“And Ghost,” Coach said, glancing over at Coach Whit, then back at me. I snapped out of my trance. “You think you can handle the one hundred too?”
I grinned, and I couldn’t get “yes” out of my mouth. Such a short, easy word, but I couldn’t spit it out. So I just nodded, and swallowed the yes, hoping it might go down my throat, through my stomach guts, and down into my legs.
“We’re not gonna run any relays or hurdles yet,” Coach said. “This is the first meet, and we’ve got some work to do. But I’m watching every one of you, so let’s get out there and burn.”
We all went to the side of the track and waited for our races. Everyone was so hype, jumping around, trying to stay loose. Lu’s mother came over and gave us a container full of orange slices, which I thought was super nice. But I didn’t want any oranges. And I met Coach’s wife, Mrs. Margo, and his baby son, Tyrone. The crazy thing was, even though Coach was an Otis and a chipped-tooth turtle face, Mrs. Margo was pretty. And so nice. She passed out Gatorades to everybody, but when she got to me, she thanked me for cleaning out Coach’s cab. That made me feel real special. But I didn’t really want no oranges or no Gatorade. I had my power pills. My sunflower seeds. I ran over to my mother, who had them tucked in her purse. She handed me the bag, then grabbed me and hugged me. Again.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said. Then she caught me slipping and added, “Ghost.” She must’ve heard Sunny say it or somebody, but she now knew my nickname—the name I gave myself—and judging from her bright smile, I think she liked it. I had no idea that being on a team would make her so lovey-dovey, but it was cool. It reminded me of how it used to be, back when we slept in our rooms and there was family pictures on the wall.
Back with the rest of the Defenders, I ate the sunflower seeds, one by one, waiting for my race. My chance. The first race was a relay. The boys 4x800. I got to just sit and watch to see how races really went down, since we weren’t running relays. Runners from eight different teams all lined up in their lines, staggered at different starting points. The Bruisers, the Wings, and a bunch of other silly names that were nowhere near as dope as the Defenders. Everybody put one foot forward, just barely touching the line. They leaned in, some wiggling their fingers. Then—and this caught me totally off guard—there’s a gunshot, which is the thing that tells you to go. I’ll tell you one thing, it made me feel a little weird, but whoever invented track got the whole gun means go thing right.
The crowd started screaming as the boys burned the track up. One of the teams, I think they were called the Assassins, dropped the baton. It made a clinking sound, which in a nutshell, is what losing sounded like. It’s hard to come back from that.
After the boys were the girls. Patty came over to me and told me how she felt like she could pretty much smoke all the girls out there. I believed her. Patty was definitely going to be a problem.
Next was the boys one-hundred-meter hurdle, which was the most exciting thing I had ever seen. It was crazy! I asked Coach if we were ever going to run hurdles, and he told me that we would, but that it takes some real work. He said the kids who left the team and went to high school—the kids whose spots we filled—were amazing hurdlers. Then he said he used to run hurdles, while tapping his hand on his chest, his secret tattooed Olympic medal. I told him I wanted to do it. He told me to focus on today.
Then came the girls’ hurdles, which the crowd seemed to be into even more than the boys. Patty was jumping up and down screaming, because one of her friends was running. The girl didn’t win first, but she did come in second, which wasn’t bad.
And then came the one-hundred-meter dash.
“Lu, Ghost,” Coach called out. “Y’all ready?” Me and Lu nodded, and Coach said what he always said, this time with a returned nod. “On the line.”
We stepped out on the track and walked down to the end. Lu’s mom instantly started screaming and waving those stupid pom-poms. No clue what she was saying, but whatever it was, it was loud. Until, Aunt Sophie.
“C-A-S-T-L-E!” Aunt Sophie screamed. “Smoke ’em! Burn ’em! Dust ’em! Roast ’em!” she shrieked. It was like her and Lu’s mom were a perfect out-of-control cheerleading pair. I looked over and King was holding the sign above his head. It said, CASTLE CRANSHAW AIN’T NO JOKE. YOU ARE!
Nice.
All the runners from all the different teams were slapping hands, when I saw . . . him. No way. No. Freakin’. Way. He ran? He ran? By now you know who I’m talking about. Brandon Simmons. He was standing in lane eight, running for a team that called themselves the Bolts. He saw me the same time I saw him, and he looked just as shocked as I was.
“You run?” I asked, coming toward him. Brandon was a runner? He was tall enough to play ball, so I always assumed that’s what he did. Then again, I should’ve known better, because he had those slimy hands. Can’t hold no ball with those butter fingers.
“You run?” he responded, wiping his hands ironically on his shorts. Then he smirked and shot breath out his nose like he couldn’t believe it. Like I was some kind of joke. Like he ain’t see that sign King was holding up.
“Yeah,” Lu said from behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “He runs, real, real, real fast,” he said, taunting Brandon. Lu pulled me into him, grabbed me by the back of my neck. “It’s me and you,” he said, snapping me out of my Brandon Simmons nightmare state and back into focus. Had I known Brandon was a runner, I would’ve told Dre and Red to come to the meet just so they could see me smoke him. Shoot, I might’ve invited the whole school. Even Principal Marshall. Maybe even would’ve told Shamika to bring that laugh with her for this special occasion. Lu gave me five, then repeated, “It’s me”—he pointed to himself—“and you.” He put his finger on my chest.
I was in lane six, Lu in lane one. I bent down, untied my silver shoes, then retied them. I looked around at the crowd, a smear of people rooting for their friend or son or brother or teammate. Somebody was probably there even rooting for Brandon. Then I looked over at the side where the Defenders were, Coach clapping, a proud grin on his face. Sunny cheering, an orange slice in his mouth, the peel like a bright mouthpiece. And Patty—who by the way had on shiny lip stuff and had her hair greased and slicked straight back—squatted down and stared, almost like she was mind-beaming speed to me. She nodded. I nodded. My mother, looking at me with wet eyes. She waved. And all I could think about at that moment was the two of us running down the hall three years ago.
“On your mark!” said the starter. My heart thump-thumped, thump-thumped, and I could feel my insides turning colors. I’m not sure what color. Not red. Not blue. Something else. Something different. A color I never felt before. I squatted down, pushed my feet back against the blocks, stretched out my thumbs and index fingers and placed them on the edge of the white starting line. Rested my weight on my arms. Closed my eyes. Thought of us running to the door. Running for our lives.
“Get set!” said the starter. Butts in the air. The sound of the gun cocking. The sound of the door unlocking. Heart pounding. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Silence. This. Is. It.
And then . . . BOOM!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A special thanks goes out to my amazing editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, for her constant encouragement. The same goes for my agent, Elena Giovinazzo. You both are fantastic collaborators, and even better friends. Thank you to my school track coaches, Coach Chris and Coach Williams, and all the people on my team who were so much better than me. Seriously. To my man, Mike Posey, for helping with all the track details I‘d forgotten. And lastly, but most importantly, to all the young people who are running . . . may this be book be breath.
jason reynolds is crazy. About stories.
If you ever want to know what a perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich tastes like, he’s your guy. And if you ever want to know what the worst selfie in the world looks like . . . he’s still your guy. So he’ll trade you: a sandwich for a selfie lesson. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll even throw a story
or two in there. He’s already written a bunch: All American Boys (which he wrote with Brendan Kiely) and The Boy in the Black Suit, both of which are Coretta Scott King Honor books; When I Was the Greatest, for which Jason won the 2015 Coretta Scott King/John Steptoe Award for New Talent; and the recently published As Brave As You. And he’s working on more. Check him out at jasonwritesbooks.com.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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also by jason reynolds
When I Was the Greatest
The Boy in the Black Suit
All American Boys
As Brave As You
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ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by Jason Reynolds
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2016 by Vanessa Brantley Newton
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ISBN 978-1-4814-5015-7
ISBN 978-1-4814-5017-1 (eBook)
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