The Running Dream

by Van Draanen, Wendelin

  “I appreciate that,” I say softly.

  “How do you feel about us coming to your home? I think it would add a personal dimension if we could include your family in the story.”

  “Uh, I think that would be okay. You should ask my mom and dad, though.”

  So I give her our phone number, thank her again, and set out to find Fiona, because her heat of the 800-meter has just been called.

  I run into Gavin Vance instead.

  “Hey!” he says. “I heard the good news!”

  I look down, because holding his gaze is just … unnerving. “Nice little snowball you got rolling.” I glance up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, if it wasn’t a worthy story, they wouldn’t be here.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him again, then start moving across the infield.

  “It’s Fiona’s race, right?” he asks, following me. “You heading up to Rigor Mortis Bend?”

  I cock my head a little. “Wow. You better watch out. People might start thinking you’re part of the team.”

  This seems to please him, and he falls into step beside me as I trek up to the 300-meter mark. “I’m starting to feel a little like it, actually.”

  I snort. “Yeah? Well, you’ve got a lot of wind sprints to catch up on, buddy.”

  He laughs, then says, “But I did take your advice.”

  “About?”

  “Running for more than just office.”

  I keep moving. “So you what? Went for a run?”

  He nods. “I’ve been a few times, actually.” He laughs again. “The first one was torture. It’s been a long time.” We walk in silence for a few steps, and then he says, “You’re amazing!”

  This catches me off guard, until I realize he’s talking about the fact that I’m walking on a pipe.

  “Kyro asked me to wear the uniform,” I say with a frown. “I’m not trying to be an exhibitionist or anything.”

  “Are you kidding me? Who thinks that?” He shakes his head. “Do you realize how fast you’re walking?”

  The gun’s gone off for Fiona’s race, so I pick up the pace even more.

  “There’s no stopping you, is there?” he says with a chuckle.

  “Not where Fiona’s concerned,” I tell him. “She has been the most incredible friend.”

  I don’t know if it’s my comment about Fiona or him not wanting to leave me alone on Rigor Mortis Bend, but he stays there with me. I cheer for Fiona on her first lap, and when she hits the 600-meter mark on her second time around, she’s trailing the first-place runner from Hartwell, but not by much.

  When she crests the curve and hits the bend, I can see the grit on Fiona’s face. The focus. I shout, “You can do it, Fiona—pass her!”

  Gavin cheers her on too, and it’s cute because you can tell he’s never actually done this before. Words come out, but they’re shy. He’s shouting, but there’s nothing really loud about it.

  When Fiona hits the straightaway, her head bobs and she bears down, moving out a lane to pass the girl from Hartwell.

  “Kick it, Fiona! Kick it in!” I shout, and then hold my breath as she edges ahead and wins the race.

  “She did it! She did it!” I squeal. And I find myself jumping and hugging—just like I would with anyone else on the team.

  Only this isn’t just anyone.

  This is Gavin Vance.

  And it’s my first physical contact with him of any kind. I’ve never even accidentally bumped or brushed or touched him before.

  And now I’m hugging him?

  “Sorry!” I say, pulling away. Then I try to cover up my embarrassment with words. “It’s just … you have no idea how hard the eight hundred is. There’s no way you could get me to run that race. It’s the four hundred times two! Rigor Mortis Bend twice. I have trouble facing it even once!” I start moving away from him. “Well, I’m going to go congratulate her. Thanks for helping cheer her on.”

  And I escape.

  Not that there’s any danger of him following me.

  Not with Merryl making a beeline toward him the way she is.

  BOTH VARSITY TEAMS WIN HANDILY against Hartwell, and the JV boys and girls squeak by.

  But it’s still a sweep, and everyone is pumped.

  Merryl’s nowhere to be found, but what else is new? And since Gavin disappeared with her, it’s easy for me to just celebrate the moment with my team.

  Afterward Fiona drops me at home, and to my surprise, the Channel 7 news van is parked at the curb. When I get inside the house, I hear my dad saying, “They’re still arguing about whose responsibility it is, and meanwhile what are we supposed to do? This was a school event. It happened on a school bus.”

  I can’t believe he’s telling them this. And the cameraman is getting it all on video!

  “Dad!” I say, throwing down my backpack. “What are you trying to do? Get everyone at school to hate me?”

  Marla Sumner signals the cameraman to cut, then turns to me. “This is a really important part of the story, Jessica.”

  “No! The story is that my team is trying to do something amazing and positive! We do not have to get into all this negative stuff!”

  She considers this a moment, then has some silent exchange with my dad before smiling at me and saying, “Your mother told me about Sherlock. Could we get some footage of you and him in your front yard?”

  “Sure,” I tell her.

  Anything to change the subject.

  Anything to get her away from my dad.

  After about ten minutes outside, Marla and her cameraman pack up and take off. I hang outside with Sherlock a little longer because I’m still upset with my father, but when I go back inside, I discover that he’s upset with me.

  He sits me down at the kitchen table.

  Mom is standing off to the side, quiet.

  “I’m sorry if you think I’m being negative,” he says. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to talk about the school district’s obligation to meet your basic medical needs. But here’s the reality: While the insurance companies are dragging their feet, I am working twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day to keep us afloat. While they’re deciding who is responsible for your hospital bills, your mother and I have taken out a second mortgage on the house. It won’t begin to pay for everything, but for now it’ll put off collection agencies and ruined credit or bankruptcy. Because their lawyers are playing a game of cat and mouse, we’ve had to hire our own, and he’s told us that these kinds of cases usually take years to settle. But if we don’t fight for your rights now, you will get a measly settlement that won’t include the medical care and prosthetic limbs that you’ll need in the years ahead. You’re still growing, Jessica, and your body will keep changing. Plus prosthetic legs wear out. I’ve researched this, and you will need dozens of legs in your lifetime. At twenty thousand dollars a pop, that’s not something we’re willing to let go or pretend isn’t a problem. As your parents, we need to prepare for your future. Anything less would be completely irresponsible. So if you think I was being ‘negative’ with the news crew, I’m sorry. The fact is I’m just looking out for you.”

  “How was I supposed to know?” I snap. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  “Maybe we should have,” Dad says wearily. “But we thought you were dealing with enough already.”

  I just sit there feeling awful.

  I’ve known that my parents have worries, but I thought they would go away. I figured that in time everything would work itself out.

  But while I’ve been living day to day, worrying about walking, my parents have been taking the long view, thinking about my future.

  Before the accident, “my future” just meant college. College is something I haven’t thought about since the accident, but Fiona and I did have plans.

  Big plans.

  And now, thinking about my future, I’m slapped with the reality that attending our dream college is no longer an option for me.

  My p
arents couldn’t afford it then.

  I’ll never get a running scholarship now.

  So Fiona will be going there without me.

  That thought, along with everything my dad said and the obvious toll this has taken on my parents, hits me in the gut like an unexpected punch. “I’m sorry,” I choke out.

  Then I go up to my room and cry my eyes out.

  I SEEM TO HAVE long heart-to-hearts with everyone that night.

  Mom, Dad, Fiona, Kaylee … even Sherlock, although the one with him is pretty one-sided. By bedtime I’m sick to death of trying to sort through everything, and I tell Dad that he can call the news station back if he wants to.

  He kisses me on the forehead and tells me for the hundredth time that he wishes he could change things. And then, right before he closes my door, he turns to me and asks, “What was Lucy’s last name?”

  “Lucy? Sanders,” I answer. But as he’s leaving, I have a horrible thought. “Wait!”

  He looks back into the room.

  “You can’t have her parents depositioned or dispositioned or whatever you were talking about before. Lucy’s dead! They’re not going to want to talk to lawyers. It would be mean to ask them to help us!”

  He gives me a curious look, and I can see him trying to stay calm. “Jessica,” he says quietly, “I want to see if I can help them.”

  Then he closes the door.

  LEAGUE PRELIMS TAKE PLACE over the weekend. Kyro invites me along, but I’m still not ready to get on a school bus, let alone stay on one for over a hundred miles each way.

  Instead, I help Mom in her flower garden. She’s bought pansies and vinca and gazania, verbena, impatiens, and marigolds, and sacks of potting soil. She bustles about, uprooting dead plants and weeds, and mulching new life into the tired dirt.

  She’s late with her planting this year, and she shouldn’t have waited. As the day wears on and the new plants get nestled into earth, her whole being seems to change. She hums.

  She blooms.

  Sherlock is out in the yard with us, gnawing on a stick. He seems content too, ignoring the fluttering birds and the occasional pedestrian.

  I think about the seasons.

  About the joys of spring.

  About the cold, hard days and long, dark nights of winter.

  I wonder if old people ever look back on their lives and see it in terms of seasons.

  Years of summer.

  Decades of spring.

  I wonder what I’ll see when I look back later in life. Looking back now, I see sixteen years of springtime, followed by a deep, sudden freeze.

  I wonder how long this winter will be for me.

  I wonder how long I’ll have only glimpses of sunshine.

  I wonder if it’ll ever be enough to thaw the freeze, or if the ice will just soften for a moment, then harden again.

  My mother shakes me from my thoughts. “It’s so nice to have you out here with me.” She takes off her gloves and holds my face. “My family, and my flowers. That’s all I need in this world.”

  I smile and try to hold on to the warmth of her sunshine.

  FIONA QUALIFIES EASILY for the league finals in the 800 and the high jump. I had no doubt that she would, but I heap on the praise anyway. “Congratulations!” I gush on our way to school Monday morning. “I want to hear all about it!”

  She’s happy to oblige but catches herself after a few minutes. “Is this okay to do?”

  “Of course it is!” I say, but the truth is, I’m feeling like I really missed out.

  She glances at me. “I’m sorry. I’m being an idiot.”

  “Hey, it’s fine! I really want to know.” I try to jumpstart her by asking, “So did Vanessa dominate the four hundred?”

  Fiona scowls. “Yes. And the hurdles. You should have seen her struttin’ around.”

  “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

  She eyes me. “She didn’t break your record, though, so nanny on her.”

  I laugh, “Nanny on her?”

  “Yeah,” she says, grinning. “Nanny-nanny-nah on her!” Then she adds, “Oh! And Merryl didn’t even bother to show up. Kyro called her at home when the bus was set to leave and her mother said she was sick.”

  “Yeah, right. But she wouldn’t have qualified for finals anyway.”

  “So? How can she say she’s part of the team when she’s always skipping out or not showing up? It’s, like, cheating.”

  During the day, though, I bump into Gavin three times, and Merryl is nowhere to be seen. So I start wondering if maybe I’ve been too hard on her—maybe she really is sick.

  Then at lunch Fiona and I are heading toward the courtyard when we run into Gavin again. “Hey there,” he says, looking maddeningly handsome.

  “Hey,” I say back. “How’s Merryl feeling? I heard she was sick.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It really knocked her out.” He falls into step beside us. “Are you guys eating lunch in the courtyard?”

  “Uh, no,” I tell him. “Actually”—I look at Fiona—“I want to see how Rosa’s doing.” I pull a goofy face. “For some reason Ms. Rucker thinks us passing notes in math is a bad thing, and I really need to catch up with her.” Which is true. I haven’t had much of a chance to talk with Rosa since that morning on her porch.

  Fiona gives me wiggly-faced signals, but I ignore them.

  “You can go ahead,” I tell her. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Then I turn down the walkway to Room 402.

  But Fiona follows.

  And so does Gavin.

  “Go on,” I tell them. “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Who’s Rosa?” Gavin asks.

  “She’s a freshman,” I tell him.

  “She’s got cerebral palsy,” Fiona whispers.

  “She’s my friend and a math genius,” I tell them both, and give Fiona a scolding look. “She’s been great to me through this whole thing.” I stop and shoo them with my hands. “Go. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  But they don’t go.

  They follow me.

  The Room 402 gang is surprised to see all of us. “Wow,” Mrs. Wahl says, “lots of company!”

  Billy and Trent seem a little uncomfortable with the invasion. They turn back to their lunches and avoid looking at us. But Alisha and Penny don’t mind—they especially seem to like that Gavin’s there.

  Fiona and Gavin hang out while Rosa and I joke around. The rest of us have lunches from home, but Gavin doesn’t, so I ask him, “Don’t you want to go get something to eat?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m good.”

  So I slip him half of my sandwich.

  And half of my SunChips.

  And half of my apple slices.

  When lunch is almost over, we say our goodbyes to the Room 402 gang, and on the way down the ramp, Gavin whispers, “Can you really understand her? I could only catch a little of what she said.”

  I nod. “It was hard at first, but now I’m pretty good at it. It’s like a dialect—it takes some getting used to, but you eventually figure it out.”

  At the bottom of the ramp he turns right toward the courtyard and we turn left toward the 900 Wing. “Catch ya later!” he calls.

  And he seems to be smiling at me.

  TUESDAY MORNING IN FIRST PERIOD, Ms. Aloi reads the announcements like she does every morning. Most of us doze through it like we do every morning.

  Until she reads, “Attention, juniors and seniors. The prom is right around the corner! This year’s theme is Hollywood Nights, and formalwear is required. Tickets will go on sale Friday in the activities office. Fifty-five dollars per person, or one hundred dollars per couple. This event is open to juniors and seniors only!”

  Fiona and I look at each other, and I roll my eyes.

  Like anyone’s going to ask me to the prom?

  Like I could dance?

  Besides, a prom dress and a pipe leg would feel ridiculous together.

  Immediately after the prom announcement, Ms
. Aloi reads, “All students! Be sure to watch Channel Seven news tonight—a very special program featuring our fantastic track team and their Help Jessica Run campaign will be broadcast. Tell your friends, tell your family, and tune in at five, six, or eleven!”

  Ms. Aloi smiles at me. “I’ll be sure to do that!”

  A little chill runs through me as I realize that Kyro’s almost certainly the one behind the announcement, and that he’s probably also e-mailed it to every contact he has in the county.

  He has no idea the news crew talked to my dad.

  Fiona tells me not to worry, but I can’t seem to concentrate on anything else all day. During math Rosa slips me a note that says, I’ll be watching the news! and for some reason it makes me write back a long, scribbled note about being worried and why I’m worried, and how I don’t even want it to air.

  She writes back, The truth is always OK.

  I’m studying her message, thinking about what she’s written, when I hear, “H-hm.”

  I look up and see Ms. Rucker standing beside me with her hand out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say lamely. I start to put the note away, but she stays there with her hand out. So I plead, “It’s personal.…”

  Her hand stays out.

  Finally I turn it over to her and watch as she strolls to the front of the class, her long nose buried in my note.

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK Mom’s setting the recorder so Dad can watch the broadcast when he gets home. Kaylee is sitting cross-legged on the couch, texting her friends, and I’m sweating bullets.

  “Relax,” Mom says soothingly as she takes her seat next to me. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “You sound like Rosa,” I mutter.

  “Who’s Rosa?”

  The Channel 7 news Live at Five graphics and music come on. “I’ll tell you later,” I whisper, and my heart starts hammering madly in my chest.