6
A NEW NAME FOR HURDLE: Blur (or Blurdle or Aaron)
Mantra. That just means something you tell yourself all the time. Like, a pep talk you say to get yourself going. At least that’s what it is for me. My mother taught me about mantras when I was a little boy. Every night before bed I had to say, I am . . . and then add good stuff to it. Like, I am . . . happy. I am . . . smart. Stuff like that. But as I got older, I flipped it. Added new things that I’ve stuck with and say every day before I go to practice or to a meet or to school. Just a way to build me up. Get me hype. Like preparing for battle. And after bumping into Smellvin Kelvin, I needed my mantra. Bad.
I am
The man.
The guy.
The kid.
The one.
The only.
The Lu.
Lucky Lu.
Lookie Lu.
Lu the Lightning Bolt.
I repeated it a few times, staring in the mirror, trying to calm myself down. Trying to quiet down the slamming sound in my brain. Trying to unscrew the doorknob stuck in my throat. I am the man. The guy. The kid.
Over and over again.
The one. The only.
Repeating it, almost like whispering it to myself, hoping that the part of myself I can’t see believes it. Like there’s another me in there that I’m talking to.
It’s part of a whole routine I got. I say my mantra and then I put my sunscreen on, rubbing it into my legs and my arms and my shoulders and neck. Rubbing it into my face. And it’s thick, so I always gotta rub pretty hard so that it all goes all the way into my skin.
Today I rubbed my face, first small circles, then bigger circles, the white lotion globby like some kind of glue.
I’m the man. The guy. The kid.
Rubbing my face harder, thinking about Kelvin. His block head. The one. His stank breath. The only. His wack jokes. Rubbing the lotion in even harder, now using my whole hand, mashing my cheeks, squishing, wrinkling my forehead, staring at myself in the mirror. Ugly. The white on top of the white. The brown nowhere to be found. The Lu. Harder. Lucky Lu. Harder! Lucky, lucky,
lucky,
lucky,
LUCKY,
LUCKY . . .
I rubbed and rubbed until all the lotion was gone and my skin started to burn like it was gonna roll off, and my eyes started to go wet. Lucky . . . me.
I was just about to take my contacts out and clean them—part of the ritual—but in this moment decided to just leave them in and use eyedrops. Quick. A drop or two in each, then clean up the dripping tears, which weren’t tears but were . . . eyedrops. Eyedrops. Because that’s what happens when you put eyedrops in. Only people who got dry eyes know that. Or people with contacts. I got . . . contacts. Been wearing them since forever, because the other thing about being albino is that it also messes with the goodness in your eyes. It took my brown and gave me this thing called hyperopia, which ain’t got nothing to do with being hyper, even though that’s what it sounds like. It basically just means that whatever is right in front of me is blurry. Like . . . real blurry. And I can only see things when they are far away. I know—makes no sense. Most people call this farsighted, but when it’s as bad as mine, it gets a fancy name.
That’s why I was saying I used to be “Lu with the thick glasses” when I was little. My mom thought it was cute. A little boy with magnifying glasses strapped to his face. She still do, and sometimes I catch her looking through old photos of me wearing big goggle-looking specs, like I was about to go scuba diving or something. But when you get older and you a lightning bolt, and you got on glasses thicker than the back of Coach’s neck, you figure out how to not wear them, and instead how to stick smaller versions of them lenses right on your eyeballs. That sounds like something Sunny would say. Point is, wearing contact lenses is just part of my life. A part I’ve been able to hide pretty well. Until I got to practice today.
I was still feeling a little funny after seeing Kelvin—really I was feeling so so so mad because I thought the dude was gone!—and had a bunch of stuff I wanted to ask Ghost, like, how he knew him. Were they friends? Did he know how much that dude sucked and that he’s the only reason I started running in the first place? But when I got to the park, Ghost wasn’t really in the mood to talk. He was sitting on the bench—the bench we always sat on before practice—Patty and Sunny standing over him.
“It just came today?” Patty asked as I walked up. She glanced at me, did a shiver thing with her head, a signal that something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Ghost got a letter today,” Sunny said.
“A letter?”
“From his dad,” he explained.
Ghost stood up, folded the paper in his hand. He glanced at me, his eyes glassy with the feelings he was holding back. “Today’s the day. Was the day. Four years ago . . . he . . .” Ghost paused, took a breath. “Today—”
It hit me.
“Is . . . the anniversary.” I cut him off, and then felt bad for cutting him off, but he nodded like he was relieved. “It was in the note,” I added. I was just trying to figure it all out. “But . . . the cowboy hat . . . what does that old man have to do . . .” I was trying to say it but couldn’t figure out how to ask the question without sounding (more) like a jerk.
Patty looked at me like I was sounding like a jerk.
Sunny looked at me the same way, which meant I must’ve been really sounding like a jerk.
“Sorry. I ain’t mean to . . . I just—”
“It’s cool,” Ghost said. “That old man saved our lives. He hid my mom and me in his storage room.” He slapped the folded paper up against his head, as if he was trying to convince the words to go into his brain. “And now, here my father go sending me this. First time I’ve heard from this dude since it all went down.”
“What it say?” I asked, dropping my duffel.
“It says mind your business, dummy!” Patty barked. Ghost chuckled a little.
“Maybe that’s what I’ll write back to him,” he joked.
“I can help with that, if you want,” Sunny offered, all nice.
“Thanks. I mean, maybe.” He slapped the paper rectangle in his other hand and turned back to me. “It just says that he’s sorry and . . . whatever.” Ghost tried to get himself together. “Whatever, whatever, whatever. I’m fine. Let’s just get on the track before Coach comes. I’m good.” We all gave Ghost a look. A look like my mother gives me. Looking for cracks. “Seriously. I’m good. Come on, before he starts trippin’.”
“Yeah, and don’t nobody need to hear all that today,” I said, remembering my role as co-captain, which Coach said was to lead by example. And even though we made it to the track before being told to be there, that ain’t stop Coach from yapping anyway. He was Coach. And that’s what Coach does.
“Okay. Today is Tuesday,” Coach announced. “Do I need to tell you all what we’re doing?”
“No.”
“Do I need to tell you all why we’re doing it?”
“No.”
“Do I need to explain what the best do?”
“No.”
“What do the best do?”
“The best never rest.”
“What do the best do?” He put his hand to his ear.
“The best never rest!”
Coach nodded, shot his eyes at Whit, who nodded back.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Let’s get to work.”
It was time for our stretches, and because I was already bubbling up inside from earlier, I kept my mouth shut when Aaron started counting off and doing his usual captain crap. Crap-tain Aaron. His stupid voice counting, calling out left and right, this stretch and that stretch in that fake think-he-somebody voice. But I kept it cool. Leading by example. (I know I wasn’t the only person annoyed by this dude.) Until it was time to run our warm-up laps, and he tried me. Aaron bumped me, then sniffed all in the air, talking about something smells like burnt
plastic.
He was talking about me. All the sunscreen.
“That’s you, Lu?” he said. But he already knew it was me and was trying to be funny. He’d been smelling it all season, and everyone knew I had to wear it or the sun would literally cook my skin. But today he felt like calling me out. But he ain’t know it was the wrong day for that.
After his slick comment, he broke out running before I could say anything, and called out to the team, “Keep pace with me!” He always set the pace. It made him feel like some kind of big man, like he was the boss of us. I could just tell. And honestly, I was over people acting like they were my boss. Like they were bigger and better than me. Like they could say and do anything to me. I hadn’t even seen Kelvin since December, but seeing him in that corner store brought it all back. His dumb jokes were still with me, in me, wrapped around me like skin. And now, here come this show-off, Aaron.
So . . . I jetted out in front of him. “Come on, Defenders. Keep up. Let’s go!” I called out.
I was a good five paces in front of Aaron when he barked, “Yo, what you doing?”
“No talking, Aaron. Just keep up!” I shot over my shoulder. Burnt plastic. Yeah, okay. I could hear Aaron’s steps go faster, and a few seconds later he was on my side, pumping his arms wider than he needed to, inching closer and closer to me. He was trying to chicken-wing me. Trying to elbow me.
“Chill,” I said, as we rounded the bend. But he wouldn’t. Kept cranking his arms wild. But he ain’t faster than me. He wishes he was, but he’s not. So I hit the jets on him. Jumped up ten paces. And again, he sped up to keep up. Couldn’t catch me, but I could hear his feet slapping the track, faster and faster. So I boosted on him one more time. Now we were running at almost full speed, until all of a sudden I felt something on the back of my heel. It was the bottom of his shoe. He clipped me, and my right leg locked up. I torpedoed to the ground. Hard. But I was only down for a second.
“Yo, what’s your problem?” I bounced up, got in his face, my body stinging from the crash. The rest of me stinging from . . . everything else.
“My problem?” Aaron barked back, breathing hard. He inched closer. “You the one with the problem.”
“I’m just trying to do my job, but I can’t because you such a hater.” I matched his inch closer with my own.
“You better chill out, newbie. I earned my spot as the captain of this team. I worked for that position. I ain’t have to play dress up to get it.” Aaron reached over and grabbed my gold chains and flipped them up into my face.
And . . . boom. I lost it. Charged him, tried to put every word I could think of—every snap, every fry, every flame I could throw at him—into my arms and pushed him as hard as I could. But he ain’t fly like I expected. Matter fact, he barely went anywhere. Just took a few steps back. Smirked. Then charged me and shoved me with his whole body, and I flew to the ground. Again. By this time, everyone had gathered around us to try to stop the drama. Curron and Mikey were pulling Aaron—laughing—away, and Patty and Ghost were helping me up.
“Shut up!” I shouted at Aaron. Trying to pull away from Ghost and Patty, I said, “Get . . . off me!” to them.
“You better relax, Snow White,” Aaron taunted. “Let your dwarves help you.” Now Ghost let go of my arm and started marching toward Aaron, but Chris blocked him.
“It’s not worth it, Ghost,” Chris warned.
“I don’t even know why you would defend him, Ghost,” Aaron continued. “Especially after how he played you out when you first joined the team. Remember? Trashed you because of your shoes. Because he was scared you were better than him.”
“Shut up!” I shouted again, my voice roller-coastering. “Shut up, before . . . before . . . I make you shut up.” I wiped my eyes fast, then wiped them again faster.
“What is going on?!” Coach and Whit, finally realizing what was happening, made their way across the field to where we were.
“He clipped me!” I yelled.
“I set the pace, like I always do. And for some reason, he tried to take over and basically burned the whole team out.” Aaron’s voice was calm. Like none of it was affecting him.
“Yeah, but that’s because I’m sick of his mouth, Coach.”
“And I’m sick of yours, Lu.” Coach shot his eyes at Aaron. “And yours.” He gave us both growl eyes. “Really? Really? Y’all do this the week of the championship, and call yourselves captains?” Coach slapped his hands to his cheeks, let out a heavy exhale. “Know what, I don’t have time for this. Mikey, Patty, y’all captains for the rest of the day.” Then he turned back to us. “You two, give me two more warm-up laps, and since y’all can’t seem to figure out a good pace, I’ll set one—full speed. And when you’re done, don’t even think about asking for water or anything. Captains.” Coach saluted us and walked away.
After the second warm-up—I think I got him by a step or two—Aaron joined Mikey and the other four-hundred runners. Everyone else had already split into their groups to work on handoffs, starts, strides, pacing. And I went and stood over by the hurdles. Coach had set a few up for me before practice. Only four, instead of the ten I had to jump in the actual race. I waited for him while he talked to Sunny, who was standing in his throwing circle with a finger in the air. Coach shook his head, then came jogging over to me.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Trying to get Sunny to understand how to adjust for the wind. Finally got him throwing straight, and the last thing I need is for the wind to carry the discus too far to the left or right and take one of y’all out like he almost did a few weeks back.”
“Yeah,” I said, not worrying about the wind at all. Felt pretty good to me. Especially since I was out of breath and sweating. Don’t nothing feel better in the summertime than when breeze hits sweat.
“Before we get started, do we need to talk about what happened back there with you and Aaron?”
“No,” I huffed, still trying to catch my breath.
“Yes. We do.” Coach caught me off guard with that one. “And we don’t have a lot of time, so I’m gonna make this quick. You two are exactly alike. You’re just like him.”
“No . . . I ain’t.” Breathe. Breathe. I ain’t know what Coach was smoking, but he needed to quit. Me? Like Aaron? Get outta here. Aaron ain’t got a ounce of lightning. He ain’t even close.
“Oh yeah, you are. That’s why I made you co-captain. He’s like your pretend big brother.”
“He . . . only one year older than me, Coach. So . . . nah.” I was trying to get my breathing under control. In through the mouth, out through the nose. In through the mouth, out through the nose.
“Okay, okay. I’ll leave it alone, but just remember I told you that. And if I see any more fighting . . .” Coach didn’t finish his sentence. And he ain’t need to.
“Now, moving on to the next topic. How you feeling after our talk yesterday?”
“I’m . . . fine.”
“You fine, but are you ready?”
I mean, at the moment I was tired. I just sprinted eight hundred meters and now he talking all this Aaron stuff, and about jumping hurdles. A lot to take in. But I needed to be ready. I had to be ready. I was gonna jump, I mean, hurdle the hurdles. That sounds silly. But whatever. I was doing it.
I took my place on the line, my chest burning, legs pulsing like they had hearts in them.
“Remember, get up quick, and lead with the knee,” Coach coached.
Lead with the knee. Got it. Get up quick. Lead with the knee. Breathe. Breathe. And then . . .
Badeep!
The whistle blew and I took off, the first hurdle in front of me, and just as I got up on it, a gust of wind came whooshing at me, kicking up all kinds of dust from the side of the track and smacking it in my face. In my eyes. I tried to slow up in time but couldn’t and ran right into the first hurdle.
I slapped my palms to my face, and heard Coach running over to me.
“You okay?”
“Argh. I’m fin
e, I’m fine,” I said, using the heels of my hands to scrub my eyes. They felt glued shut by all the grit. “It’s in my eyes.” I walked over to the fence, scrubbed my eyes some more, mainly to try to get the sting to chill out, and to make my eyes water and to wash out whatever I could. But it wasn’t working. My eyes felt crunchy. Like, toasted over. So I had to do what I never did before. I had to take my contacts out.
“You wear contacts?” Coach sounded surprised.
“Yeah, and without them, I can’t see nothing.” I had one balancing on the tip of my finger and was pinching the other one from my eyeball. “I mean, I can see, but I got hyperopia.”
“You got what?”
“Hyper . . . I can only see faraway stuff.” Figured it was easier to just say it like that. With both contacts out, I flicked them toward the grass. They were ruined, but luckily, I had fresh ones at home.
“Just far away?” Coach was acting like he ain’t believe me. Like he wanted to put me to the test. He stood in front of me. I knew that because I could see the blur of red from his shirt. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Seriously? I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or what.
“Seriously?” I asked, for real.
“Seriously.”
I knew he had his fingers up—plus he said he did—but there was no difference between one or five, and honestly, Coach could’ve had seven fingers on one hand and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I stared. Stared. Stared. Squinted. Stepped back. Squinted. Stepped back a little more but hit the fence. Came a little closer. Squinted. Then finally, just . . . shrugged.
“Oh no.” Coach’s voice suddenly dropped into concern. And I dropped my head. “Head up,” he snapped immediately. But I ain’t lift it. “Lu, did you hear me?”
I lifted it. Not all the way, though. “What we gon’ do? I can’t lose another day of practice, Coach.”
“Can you see anything? Like, would you be able to tell if there was a hurdle in front of you?”
Lu Page 6