by Andrew Daddo
Emily Digman was definitely not from round here.
He wasn’t sure which posts to like. Liking them all would put him deep into stalker territory, and liking none would make him an arsehole. There was a nice one of her and Lucky; Emily was smiling at the camera and Lucky was trying to lick her face. It was funny, and sweet. Hendrix’s thumb hovered over the heart. Was it the best picture to like, and more importantly, would she think it was weird that it was only about thirty minutes since they’d said see ya at the gate to the gardens.
‘Fuck it.’ Hendrix liked the picture. There were others, too, but he thought it was better to start slowly. Within a minute there was a request from DigEm02 to follow him. He hit the green tick and, just like that, they were friends and followers and a whole lot more than the day before.
Emily worked her way through Hendrix’s feed, alternately laughing and shaking her head. She liked only one picture officially, although there were a few she thought were cool. It was a picture of his runners. She thought about doing a mash-up of that photo and one of Lucky’s lead to send him as a reminder for the following week, but banked the idea for later. It was a good one. But Emily wanted to get it just right for her newest follower – she had a feeling he was going to be her favourite.
Hendrix was so absorbed in Emily’s feed he missed his tram stop. As he walked through the front gate he saw his father, crossed-armed and toe-tapping, at the front door.
‘Late again, eh? Mask,’ he grumped. ‘Get inside, get on the running machine and get walking. You’ve got ninety minutes at exactly ten k’s an hour, got it?’
Hendrix didn’t even look at him. He dumped his bag in his room, took out his running gear and headed for the gym. He grabbed a fresh top and hoped his father wouldn’t get the ripped one out of his bag. He kicked himself for not throwing it away at school.
When his father came into the gym, Hendrix pretended to concentrate on his form and didn’t look up from the screen in front of him. His dad had the top in one hand, his other fist through the hole. ‘How’d you rip the top?’
Hendrix mumbled into the mask, knowing he’d be almost impossible to understand. He also knew there was no taking the mask off until they’d finished the session. He walked, his father glared, paying particular attention to Hendrix’s legs, the muscles in his thighs and hamstrings. ‘Don’t pronate,’ his father yelled after watching his feet for the longest time. ‘Concentrate. Jesus!’
Hendrix thanked God he hadn’t recorded the session at the Tan. If his father found out he’d been running, he’d be dead. On the table behind his dad, Hendrix could see his phone lighting up occasionally with incoming messages. It could have been anyone.
She messaged him to say his Instagram account was pretty lame, adding a laughing emoji so he knew she was joking. Then, right before sending, she added ‘lol’ so he’d be absolutely sure.
It looked like he ran a lot. Hendrix had almost no followers, but then, he barely posted any pictures. There were a few of other guys, but mainly at school, not at parties. And there were literally no girls in his feed. She looked at who he was following and found the girls there, but not many.
She figured he was either private or shy, or had better things to do. The boys in Benalla seemed to spend a lot less time with their faces in their phones than the kids she’d met in Melbourne. Hendrix might be a bit more like them, just without getting shitfaced all the time; anyone who can run like that probably has to keep it together. And there’s no way he’d be on the ciggies.
Emily put a reminder in her diary for Friday, District Championships. Just after lunch.
She could just show up and surprise him. Surprises were good.
Who doesn’t like a surprise?
It was hot. Instead of the athletes going internal and getting psyched in their hoodies and headphones, almost everyone had stripped down to their racing kits; shade was the new cool.
This was not the weather Paul had anticipated. There’d been nothing about it in the long-range forecast, just the prediction of ‘warmer weather’. There was definitely no mention of the mercury rising into the low thirties. Realistically, it shouldn’t make a difference; none of the other runners would have expected the heatwave, so the playing field was pretty even. Still, Paul was annoyed at himself for not having Hendrix ahead of the curve.
The lead-up had been pretty intense. Hendrix had appeared sluggish on the Tuesday walk with no good excuse. To Paul, it was pretty obvious he’d been running. Hendrix’s top stank almost as much as his bullshit story about how it got ripped by a dog. By Wednesday it barely mattered – Hendrix was physically closer to where he was expected to be. He went to school late on Thursday after a couple of hours in the tent, and Paul was happy to see he was back and focused. No school for Hendrix on Friday. He stayed home and spent the morning conserving his strength, stretching and warming up. They went through the race a few times and decided Ethan wasn’t crucial to the long-term goal. Districts was just the gateway, the stepping stone to everything.
No passengers. Just win.
Emily skipped school after turning up for homeroom. Her mum had got going early, a full day yoga experience in Macedon with a bit of colour therapy thrown in at lunchtime. She was right into it. Astrid had got her started and now it was Mum dragging Astrid along to things, not the other way around.
Mum had sat on Emily’s bed before dawn and gently rubbed her back. ‘We’re going, Em. Back tonight, but late, okay? Guru Swanky calls.’
She’d backed right off Emily in the past little while. She was obviously still worried, but given there’d been no episodes, not even the sniff of a proper headache, the whole growth thing had taken on a bit of a situation normal. Even Dr Harrington was more blasé, saying that Emily still had to be careful, but she could try being a bit more ‘teenagery’.
‘That doesn’t mean going out and getting trashed, does it?’ her mum had clucked.
‘Absolutely not,’ he’d said, tut-tutting. But he did say meningioma was a slow-growing tumour. ‘It could be a little friend you carry around forever. That’s why we watch and wait until we find the way to get rid of it.’
So, despite the fortnightly visits to the Royal Children’s, Emily had pretty much got on with things. Today, that meant wagging school to watch Hendrix run at Olympic Park.
Knowing the house was empty, Emily went home to get changed. She was nervous, the thought of Hendrix gnawing away at her guts. She’d been through his entire Instagram account again, liking a bunch more photos. Who cares? she thought. It might be better if he knows I like him, and he is pretty funny.
If she’d thought getting dressed to meet him to go dog walking was a trek, this was mental. It was warm, but not hot. It might rain, but Siri rated it a 40 per cent chance. Lucky wouldn’t be allowed into Olympic Park, so there was no hiding behind a dog-walking outfit. Jeans. T-shirt. Runners? Thongs? Crocs? Not Crocs, decided Emily, never Crocs. Not even as a joke.
She caught the tram and hoped to get there early.
Hendrix was jazzed. Warm. Loose. Ready. He wasn’t sore as such, but felt a little heavy in the legs. On Thursday morning he’d hit the hyperbaric tent early and hoped the extra time would drain any residual lethargy. If it’d helped, it’d been too subtle to notice. But it didn’t matter, he was so well prepared in every other way. He had the hours in his legs, he wasn’t injured, he wasn’t nervous, he was just keen to get going and headed for the next level.
Shade was key – right up there with hydration and maintaining his energy levels. His dad had him camped in a corner of the bleachers, under shelter but a short walk to the sunshine. It was a balancing act; his body being ready for the heat of battle and the heat of the sun.
They sat together, not talking much, just watching.
‘That kid, from Grammar,’ said his dad, ‘he’s a lovely sprinter. If you put on a few kilos and got faster, you could have him. Middle distance first, though. That’s the go for us.’
Hendrix pulled on a d
rink and was told to take it easy. It would be a long hour-and-a-half ’til race time. Ethan was loitering but not made to feel too welcome, so he sat with some other kids from the school and pretended to warm up. They’d talked strategy already, and Ethan knew they would again before the race.
Hendrix went back into the sunshine to stretch his legs: no hat, just his racing kit. He scanned the crowd. Lots of kids, lots of parents. The field of dreams for some, a lark for others. Most were looking down at their screens. He wondered what people used to do while they waited, before mobile phones.
A tight little wave from the far end of the stands caught his eye. It was hard to see with the sun in his eyes. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been sitting by herself. He shaded his eyes for a better look. She was in a cap and looked kind of familiar.
Emily put her head to one side and waved again, suspecting she’d made a terrible mistake coming here unannounced. He’d said not to come, hadn’t he? He’d actually meant it. And yet, her hand went up like a reflex and sought his attention once again.
Hendrix checked behind, then to the sides. ‘Me?’ he indicated.
‘Yes, you,’ mouthed Emily, waving at him. He waved back, and Emily smiled.
Hendrix nearly fell over. It was Emily. She’d come. She hadn’t even said anything. He headed for the stands to say hi as she stood up and leant against the fence.
Hotter than I remembered, was the shared thought.
‘You made it. Hi,’ Hendrix said.
‘Hi yourself. Did I miss the race? Wanted to see if my dog-walker was a winner or not.’
She’d practised what she was going to say but still nearly mangled the delivery. She literally felt wobbly, using the fence to hold on to.
‘Fingers crossed,’ he said, then looked at his watch. ‘The 800’s in about thirty minutes.’
A sharp whistle got Hendrix’s attention. He looked up to see his father tapping his watch, agitated.
‘Better go, eh?’ said Emily, following Hendrix’s gaze. ‘Your coach looks like he’s about to blow a gasket.’
‘He’ll be right,’ said Hendrix, already backing away from the fence. ‘I wasn’t pretending not to know you before. Couldn’t see into the sun, and didn’t recognise you without Lucky. Sorry. And I’ve never seen you in a cap. It looks good.’
‘Why, thank you,’ she said, the compliment bringing colour to her cheeks.
Another whistle. His dad was waving a drink bottle at him, his lips pulled tight in a rueful kind of snarl that was probably meant to look friendly. Emily missed it.
‘Wow. I think he actually is going to blow,’ Hendrix said. ‘See you after? Will you be here?’
‘I’ll be here,’ she said. ‘Smash ’em!’
Emily watched as he jogged back to his coach. Hendrix moved so easily, floating like mercury across a table. It was the opposite of how Emily was feeling. For sure she was excited, but there was a numbness to it. She sat down at the fence, lowering her head and rubbing the back of her neck. It’d been a long time since she’d had a headache, it would be so unfair to get one now. It could be the pollen, an early ambush on her sinuses. She’d never been good with the change of seasons, always puffy-eyed and sneezy until things settled. The throb seemed to climb up through the base of her skull, probing into her head in waves.
She’d been feeling weird all morning but she’d put it down to being nervous about what might happen with Hendrix after the race.
She’d imagined her feelings like a rocket, pre-blast-off: the fuse ignited, sparks falling and the flame beginning. Seeing him now on the track, the sun casting shadows on his lean muscles, the way he looked completely composed and ready, had her heart thumping.
Embers were flying, flames charged from funnels and Emily knew something fantastic was happening. It had to be Hendrix, firing her up. It was her heart letting her head know he was the one. Opportunity and vulnerability and anticipation were bubbling away inside her.
Closing her eyes, Emily concentrated on stillness and silence and peace. The slight distortion in the speakers as the announcer peppered the park with race calls made her brain fuzzy. Something wasn’t right. It was as if someone was slowly opening her skull with a can opener, digging their fingernails into the gap and beginning to pry open the lid. It sounded like they’d called the Under 17 800 metres, and she was sure that was Hendrix’s race, but she couldn’t be certain that’s what she’d heard.
The rocket was ready to go.
Ignition was perfect. The pre-burn was over, the countdown under way. In moments, all hell would break loose in her head. She looked up, sheltering her eyes with her hands and squinted toward the track. She thought she saw him behind the start, flicking his feet the way runners do, keeping loose, jumping occasionally. Emily managed to wave again, not really knowing if he was watching. It was like looking through a heat haze. Her focus was off, the sound all over the place. She hung on long enough to see him go into his lane. The electronic blip started more than just the race. Emily put her head in her hands and that was pretty much it.
From then on, she was unhinged.
Hendrix sat mid pack, biding his time, Ethan just in front, just as they’d discussed. Sit, wait, watch and make sure they were in touch with the leaders. With 300 to go, the two of them were within striking distance of the lead pack. If someone went out ridiculously fast, Hendrix would make the call whether to hunt them down or wait ’til they fell back. He had more than a fair idea of where each runner was meant to be at which stage of the race. At the 600, Ethan and Hendrix worked together and moved to the heels of the four in front. The top three runners went through to States, a win being worth bragging rights but not much more.
Hendrix had told Ethan who the main competition were and even how they’d run the race, despite his dad telling him not to. The two grammar kids were good, the Scotch kid was supposed to be some kind of freak and there was an indigenous boy Ethan had played footy against that was well rated. He was in the purple and yellow for Wesley College. There were a couple of big units that could have been Rawandan or Kenyan given the darkness of their skin, but Hendrix’s dad had discounted them weeks ago from their stats.
Ethan had been curious to know how Hendrix knew so much about the field, but he blew him off saying his dad told him and he was a weird stats buff for all sports, not just running.
‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ Hendrix had said. ‘We just race what we have in front of us, right? Top three, we’re through, so let’s just go top three.’
On the final turn, fatigue and the heat of battle pushed Ethan back to his natural running style. They were still three back, one grammar boy had dropped away but the Wesley kid hung on. The freak from Scotch was controlling the pace. Hendrix glanced at his watch and noted the pace was slow. Either everyone was saving themselves and the kick was going to be huge, or no one was up to standard.
As the turn straightened, Hendrix pulled alongside Ethan and hissed one word. ‘Go.’ The move was unremarkable, no one would talk about it later, but it was a sign to his father that the race had finally begun. Paul had watched intently from the bleachers, stopwatch in one hand, homemade form guide in the other. His boy was on track and in control.
Hendrix felt good. He was still breathing easily and enjoyed the rush of oxygen that came in full, clean loads. He was surprised when his mind wandered to Emily and what she might be thinking of the race. If she’d been worried ’til now with those other boys up the front, she’d have relaxed when he passed Ethan. And she’d get pretty excited by what was coming. He’s off now. He’s going to smash them, she’d think.
‘Come on,’ breathed Hendrix again. ‘Come with me.’
He went past Ethan, taking the grammar boy in a matter of strides. Ethan followed, breathing hard. He’d definitely run out of style and was working on grunt alone.
‘Move!’ Hendrix said quickly.
It all came to that moment. All the hills, all the running machines, the hours in the
mask and the tent and eating right and missing out was for that stretch of running track. And fuck it felt good. Maybe the best ever.
The Wesley boy was a step or two ahead, the freak the same distance again. Halfway down the straight Hendrix had second and could see the freak was cooked. He ran like Ethan, his head bobbled about like one of those wobbly dogs in the back window of a car. His blonde mane was blowing about, and whilst he didn’t run badly, his problem was that he couldn’t run any better. Hendrix pulled onto his outside shoulder and let his form slip for effect. He would fall over the line. It would look difficult, but he’d make it and everyone would wonder how the hell he’d managed that.
The freak accelerated, just a bit, but the effort was wasted. He flapped his arms and snapped his head this way and that. Hendrix dared a glance behind, thankful to see no comers. He had it. The race was over, despite a final burst from the inside lane. Hendrix matched him and thrust on the line to win by little more than a heaving chest and a ducked head.
It was enough. It was perfect, actually. As Hendrix crossed, he managed to get his hand to his watch to stop the timer. His father hit the hammer on his stopwatch at much the same time. It didn’t matter that the race was being officially recorded; they were after their own results their own way.
The time was good. Not great, but good. Good enough, they’d say later.
They’d done it. Hendrix made a big fuss of heaving and gasping for breath, managing to turn in time to see Ethan fall over the line with the indigenous boy.
The commentator carried on as if it was an Olympic final, saying it could have gone either way and the Scotch boy had put up a top effort. ‘He almost pinched it!’ he said a few times.