight back from her face. She looked like a pro!

  And she came in second out of six — and first among the girls!

  I cheered loudly. I had no idea she was so fast. When she stepped up to receive her silver medal, the other BSCers on the sidelines yelled in unison, “Yay, President!” (to Kristy’s embarrassment).

  Next were a couple of longer events — two footraces and a relay race. They were exciting, too, but not as exciting as … the backward quarter-mile.

  Why a backward race? Well, I guess it was a way to get as many of the nonjock students involved as possible (all the jocks were in the serious events). Sure enough, the kids who lined up were … well, definitely not jocks.

  Take Claudia. She was wearing electric-pink track shorts with a turquoise racing stripe, a matching top with cut-off sleeves, brand-new high top track shoes with no socks, and floral-print suspenders! Her hair was pulled up on top of her head and held in place with a silver barrette in the shape of the Olympic symbol. If it had been an athletic-wear fashion show, she would have won.

  And if it had been a comedy event, she definitely would have been close. The minute the pistol went off, the contestants started running backward. The oval-shaped track is divided into six lanes, but hardly any of the contestants paid attention. A heavyset guy rammed right into Janet Gates, who shoved him off the track. Justin Forbes turned around too far and tripped over his own two feet. Woody Jefferson tripped over him. Alex Kurtzman ran off the track and didn’t seem to be able to aim himself back on. Claudia managed to stay on her feet, but she was running strangely — on her tiptoes, so that her hair bounced up and down like a horse’s tail.

  It was hilarious. I don’t even remember who won the race.

  The javelin throw was one of the next events. And since it was something that nobody normally did (in gym class or on the track team), everyone was pretty much on the same level. Dawn didn’t win, but she threw the javelin beautifully, in a perfect arc. She seemed a little disappointed, but I was proud of her.

  I thought about Mary Anne then. I understood why she didn’t want to participate, but it was too bad she didn’t even want to come to the festival. She would have enjoyed it.

  That was what I was thinking when I went to the concession stand to get some lemonade for Mal and me — and guess who was behind the counter?

  “Mary Anne!” I said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Hi!” Mary Anne answered. “Well, I wasn’t going to be here. Charlotte talked me into it.”

  “Charlotte?”

  Mary Anne laughed. “Can you believe it? Remember when I said I was going to call her? Well, I told her I wasn’t going to be in the festival and she shouldn’t worry about not being in the Mini-Olympics. I said there was too much emphasis on sports in school, and when were they going to realize that not everyone wants to be a jock. And you know what she said? ‘You sound angry — like you really want to be in it but you can’t.’ ”

  “Were you?” I asked. “Angry, I mean.”

  Mary Anne shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, here was this big rah-rah event for something not everyone was good at. It was, like, forget about the rest of you klutzes. I said to Char, ‘Sure I want to be in it, but I don’t want to embarrass myself!’ And she said, ‘Why don’t you sell hot dogs or something? Then you can be part of it, anyway. Don’t they need people to do that?’ ”

  “Leave it to Charlotte,” I said.

  Mary Anne smiled. “So what can I get you? Root beer? Lemonade?”

  Before I could make a choice, Mr. Taylor’s voice boomed out again:

  “And now for the event you’ve been waiting for: our first installment of The Great SMS Coed Obstacle Challenge — pitting Kristy Thomas against Alan Gray!”

  Mary Anne and I cheered for Kristy. Then I said, “Lemonade! Two!”

  “Okay,” Mary Anne replied. She grabbed a pitcher and quickly poured two cupfuls, spilling a lot of it on the counter. “Here, take them! Don’t miss the race!”

  “Thanks!” I paid her, then ran back to my seat.

  As I settled myself next to Mallory, she squeezed my hand. “Ooh, this is exciting!” she said.

  “I know, I know!” I replied.

  The stands grew quiet. I think by that time the whole school knew about the bet. Besides, how much more dramatic can you get? One against one, boy against girl — even kids who didn’t know Kristy and Alan were on the edges of their seats.

  We watched the set-up crew lay out the obstacles in two identical courses, so Kristy and Alan could run at the same time. Both courses began on the side of the goalpost and curved around on the grass, following the track. First Kristy and Alan would have to run about fifty yards, then do a long jump over a sandpit (they’d have to do that close together since the pit was pretty narrow), then jump over three low hurdles, then high jump over a pre-set bar, then zigzag around a half-dozen traffic cones, then step through another half-dozen car tires, then sprint the last fifty or so yards to the finish line. It was tough.

  I felt a shiver run up my spine. There was Kristy, alone under the goalpost, running in place, shaking out her arms and legs, stretching her neck. Then she looked around the stands and started waving to people and giving the thumbs-up sign. I couldn’t believe how confident and calm she looked. Me? I was a nervous wreck just watching her.

  Alan was on the track, clowning for the crowd. He’d flex his arm (which was pretty puny), then push his bicep up so it looked bigger. Then he’d mimic whatever Kristy was doing, only with exaggerated “feminine” gestures — you know, the way some guys like to imitate girls? No one laughed, but that didn’t stop him. Then Alan would execute a superfast set of push-ups, as if to show everyone how athletic he really was.

  It was disgusting. But that’s Alan.

  Unfortunately, you could tell he was in good shape. His legs seemed strong, his push-ups were perfect, and in track clothes he just looked like a jock.

  “If he wins, I’ll die,” Stacey said over my shoulder.

  “I’ll hit him with my crutch,” added Mal.

  “I just hope this wasn’t a dumb idea,” Stacey said.

  I looked back at her. “Kristy? Have a dumb idea?”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Stacey said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Taylor’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “These two brave eighth-graders are the first to take the challenge — and in that sense, they’re both winners already!”

  Stacey leaned over to me and Mal again. “Yeah, but the real winner gets to have a personal servant all week!”

  “Can you imagine Kristy being a servant?” I asked.

  Stacey rolled her eyes. “Not in a million years!”

  Kristy was strolling to the starting line, still waving and smiling.

  “On your marks!” Mr. Taylor boomed.

  “What is she doing?” Stacey asked.

  “I hope she’s not too confident!” Mal said.

  “Get set!”

  Kristy and Alan crouched by their starting tapes. Alan said something to her, and Kristy just laughed at him.

  “Don’t get distracted, Kristy!” I said under my breath.

  “Go!”

  Bang!

  Kristy stumbled.

  I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Mal and Stacey gasped.

  Alan shot forward. His legs pumped away at full speed.

  Kristy recovered right away. She’d lost only a split second, but that cost her a lot of ground.

  She started running like crazy. She reached the sandpit just as Alan was jumping over it.

  Whump! He landed off-balance on his rear end, then fell to his right — and Kristy came flying over the pit!

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Kristy and Alan were tangled on the ground, frantically pushing each other away.

  They scrambled to their feet and took off again. The hurdles were next. Kristy reached hers first. She leaped — and kicked it flat on the ground
. Alan cleared his with room to spare.

  “Ohhhhhh,” I moaned.

  Kristy and Alan both sailed over the second hurdle, then the third … almost. Alan’s sneaker caught the hurdle after he was over it, and that one tumbled to the ground.

  And then Alan looked over his shoulder to see what had happened. That slowed him down, and Kristy pulled ahead.

  “Yaaaayyy!” we yelled.

  Next was the high jump. Kristy plunged forward, headfirst. Her shoulders went over, her waist, her knees … but her sneakers clipped the bar.

  She landed in a heap. The bar wobbled … and wobbled … and stopped wobbling. It had stayed!

  But Kristy spent a second or two watching the bar, and Alan just dove over his, no problem.

  Alan pulled ahead. Next came the traffic cones. Kristy and Alan ran around them, taking small, quick steps.

  Kristy must have been a little flustered, because she kicked over the first two while Alan ran around his perfectly.

  Then he stepped into the open center of the first car tire. Lifting his legs high, he stepped into the second, the third …

  And his foot got stuck in the fourth. He lost his balance but broke his fall with his hands. Kristy passed him, taking slow, high steps.

  Alan’s face turned bright red.

  After the tires, it was a sprint to the finish line. Alan picked himself up and ran through the last two tires.

  Kristy reached the open field first — but not by much. She dug in with her legs, put her head down, and ran.

  Alan was about two steps behind her, but he closed that distance right away. He looked furious.

  “Yeeaaaaaaaahhhhh!” We were on our feet, screaming our lungs out. All around us, people were standing and screaming with us.

  Kristy and Alan were neck and neck for a few yards. But Alan moved ahead, and you could tell he was picking up speed.

  My stomach sank. He was going to win. Mal and Stacey were frozen with shock.

  But Kristy must have been saving some energy. All at once, her legs actually seemed to grow longer. She pulled up even with Alan.

  And he did a double take! He was so sure he’d win, he couldn’t believe Kristy had caught up with him. You could see the shock in his face.