The Running Dream

by Van Draanen, Wendelin

  And now I have to wait.

  Again.

  But the minute I walk on my new leg, I forget about the running leg—at least for a little while.

  My new leg is amazing!

  It goes on a little differently than my first leg, and it uses what’s called a shuttle-lock system. A suction sleeve liner goes right over my stump, and it has a two-inch notched metal peg sticking out of the bottom of it. When I put my stump into the socket, the notched peg pushes down through a hole in the base of the socket. It makes a ratchety clicking sound as it goes in, and then I’m connected. The suction sleeve is locked into the socket, and the combination feels snug and comfortable … like it belongs.

  And the foot! Under the rubbery fake toes are layers of black carbon graphite that look nothing like a real foot, but the foot flexes with me and gives some bounce to my step.

  “I love this!” I say after the preliminary adjustments are done. “I had no idea it would be this much better than my first one.”

  It still looks very Frankensteinish but more high-tech. Instead of a pipe, it’s got a two-inch-wide flat, black carbon-graphite bar.

  “I’m going to need you to come back for fine-tuning like you did before,” Hank tells me. “And when we’ve got you dialed in, we’ll get you a cosmetic cover.” He smiles at me. “You’ll be standing pretty.”

  I stop walking and take a good look at him. I wonder how I could ever have hated this man. Or, at least, how I could ever have been so angry with him. “Thanks,” I tell him softly. “Thanks for helping me through this.”

  He smiles at me. “I know it seems like a lifetime to you, but you’ve made outstanding progress in the short time you’ve been coming in.”

  This time I feel like I deserve the compliment. I’ve worked hard on my gait; on learning how to adapt. And watching myself in the mirror now, I see that part of my problem was the tools I was using. The old leg was clunky compared to this one. With my new “flex foot” my gait looks smooth, my stride confident.

  I feel almost … normal.

  When we’re done and his tools are put away, he walks me out. “The one thing I can’t build for my clients is up here,” he says, tapping his head with a finger. “No matter how good the prosthesis is, if the mind isn’t willing, the leg won’t work. With you I know I don’t have to worry about that.” He grins at me. “You’re going to do and be whatever you want.”

  I thank him again and wave a cheery goodbye to Chloe. Then I walk out of there, this time with a spring in my step.

  WHEN FIONA PICKS ME UP for our movie shift that night, I’m excited to show her my new moves.

  “Wow!” she says after I’ve done my best runway impression along our hallway. “You are smooth.”

  I laugh and do a little dance. “It’s awesome.”

  “So, you ready?” she asks. “Do you need to say bye to your mom or anything?”

  I shake my head. “She’s out doing something with Kaylee, and Dad’s still at work.”

  “Well then, let’s roll.”

  The Tremont Theater has a little kiosk in front where tickets are sold. It is attached to the foyer, but it sticks way out, and tonight Greta is behind the window.

  “She looks like a gypsy fortune-teller,” I whisper to Fiona as we approach.

  “She sure does!” Fiona says with a giggle.

  But something about it is odd. Greta never actually takes a position. She more moves around the place, supervising. “I wonder what happened. She never works the window.”

  Fiona whispers, “She should, though, don’t you think? Look at her! It would be great for business. People would come up wondering about having their fortune told, and she could sell them on the movie instead.”

  “Hi, girls,” Greta says through the window.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Sure it is. Just incredibly slow is all.” She waves a gnarled hand toward the entrance. “Go on. I’m sure you can find something to clean, anyway.”

  Fiona holds the door open for me, and when I step inside, I’m struck by how quiet it is. And empty. It’s weird—there’s no one behind the counter, no one ordering food, no one at all anywhere. It feels like I’ve stepped onto an empty movie set. Or into a wax museum. Or—

  “SURPRISE!”

  Heads pop up from behind everywhere, and at first I’m just shocked, but as I start to absorb who’s there, I realize it’s the track team. And Kyro. And my parents. And my sister. And Gavin. And Hank and Chloe. And Marla Sumner, along with her cameraman.

  “Well, girl,” Greta says from beside me, “I’d say the celebration has begun.”

  I turn to her. “But what about …”

  She snorts. “Honey, the place is all yours.”

  Kyro’s heading toward me, followed by the rest of the crowd. He’s carrying an enormous rectangular box, wrapped in gold foil paper and a broad blue ribbon.

  My mom’s crying.

  My dad is, too.

  My teammates are pogoing around like maniacs, so excited to be giving me this gift.

  Hank grins at me, and through my tears I tell him, “You stinker!”

  Kyro hands the box over, and he’s teared up, too. “Run well, Jessica.”

  I carry the box over to the popcorn counter, and while everyone gathers around, I unwrap my running leg.

  I already know what it’s going to look like. Hank and I’ve gone over it many times. It’s going to be a black J-shaped leg with a smooth foot instead of spikes. The spikes will get added later, when I’m ready to race. It’ll also have an awesome flame fabric that Fiona and I picked out, embedded in the socket.

  So I know what it’s going to look like, but that’s not what I see when I open the box.

  The J-shaped part is there, but there’s nothing flame-like about the socket.

  It’s blue.

  With some strange yellowish gold pattern.

  My first reaction is, This is the wrong leg. But then I see that the strange yellow pattern is writing.

  Signatures.

  Comments.

  Things my teammates have written.

  Run, Jessica!

  We love you, Jessica!

  Run like the wind!

  You’re amazing!

  Believe!

  Race me!

  Welcome back, Jessica!

  It’s a bird, it’s a plane, no … it’s Jessica Carlisle!

  I can’t read any more, because I’m sobbing. Fiona hands me a napkin, and I wipe my eyes and choke out, “I love you guys. What did I ever do to deserve you? Thank you so, so much.”

  I lay the leg back inside the box and hug everybody. Ev-ery-body. And while I’m hugging, I notice something that makes me feel even better.

  My dad and Kyro are shaking hands, smiling.

  A few minutes later Hank and Kyro make a date to meet me at the track the next day so we can figure out and fine-tune the leg, and then Greta turns on some music and we party. We eat too much popcorn, we drink too much soda, and we dance.

  On two joyous feet, I dance.

  PART V

  MY FIRST DAY WITH THE RUNNING LEG I definitely do not go out and charge over Aggery Bridge.

  I can barely even walk in the thing.

  It’s a strange contraption. Stilty, and almost scary. It’s also taller than my good leg, which Hank says it’s supposed to be, but I feel off-kilter.

  Completely unbalanced.

  Kyro and Hank work with me on the Liberty track, but I’m afraid of the leg. It makes me feel like I’m going to fall, or trip, or crash and burn.

  Plus Mom and Kaylee and Fiona and some of the track team are there, and I feel like people have really high expectations.

  Expectations that I’m not even coming close to meeting.

  Everyone tells me not to worry about it, but I do worry about it. People paid a lot of money to buy me this leg, and it frustrates me that I can’t work it right.

  Hank makes adjustments for me, but no matter what he does to
it, it just doesn’t feel right. My legs are so different from each other—like strangers that will never really work well together. It seems that they should either both be running legs or both be regular legs. One of each is a mismatch—one I can’t get the rhythm for.

  It’s not until three sessions later that things start going better. This isn’t a walking leg, or even a jogging leg. It’s a running leg. And when I finally really push for the first time, something inside me clicks.

  And bursts free.

  It’s like I’m a little kid again, wobbling along on my bicycle.

  I’m exhilarated.

  Terrified.

  Gaining speed.

  Sure to crash.

  It’s a wild, electrifying feeling, and once I get a taste of it, I’m hooked. I go out to the track every day. At first I switch legs in the car, but it’s cramped and cumbersome, and I finally get the guts to walk out to the infield on my “flex foot” leg and then, in front of God and athletes and middle-aged joggers, switch to my running leg.

  I’m getting good at the switch. It only takes me about ten seconds now. And I’m more comfortable with the leg; more comfortable with people’s curiosity.

  “That is amazing,” people tell me as we share the track.

  I always agree. “Yes, it is!”

  I also discover something painful.

  I’m out of shape!

  But as every athlete knows—no pain, no gain. So I push myself. Sometimes I run with Fiona, sometimes by myself. And sometimes I have sessions with Kyro. He has me visualize smooth running, which in some mysterious way seems to help. I haven’t graduated from the track yet because even though I’ve been running every day for over two weeks now, Mom’s not allowing me to run streets for a while. She’s still worried about me tripping or slipping, and the track just seems safer to her.

  So I am getting used to it, and I am gaining confidence, but I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever race again.

  It almost doesn’t matter, though.

  I can run.

  I HAVE THE RUNNING DREAM AGAIN.

  It’s early morning.

  Sherlock’s whole body is wagging as he dances in a circle by the front door.

  We ease out, turn right when we hit the street, and head toward the river. The world is quiet. No cars. No people. No hustle and bustle. Just the rhythmic sound of our feet against pavement.

  Sherlock is happy beside me. “Aaarooo!” he says, for no apparent reason. “Aaarooooooo!”

  We reach the river, and the air is heavenly. Cool and moist. It sparkles my face, washes my lungs, cools the building heat of my body. I soar beneath the trees, transform into wind.

  We come upon Aggery Bridge and I begin the long sprint across it. My legs and lungs burn, but I welcome this pain.

  It forges me with strength.

  Determination.

  Triumph.

  I drop back the pace now and glide along the streets, back past familiar houses, back home. The sun is brighter now, the air warmer. Sweat pours from me. Cool, salty, cleansing sweat.

  On the porch again, Sherlock kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears. “Good boy!” I tell him. “You are such a good boy!”

  Our sleepy neighborhood is stirring, waking up, and this time I stay on the porch with Sherlock and enjoy it.

  This time there is no shock for me.

  No jolt awake.

  No tears.

  This time, the running dream is real.

  NOW THAT MOM’S CUT ME LOOSE and I’m in good enough shape, Sherlock and I run the whole five-mile loop over Aggery Bridge every morning. When I wake up tired, I remind myself how long I’ve waited to be able to run again, and it gets me up. Gets me moving into that plane between dreaming and reality where only running seems to take me.

  Some mornings I see Rosa on her porch, and when I do, I finish my run, then trot back to visit with her. It’s a nice cool-down for Sherlock and for me.

  We talk about her online friends, and the summer courses she’s been taking online, and the places she’s seen online that she dreams about going to someday.

  I start to see that the Internet is the way she travels; the way she socializes; the way she feels like part of things.

  It’s the place where people see her, not her condition.

  Often on my walk home, I try to think of ways to help her live some of the things she dreams about, but I have no idea what to do.

  I feel bad, too, that she wasn’t at my surprise party, and that she wasn’t asked to sign my socket. If I had known about the party, I would have made sure she was there, but even Fiona—who is the kindest, most thoughtful person on earth—didn’t think about inviting her.

  Rosa is … invisible.

  She finds out about parties after they’re over.

  This time from a TV newscast.

  She didn’t pout or try to make me feel bad about the party—she was just congratulatory and happy for me. But I did feel bad. I still feel bad. She’s the one who got me through Ms. Rucker’s class. She helped me feel hope. She cheered me on and made me see things in ways I hadn’t before. She should have been there.

  And now … now I’m running again. I know I’ll never be able to run a fifty-five flat in the 400 again. Kyro timed me at the track the other day, and I ran a seventy-one five. But that’s okay. I’m happy just to be running, and I will work up to competing. Maybe in a longer race, like the 1600. Kyro says he’ll help me find the race that’s right for me, and I’m looking forward to that.

  Rosa, though, is still the same. And I can see momentum pulling me out of her life. We have different interests, we’re in different years in school.… It wouldn’t be hard for her to fade into my past.

  But I don’t want that to happen.

  I don’t want Rosa to be left behind.

  I GET THE IDEA right before I fall asleep.

  And then I can’t sleep.

  I’m up half the night thinking about it, adding to it, visualizing it, wondering if it’s even possible.

  In all the thinking I do, I never for a minute think it’s crazy, but I’m afraid my parents will. So early the next morning I put on my running leg, sneak downstairs, and find my wheelchair in the garage.

  “Come on, boy,” I whisper to Sherlock, and make a sly exit out the side door of the garage.

  The wheelchair is small, light, easy to push. I make it to the end of the block and back no problem.

  So I put a big sack of potting soil in the seat and try again.

  It’s already harder.

  Much harder.

  Okay, I tell myself, see what you can do.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Sherlock, and he falls into step beside me as I push the wheelchair along the streets of our usual route toward Aggery Bridge.

  It’s late August, so although it’s only six o’clock, the sun is already up, and the air is warming. Even before the one-mile mark I’m sweating and panting hard. My arms are straining. My legs can feel the burn. Any uphill, no matter how slight, feels ten times harder than it usually does, and it’s becoming clear that I’m not going to be able to do this for the full five miles of my loop.

  A little farther, I tell myself. Then you can turn around.

  I coax myself forward with milestones:

  Just to the end of the block.

  Just to the stop sign.

  Just to the next bend.

  My arms are tired of holding the handles.

  I want to let go.

  I want to stop.

  But I press on.

  Just to the next intersection.

  Just to the moving van.

  Just to the top of the rise.

  I feel a hot spot forming on my stump—a warning sign Hank has told me I should pay close attention to.

  Blisters, he says, can set me back weeks.

  “Jessica!”

  I’m hearing my name, but I’m not.

  “Jessica! Hey!”

  I slow, then stop and turn to face the sound.<
br />
  A man is waving at me from across the street.

  He’s tan. Lean. Handsome.

  He’s wearing running shorts. A sweat-drenched T-shirt. And as he crosses over, I’m thinking, It can’t be him, but then there it is—chin scruff.

  “Gavin?” I’m suddenly aware how odd it is to be running with a load of potting soil in a wheelchair.

  He laughs. “What are you doing?”

  “Uh …” I follow his gaze to the wheelchair. “Hard to explain.”

  He doesn’t press. “Okay … well, you want some company? I could run with you.”

  “Uh … actually, I was getting ready to turn around. I usually do a loop, but I’m not going to make five miles pushing this thing. I’m already wiped out.”

  “So I’ll run back with you.”

  I turn the wheelchair around. “Don’t feel like you have to watch over the crazy girl pushing a load of potting soil. I’ll be fine.”

  And then, out of the blue, he asks, “Do I bug you, or what?”

  My head snaps to face him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You always seem like you’re trying to get away from me.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah. I’ll think that we’re having a good time and then you’ll practically ditch me.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Then what?”

  I start jogging, and he stays right beside me, a heavy silence between us. Finally I say, “Look. You’ve been really nice, and really helpful, but I don’t want you to do things for me or pay attention to me because you feel sorry for me.”

  He’s quiet a minute. “Is that what you think?”

  “Kinda, yeah.” And I want to add, I also think you’ve got a secret crush on Fiona, but I’m already feeling bad for what I did say. “Look,” I finally say. “I’m sorry. I—”