“Wha . . . Whoa, whoa!” the doctor hooted.
“Maddy!” both Uncle Tony and Momly barked, clearly embarrassed. And me, well, I actually thought it was kind of awesome. I mean, think about it. Here we all are, sad about what happened to Momly—and what could’ve happened to Maddy—and somehow (thanks to me, ahem) we got from there to watching Maddy try to lift the doctor up off the floor.
“I . . . got it. I . . . can . . . do it!” she growled, yanking at the doctor’s legs, his pants lifting enough to see his yellow dress socks. The doctor looked at me. I looked at him. He smiled, and then raised slowly up on his tiptoes just enough.
“What? How did you . . . ?” Dr. Lancaster gasped. Maddy let him go, stood back up, breathing heavy and nodding like some kind of warrior.
“I told you,” she said to the doctor, then turned to the rest of us. “Told y’all.”
“Lord have mercy,” Momly muttered under her breath, shaking her head slightly. If only Ma had heard her, we would’ve had to go into a whole Sunday service right here in the hospital. “Okay, Maddy, that’s enough. You’ve . . . proven your point.”
But . . . she hadn’t. It was like she had roid rage. That’s what it’s called when you take steroids and get all jacked and then start flipping out, right? Roid rage. It was like she had that. Because you wouldn’t believe what she did next. She came back over to where me and Uncle Tony were sitting, and I thought she finally was going to hop up on my lap, but instead she turned toward Momly and grabbed the bed frame. “I can lift up this whole bed, with Momly in it!”
“NOOO!” everyone—everyone—shouted, and I sprang from my seat and grabbed Maddy before she could even try. Not that she would’ve really been able to lift it, but still, anything’s possible, and then one broken arm is two broken arms and a broken back.
But thankfully, nothing, at least nothing like that, happened.
What did happen was Dr. Lancaster finally explained to Uncle Tony that Momly would have to have surgery to set and pin the bone.
“And when is this surgery?” Uncle Tony asked.
“Well, we wanted to do it today, but like I said, we have to monitor the concussion. So we’ll need to do it tomorrow morning.”
We stayed at the hospital for a few more hours until finally Momly basically forced us to leave, saying we didn’t have to go back to school but that I could not miss track practice. I was surprised. Maybe she knew that I wouldn’t have been able to focus in class, probably resulting in me getting in trouble for finally letting one of them fake hair flippers have it. Or maybe she knew I needed practice. I needed to run.
And I did, even though, because yesterday’s practice had been rained out, this would be the last practice before the meet on Saturday. I was fully prepared for the hardest practice ever.
TO DO: Run forever (and then run some more)
WELL, NOT FULLY prepared.
Thursday. Long-run day. No surprise there. But because we were also training for relay races, Coach had to figure out how to combine both endurance and relay into the same workout. Which basically means, Coach had to figure out how to crush us.
“Patty, you okay?” Ghost whispered to me as we stretched—left-side toe touches. Aaron was counting down from ten.
“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
“Six, five, four . . . ,” Aaron chanted.
“I’ono,” Ghost said, now mid-yawn. Said he stayed up all night watching some movie about Jesse Owens, which was fine for him since he didn’t have to go school. Spring break life. Ghost’s tongue was a weird shade of purple, dyed from something. Candy, I guessed. “You just seem . . . different.”
“Switch!” Aaron said. We all stretched to the right. With my eyes I followed my right arm, top part, elbow, bottom part, wrist, hand. All there. All working. I couldn’t help but have a flash of Momly. And even though I knew she’d be okay—at least I hoped she’d be okay—it was hard to not wonder how everything was going to get done now. Would Uncle Tony have to drive us everywhere? Drop us off at school, pick us up? Then pick me up from track? What about dinner? What about Ma? Who was going to take care of Ma? And how was she going to go get her blood cleaned? I couldn’t take her. I would if I could, but I can’t drive! It was impossible to not think about all these things. These things that I hadn’t really thought about because Momly always just . . . did them. Which I also never . . . really . . . thought about.
It was also impossible to just come to the track and pretend like I hadn’t just come from the hospital. The hospital has a way of sticking to your skin.
“Yeah, Patty, you do seem strange,” Lu added.
“Eight, seven, six, five . . .”
I turned to Sunny, trying to keep up my front. “Am I acting funny, Sunny?”
Sunny smiled at funny, Sunny.
“Switch! Down the middle!” Aaron now ordered.
“Funny?” Sunny asked, his noodle-y body bent over, hanging limp, his fingertips pressing the track. “Not funny. But yeah, kinda weird.”
“Told you,” Ghost said, low. I didn’t know what it was about these guys. Except for Lu, I had only known them for a few weeks, and they could already tell when something was going on with me. I mean, I could always tell when something was wrong with them, because something was always wrong with them. But the fact that they could pick me apart so easily was crazy.
“Above your head!” Aaron called out.
“It’s just that my—” I started to tell them, but Coach cut me off.
“Focus, newbies! We’re not talking, we’re stretching! It’s been an eventful week, and you four always seemed to be part of the events. So today, keep your heads in the lane.” Lu and Ghost had their arms up but tucked their chins, almost as if they were sniffing their pits, when really they were just sneak-looking at me. I gave them a yes, something’s going on and I’ll tell you later sort of nod.
After a few more stretches, and Aaron’s way-too-serious countdowns, it was time to run.
“Okay, so we lost a day yesterday. And y’all know we gotta make up for it today,” Coach said, spinning his car keys on his index finger. The whole team seemed to brace itself—we all knew what was coming. “So here’s what’s going to happen. Coach Whit is gonna lead y’all on the long run as usual. But it’s going to be a little different. All of you who aren’t running relays will run the regular way. But all my relay runners are going to stagger.” Coach Whit stood off to the side, kicking her legs behind her, one at a time, catching them by the ankle and holding them for an extra quad stretch. That should’ve been a sign. If the coaches are doing extra stretches, we’re in for a doozy. “What this means is, according to what leg you’re running on Saturday, that’s the order in which you run this long run. So, for the girls, Deja, you’re gonna start off with everybody else. Same goes for you, Freddy. Stay with the pack. Now when they get about ninety seconds out, I’ll blow the whistle and our second legs, Brit-Brat and Mikey, y’all will start. Your job is to keep a steady pace but not to catch up with the rest of them. Understand?” Brit-Brat nodded.
“Yeah,” Mikey grumbled.
“Ninety seconds after them, Krystal and Eric,” Coach said. I was happy he didn’t call my name, because everybody knows the third leg is the weakest. “And then come our anchors.” Coach held two fingers out and pointed them at me and Curron. “That’s you two.” Curron was known for false starts during his individual eight hundreds, but apparently he was the man as the anchor leg for the relay. And I gotta admit that while today had been the pits so far, I couldn’t help but be a little gassed about the fact that I was chosen for the anchor.
Coach pulled a baton from one of his back pockets. Then from his front pocket he pulled out a small jar of Vaseline. He popped the top off, slathered the baton in the petroleum jelly, and handed it to Curron. Gross! I could tell Curron thought so too. Then Coach pulled another baton out and gave it the same oily rubdown, handing that one to me. Uuughhhh. “Patty, after the other day, plus your temper tantr
um last meet, I wasn’t sure. But I feel like you’ve got the heart for this. Like you can handle this responsibility. I don’t know why, but I feel like you’re the comeback kid. Prove me right,” Coach said like a cornball before releasing the baton.
“Got you,” I said, cool, switching hands, wiping the grease on my shorts.
Coach cleaned his hands on the towel that seemed to live around his neck, then raised his voice. “Listen up. Here’s how this is gonna go, relay squad. Every time you all hear me hit the horn, the person with the baton has to run and catch the leg in front of them. Call out, ‘Stick!’ Whoever is receiving the baton cannot turn around—you have to find the rhythm of the run, reach back and take the baton, just like you went through on Tuesday. Then you continue running on pace until you hear my horn. Then the person with the baton has to catch the next leg and hand off the stick. At the end of the run, all first legs should have the baton, and you should all be together. You start apart, but you end together. Everyone needs to make sure of that. This is like a reverse relay, but it’s good to push ourselves, especially since as relay runners, a lot of times it’ll be your job to eat up track and make up time. If anyone messes up the handoff and drops the baton—I don’t care that it’s slippery—the relay team has to start the process over, meaning, if Mikey drops it, we start again with Curron. Got it?”
We all just sort of nodded, numbly. This was going to be hell.
“I don’t understand nods and I can’t read minds,” Coach growled.
“We got it, Coach,” Mikey said, putting on his game face.
“Yeah, Coach,” Krystal said, game-faced too. “Pass and don’t drop.”
“Again, everyone is responsible for everyone. In relay, you win and lose as a team. You are not two legs, you are eight,” Coach droned. “Now, the rest of you non-relayers, you know what this is. Ghost, I don’t wanna see you in last. Lu, if Ghost is in last, you owe me a mile.”
Lu’s mouth dropped. “What?”
Coach ignored him and kept on preaching. “And, Sunny, if you don’t finish first, you’re gonna be running sprints.”
“Got it, Coach,” Sunny said, totally unflustered.
“The best never rest. Now let’s get it.”
“First legs and non-relays, follow me!” Whit said, taking off. Me, Krystal, Curron, Mikey, Brit-Brat, and Eric all hung back. Coach eyed his stopwatch and as soon as it hit ninety seconds, I guessed, he blew the whistle and Brit-Brat and Mikey took off. After another ninety seconds, the whistle blew again. Krystal and Eric headed out. Curron and I were last, holding our greasy batons, waiting for our whistle. Coach made his way to his taxi—the Motivation Mobile—had his arm out the window, the other holding the stopwatch. Then, wheeeet! And me and Curron broke out, off the track, through the grass and onto the street, seeing sets of two in front of us, and in the far distance the jostling mob of colorful cutoff T-shirts and jerseys, bush-balls and cornrows, and farthest ahead, Sunny, tall and light, towering above everyone.
“Just keep pace,” Curron suggested, as we trotted down the street. “If you can.”
“If I can?” I shot back. I was not in the mood for his mess.
Curron tried to back it up. “I mean, not because you’re not fast, but because my legs are longer,” he said, opening his stride. But he clearly had no idea who I was. Patina Jones. No junk. Frida in a suit. Mary J. Blige in track shoes.
“Uh-huh,” I said, the baton glinting in the sun every time I lifted my right arm. I opened my stride too. And then, the horn.
“Let me see you push!” Coach shouted from his window as me and Curron started running faster. I needed to beat him, or to at least be with him. Didn’t matter if his legs were longer. Did. Not. Matter. I got the legs of two people, me and my mother. We pounded down the street, gaining on Krystal and Eric, who had just reached a construction site. Workers in hard hats were hoisting big metal containers on ropes and hooks up to the roof of a building. Krystal and Eric cut into the street to get around the orange cones and yellow tape, and we would have to do the same. Thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic.
Curron started to pull ahead, so I turned on the jets and really started burning my legs out, even though I knew it was a bad idea. But I was no way going to take another loss. Not today. I stepped off the sidewalk well before the construction and ran in the street, close to the curb to avoid an oncoming delivery van.
“Back on the sidewalk, Patty!” Coach yelled through his megaphone. I ignored him. “Patty. Back on the sidewalk!” A bus was coming up the block, the roaring of its engine like a bear waking from its sleep. Coach is gonna kill me, I thought, but so what. Come on, Patty. You got this. Almost at the construction. Curron was just a few steps behind me, still on the sidewalk, the pit-pat of his footsteps in my ear. Coach in my ear. The horn of the bus in my ear.
Come on. Come on, Patty. Krystal was close. I could see her ponytail flicking in the wind like a brown flame. Curron was gaining on me. But he had his work cut out for him, because Eric was farther ahead than Krystal. Now the bus was only a few yards away from me. Honk! Honk! “Patty!” Coach bellowed. The bus was right . . . there. I was at the construction site. Hard hats. Metal clanging. Men talking. Laughing. The bus was right in front of me. Honnnnnnk!
And I hopped back onto the curb at the last second, avoiding the bus and the construction site. Curron however, was stuck.
Keep pushin’, Patty. Krystal was five feet away. Four. “Stick! Stick!” I yelled, just like we’d learned in practice. I took the inside of the sidewalk, running closer to the shop doors, while Krystal smoothly slid to the outside, skimming the curb. “Stick!” I pushed the word out, now gasping for air. Krystal stretched her arm behind her, speeding up as I was coming in fast. And just like dancing, like being able to move with each other without actually touching, in one smooth motion I handed the baton to Krystal.
And suddenly, I was winded. I fell back a bit, while Krystal kept her pace. Then came the second horn. And Krystal now had to catch Brit-Brat, who was, at this point, a speck in the distance. Ahead of her, scatterings of everyone else. Krystal pushed forward while I stayed about fifteen steps behind her, passing Lu and Ghost, who’d pulled over on the sidewalk. Ghost was hunched over puking up purple. So it wasn’t candy. Probably soda. Lu, standing over him, was yelling, “Come on, man! Hurry up and get it out so we can go!”
“Get it together, Ghost!” Coach barked on the infamous megaphone. Aaron was just ahead of us, looking over his shoulder, his bottom lip hanging.
In another minute it was Krystal’s turn in the red zone, close enough to get the baton to Brit-Brat. I wasn’t far behind, my heart beating so hard it felt like it was rocking side to side. Hard, like it was trying to pump the blood out of my body. “Stick!” Krystal yelled. And like with the last pass-off, Brit-Brat, with those big ol’ feet of hers, sped up, just enough to fall right into rhythm with Krystal’s stride. Krystal swiveled to the inside, Brit to the outside. Arm back. Arm out. Handoff. Perfection. Just dancing the waltz. I fought back a grin. Whit’s crazy waltz. Yeah.
Just about the time we expected to hear the third horn, we instead heard the clang of metal on concrete, like someone had rang a bell. A baton had been dropped, but not by any of the girls. We were holding tight, waiting on Coach to hit the horn again so Brit-Brat could catch Deja, and we could bring it home.
“Start again, fellas!” Coach was yelling at the guys’ relay. “Back to Curron. No dropping the stick! NO DROPPING THE STICK!” By the time Brit-Brat sailed over to Deja, she was done. All of us were. The final handoff was fine. Not perfect, but not terrible. And, hey, we killed the guys! But our legs were shot. And on top of all that, none of us knew where to go because Whit was gone, probably chasing after Sunny who runs long distance like it’s a leisurely walk to his locker. The sweetest show-off ever.
“Where did they go?” Deja asked, slowing, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. We jogged in place on the corner trying to figure out where to head next. We
knew better than to stop running. Coach was heading our way in the taxi; if he caught us standing, he would give us the blues. And the jazz. And the freakin’ rock and roll. So we kept our legs moving. Like he said, the best never rest.
“What are you waiting for?” he called out, his taxi creeping up the street, emergency blinkers on.
“We don’t know which way to go!” Krystal called out.
“We don’t know where Whit went!” I added. Coach smirked.
“So?” he said, like this wasn’t an issue.
“So what should we do?” I asked.
“You tell me.” he replied. Now the guys relay team caught up to us, their mouths hanging open. I looked to the right. Hardware store. Man on the sidewalk selling used books. I looked to the left. An old woman sweeping the steps of a church. A little girl with a much smaller broom, helping. Her hair in dookie braids, maybe five or six of them sprouting every which way like antennae.
“This way,” I decided, heading left toward the little girl. I didn’t know if it was the right way, but in that moment, with Coach looking at me all crazy, I knew I had to do something. The comeback kid. Let’s see if I could be the “get-back kid” and get us back to the park. Everyone followed as I led, until Coach finally pulled up beside us again.
“Follow me,” he said, grinning out the window. He headed straight, which meant I was leading us in the right direction. Phew. And from there, Coach led the rest of the way back to the track.
When we arrived at the park, everyone crashed, rolling onto the track like cars whose tires had just blown out. And for once, Coach let us stay down there. He even brought our water bottles over to us! Sunny and Whit, on the other hand, were leaning against the fence having a casual conversation. They didn’t even have the decency to be panting or nothing, while the rest of us were trying not to cry like babies. Ghost and Lu came sputtering in a little after us, Ghost dehydrated from all the puking, and Lu purposely jogging a few steps behind him, one hand on Ghost’s back, almost pushing him along so that he wouldn’t be last. Aaron immediately handed his water bottle to Ghost, who pretty much crushed whatever was left in it. I gave mine to Lu, who took a swig then gave it back.
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