Roll

  She gives a little sigh as she finishes surveying the list. “We’re never going to make any real progress with only fifteen birds. Most of the other competitors probably have at least three practice kits.”

  Sutton’s right. If we had more pigeons to work with, we could rotate them in and out of different kits, narrowing down the best birds to fly together and weeding out the ones who didn’t roll.

  “Next year,” I say firmly, already starting to mentally plan ahead. We might need a bigger coop, but maybe I can talk to Dad, and he can . . . and then, all of a sudden, it hits me. Sutton’s dad will be back next year. What if she doesn’t need my help anymore? What if she doesn’t want my help anymore? “I mean . . . or I didn’t mean . . .” I fumble. “I’m just saying, you can—”

  “Definitely next year.” Sutton grins, cutting me off. “We’ll be unstoppable.”

  I grin back at her, feeling ridiculously happy.

  “You know what?” I ask, standing up. “I think I’ll have some shepherd’s pie, after all.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I’M STILL IN a good mood when I wake up the next morning; in fact, I’m in such a good mood that my sneakers are laced before Dad even knocks on my door.

  No more excuses. There’s only a few weeks before school starts; it’s time to get serious.

  I told Dad I was going out for cross-country this fall. I told Aiden I was going out for cross-country this fall. I told everyone I was going out for cross-country this fall.

  I am going out for cross-country this fall.

  Even if it kills me.

  I’m just turning onto the driveway when I hear someone calling my name. “Ren!” Dad shouts, pushing open the screen door. “Wait up!”

  My heart sinks a little as I see he’s dressed in full-on running gear, including the weird, bright red short shorts he’s had forever. They’re literally from before I was born.

  “I almost missed you,” he says, jogging toward me. “You must have been chomping at the bit this morning, huh?”

  “Chomping at the bit?” I repeat.

  “Like a horse?” He motions toward his mouth. “When they have a bridle on? The bit’s the part that goes in their mouth.”

  “How old are you, exactly?” I ask. “You didn’t take a buggy to school, did you?”

  Dad laughs. He sets up off the driveway at a slightly faster pace than I’d like.

  “Your great-grandfather used to hitch up his team to a horse-drawn sled sometimes. I remember my dad telling me stories when I was little.”

  My breathing is already ragged, but Dad’s voice sounds perfectly normal.

  “So, anyway, what’s new with you?” he asks. “Mom says you’ve been hanging out with Sutton quite a bit lately.”

  I recognize his tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to sound casual. I call it his “Cool Dad” voice.

  It’s slightly better than Mom’s “Cool Mom” voice, but just barely.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s not like I have a lot of other kids to hang out with, out here,” I say, trying not to pant.

  Dad shoots me a look, which I pretend not to see.

  “It can’t be easy, being the new kid in town,” he continues. “Especially when your dad is in the hospital. I’m proud of you for making friends with her, kiddo.”

  Part of me wants to tell him that it’s not easy being the new kid out of town, either. But I don’t trust myself to speak.

  It’s only partially because I’m starting to feel like I’m going to puke.

  “Keep your arms down,” Dad advises me, demonstrating. “When you get tired, your hands start to drift up. It costs energy. And make sure you’re pushing off with your toes.”

  Gritting my teeth, I keep pace with him. We make it all the way to the marker Dad pointed out to me at the beginning of the summer before we turn around.

  Four miles.

  It’s my longest run so far.

  But as I collapse on the lawn, my legs aching, I don’t feel proud, or happy, or even relieved.

  I just feel tired.

  “Nice work,” Dad says, grinning down at me. “I’m going to pop in the shower. Don’t forget to stretch, okay?”

  The screen door slams as Dad makes his way inside. As I stare up at the sky, I can see the kit pitching through the air.

  Sutton must be wondering where I am.

  I wonder if she let Squirrel and Crow fly without me.

  I’m not too worried about Crow, but Squirrel is a different story. I hate to say it, but he’s not exactly the sharpest pigeon in the drawer. Who knows if he’ll understand when it’s time to come down? Plus, he’s used to me whistling when it’s time for the kit to come in. Keeping things constant is the whole point of Pavlovian conditioning.

  It’s still early; there should be plenty of time for me to get there before they come down. But when I stand up, a sudden cramp in my calf doubles me over in pain. I bend to massage the muscle, wincing.

  It’s probably dehydration. I should stop by the house quick and get a drink of water. Mom and Dad are all thrilled about having our own well, now that we’ve moved to the country, but personally, I think it tastes horrible.

  I’m poking around in the back of the fridge, looking for an abandoned bottle of water, when the sound of Dad’s voice almost makes me bang my head against the shelf. “Don’t forget to mark your miles. You did good this morning.”

  I pull back. “Right.” Shutting the fridge door, I reach for a pen. I look at the straight line that stretches across the graph for the past week. The line I’ve drawn while I’ve been hanging out with Sutton, instead of running.

  I don’t deserve that line.

  That line is a lie.

  I’ll make it up, I vow, marking off today’s pale blue box. Like the quote says, today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  For a second, the thought of running every day for the rest of my life makes me want to vomit, but I push the feeling out of my head. Lance Armstrong probably felt the same way about riding a bike, and look how that turned out. He became one of the most successful athletes of all time.

  Well, before everyone found out he was cheating and he had all of his medals taken away from him, anyway.

  “Why haven’t you left yet?” I ask Dad, capping the pen. “What about the strip mall?”

  Dad grins. “I wanted to surprise you. I took the morning off. I thought we could run into Rochester. Hit up the comic store? Maybe grab some breakfast?”

  My stomach rumbles at the mention of breakfast.

  “Three Men doesn’t open until nine,” I say.

  “So we’ll get breakfast first.” Dad leans against the counter. “What’s that place you like? Stella’s?”

  Stella’s is this retro diner that’s packed with weird, old-fashioned toy displays, and working robots, and papier-mâché superheroes that zoom across the ceiling attached to wires.

  I used to love it.

  When I was seven.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting Sutton,” I say, opening the fridge again. “Remember? I’m helping her get ready for the National Championship Fly?”

  A little wrinkle appears between his eyes. “The National Championship Fly?”

  “Pigeons,” I remind him. “I told you she raises pigeons, right? We talked about it at dinner?”

  “Pigeons!” Dad slaps his knee. “Yes! You’ve been helping her in the afternoons. I remember now. Sorry, things have been hectic at work. My mind is going. Bellingham Rollers, right?”

  I don’t bother correcting him. “Right.”

  “Well, why don’t you call Sutton?” Dad asks. “Bring her along. The more the merrier.”

  “Sorry.” I feel a little bad, despite myself. This is typical Dad; I barely see him for weeks, and then he’ll make some sort of grand gesture like this, and expect me to be thrilled.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to go to Rochester,” I say pointedly. “You didn’t tell me.” In the very back, behind some expired yogurt, I
find a single bottle of Evian. Hopefully it hasn’t been here since Grandma’s time.

  Dad breathes in, his nose whistling a little. “You’re right. Next time I’ll let you know.” The smile comes back, even bigger this time. “I had fun running with you this morning. Guess I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  I nod. “See you tonight.”

  I head for the door, trying not to limp. As it swings shut behind me, I catch a final glimpse of Dad.

  He isn’t smiling.

  CHAPTER 18

  BY THE TIME I reach the tree line, the pain in my calf has almost subsided.

  I thwock the empty water bottle against my thigh as I walk, marking a beat no one else can hear. It’s soothing.

  Step.

  Thwock.

  Step.

  Thwock.

  Sutton is standing outside the coop, staring up at the circling kit. Her shoulders are tense, like she’s worried about something.

  “What’s going on?” I call, hurrying over to stand next to her. “Is something wrong?”

  “I let Crow and Squirrel out with the rest of the kit,” she says, still looking up. “I’m worried they’re not going to come back in.”

  I tilt my head back, scanning for them. Sure enough, two birds are off on their own, circling higher than the others.

  “You let them out without me?”

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t here,” Sutton says offhandedly.

  “Sorry.” I keep my eyes trained on Crow and Squirrel. “I went running with my dad. And then he wanted to take me out to breakfast in Rochester.” I roll my eyes.

  “Wow. Sounds awful,” Sutton says flatly.

  I feel a stab of guilt. Sutton would probably love to have breakfast with her dad somewhere other than a hospital room.

  I shift my feet, wincing a little at the residual pain in my calf.

  Beneath her baseball cap, Sutton watches me. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asks.

  “It’s just a cramp,” I say self-consciously. “I’m dehydrated. Or it could be muscle fatigue. I just need to get back on my running schedule.”

  “If you say so.” Sutton shrugs.

  If you say so? “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I guess I don’t really get why you’re going out for cross-country in the first place. Especially since you don’t even like running.”

  “I never said that,” I quickly point out. Aloud, anyway.

  “Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry at all. “I mean, I get that your dad used to be some big runner, or whatever, but it just kind of seems like you’re trying to be someone you’re not. No offense.”

  No offense?

  How am I not supposed to take offense at that?

  “I’m a Hall,” I say as confidently as I can. “Trust me, this is who I am.” I think of the box of trophies down in the basement. “There’s probably Gatorade pumping through my veins instead of blood.”

  Sutton shrugs again. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again. “Okay,” I say.

  We both stare up at the birds for a second. “Oh, here, before I forget,” Sutton says, obviously trying to change the subject. She grabs something from just inside the coop. The issue of Bananaman that I lent her.

  I’m relieved to see it’s still in pristine condition.

  “I really like it,” she says, handing it back to me. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

  “No problem. You can borrow some more, if you want.” Now that I know she’s going to take care of them, anyway.

  Sutton smiles. A real one this time.

  “You named him Crow. After Bananaman’s sidekick.”

  “Oh. Right.” I look down at the cover, embarrassed. “I just thought, you know, since they’re both black. Well, blackish,” I add, since our Crow is technically blue. Sutton tried to explain the different color modifiers to me the other day, when we were waiting for the kit to come down, but she didn’t really know much beyond the basics.

  Obviously, I did some research of my own. It turns out that male pigeons, or cocks, carry two colors, while female pigeons, or hens, only carry one. The cocks get one color from their father and one from their mother, while the hens only get one total.

  So if both the father and the mother are the same color, all of the babies will be the same color, too. But if the father is blue and the mother is red, all of the boy babies will be red with flecks of blue, because red is the dominant color, but all of the girl babies will be blue, because they’ll get their coloring from their father.

  It’s kind of fascinating, actually. Especially when you add in all the different genes that can modify the colors, like spread, dilute, recessive, and patterns.

  Trying to figure it all out is like trying to solve one of the really complicated word problems from the standardized tests they’re always making us take at school.

  I secretly love those tests.

  “Look, they’re starting to come in,” Sutton says, pointing up toward the kit. Grabbing the can of pigeon feed from the ground next to the coop, she scatters a little across the landing platform.

  As she heads into the coop to put the can away, I start to coax the pigeons in with a low whistle. I catch sight of Crow, his wings black against the early-morning sky.

  He and Squirrel are still flying a little higher than the others.

  I can’t believe I didn’t get a chance to see how they rolled this morning. Or even if they rolled.

  Their very first flight, and I missed it. What if they’d gotten confused and just flown away? What if something had happened to them?

  Bananaman would never have left Crow to fend for himself.

  I keep whistling the same low, steady note as the birds begin to maneuver onto the platform. One by one, they push their way through the door, back into the safety of the coop.

  Good boy, I think, watching Squirrel drop awkwardly to the jutting piece of plywood. Come on, Crow. Come on. He hovers anxiously above the platform as Squirrel pokes his head inside. He’s the only one left. It’s his turn.

  If I wasn’t whistling, I’d be holding my breath.

  It’s touch and go for a minute, but finally, after what feels like forever, Crow drops to the platform. From where she’s been watching at the door of the coop, Sutton steps cautiously over to the platform, shooing him inside.

  Yes!

  “All right.” Sutton grins. “Way to go, Pavlov!”

  I feel a rush of victory. The training actually worked! I have to actively restrain myself from pumping my fist in the air.

  But as Sutton pulls the door into place, carefully fastening the latch, a tiny, creeping feeling of doubt makes its way up my spine.

  I ran four miles this morning, without stopping once. Me. Lauren Hall. Four miles. Without stopping once.

  And when I was done, I didn’t feel like this: I didn’t feel giddy, and excited, and alive.

  I felt nothing.

  I swallow, my throat feeling dry.

  For the first time, I start to wonder if maybe Sutton’s right.

  Maybe I do hate running. Maybe I am trying to be someone I’m not.

  Maybe I’m not a Hall, after all.

  CHAPTER 19

  A YEAR OR so before she died, Grandma’s glaucoma got really bad, and she developed this thing called “tunnel vision.” Basically, she lost almost all of her peripheral vision, and she could only see this little circle of things that were right in front of her. Like everything she was looking at was on the other side of this long, dark tunnel (hence the name, I guess).

  Anyway, as the next couple of weeks slide by, I start to develop my own case of tunnel vision.

  The National Championship Fly is the only thing I can focus on. It’s the only thing I want to focus on.

  Everything else, Dad, running, Kurt’s looming back-to-school party, I shove it all over into my peripheral vision. And it all just kind of . . . fades to black.

  It’s
probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but what are you going to do?

  “What do you want to do?” Sutton asks. “I say tomorrow is the last day we fly them before Saturday. What do you think?”

  I peer inside the coop, where the kit is busy chowing down on all the dried peas they can stuff their faces with. After today, they’ll go on half rations. The National Championship Fly is only five days away, and we don’t want them fat and sluggish.

  We’ve only been flying them every other day, so they’ll have plenty of energy for the big day. Marathon runners do the same thing, apparently; it’s called “tapering off.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I agree. “What does your dad think?”

  Sutton shakes her head. “I don’t know. He’s been so busy with rehab, I’ve barely talked to him.” She nervously chips some of the polish off her thumbnail.

  Shutting the door to the coop, I drop the latch in place. “We’re definitely flying Squirrel and Crow, right? They’ve been doing awesome lately.” A little too awesome, actually; the other day, Squirrel rolled so low he almost hit the ground. It was a bit of a tense moment, if I’m being honest. It reminded me of the first time I saw Sutton’s pigeons, before I knew they were supposed to roll.

  Sutton makes a final notation in the log entry she’s filling out. Every time we fly the kit, we mark the date and the time, record the weather (if it’s sunny, cloudy, foggy, etc., plus the wind speed and direction), and take notes on how the birds flew (how long they rolled, if they flew too low, or anything like that).

  We’ve been taking notes on the individual pigeons, too, trying to narrow down the kit from fifteen birds to eleven before the competition. It’s a little tricky trying to keep track of which bird is which from down on the ground, which is where the bingo daubers come in. Similar-looking birds with white tail feathers and wings have been marked with different colored daubers, so that when they’re flying, we know which one is which. When it comes to the darker birds, we’ve been using binoculars; apparently you can clip some of the wing feathers to help keep track of them from the ground, but both Sutton and I are too nervous to try.