Monday’s 800 meter interval workout was extra brutal. Zain lined up with his teammates at the scoreboard, trying to slow his breathing. Late season practices had been just as difficult as Michael had warned him they would be. But this was the last hard one before District. The other six varsity runners had hit their times for the first four intervals, three of them even improving on personal record practice times. Coach blew the whistle and the runners took off toward the first hill separating the soccer fields again, just like every other interval practice. And just like every other practice since joining the varsity squad, Zain fell behind immediately. But then it happened. A hundred yards into the fifth interval, the runner directly ahead of Zain went down, leg buckling awkwardly beneath him, collapsing on the grass, a cough forced from his lungs as he hit the turf. Zain knew even before he jumped over Carter’s body. He didn’t hear the pop, but he knew. Carter Smith’s season was over.
Zain and the other varsity runners finished the interval and waited on the line as two student trainers lifted Carter from the ground. His right foot jangling at the bottom of his leg awkwardly, he hopped off toward the training room, tears in his eyes. Coach pat Carter on the shoulder as he passed and pointed at John Forester. Forester stepped up next to Zain, on the line with the varsity group at last. Coach blew the whistle and all the runners took off again. And just like that Zain moved from seventh to sixth on the varsity squad. After chasing Zain all year, John Forester chased him some more. But after so many mornings chasing older, faster runners Zain was just too fast to catch. On each of the last three intervals of the day, Zain crossed the line twenty yards ahead of his one-time rival.
Each team has a small spray-painted box on the starting line. Only three runners fit across the front of River Valley’s. Greyson, Michael, and Ortega toe the starting line. Zain lines up in the second row, elbow to elbow with Sandoval and Paul, Forester breathing behind them. Seconds before the gun, it is not Coach Branson’s prerace speech about underdogs and striving for a pride that leads to victory, or the advice of his teammates, but Mr. Zapata’s words that come to Zain. Across the bottom of the final page of his Lord of the Flies final essay returned yesterday, right next to his grade (95! What!), were his teacher’s words, “You’ve earned this with your commitment. Way to go!” It was the highest score in the class and the best Zain has ever earned on an essay.
“Runners to your marks!” the race official yells through the megaphone, raising the pistol. Seventy bodies crouch, stepping up to the line, fists clenched. And though Zain is never one for inspiring words, especially on the start line, so quiet only his teammates can hear it, he speaks. “Let’s earn this,” he says. The gun sounds, and just like that, they are off.
9
BPM
Zain is slow to wake. He lifts his eyelids. They close and lift again. The alarm clock reads 7:43. AM or PM? he thinks. Rolling over, he grabs his phone. There’s a text to the varsity group from Greyson. “Track. 2nite. 10PM. Black practice gear. No phones.” The cool, clean sheets he collapsed onto after the race are now scratchy with sweat salt and dirt. The orange room is warm with evening heat. The blinds split the last of the sunset light into horizontal bars. He slept longer than he planned.
Zain forces his body up to sit against the wall. Post-race soreness is always worse after naps, grogginess leaked into every muscle. He stands up and shakes out his legs. Dead weight, like a couple of meat sacks.
Practice gear sounds bad. He’d been looking forward to a dark and lonely house, junk food, maybe a movie. Guess not. Maybe it is some kind of punishment, he thinks. The District Championship race went well, for him. Setting a personal record, Zain finished the five kilometers in 16:49. Top thirty overall and the fourth place finisher on the team. But, as a team, River Valley finished fifth. Two spots from qualifying from Regionals. Zain had been so worried about not holding up his own weight, he hadn’t even noticed the two top runners he passed in the second mile. The Senior Varsity guys must be pissed about not winning the District Championships. Black clothes sound bad. Zain imagines running midnight hill repeats, dodging cars.
The house is quiet and empty. The dry erase calendar in the kitchen has a new note, under the “District Championship” that Zain added two weeks ago, his mom has scribbled “Mom out with friends.” Zain grabs a Tupperware of leftover lasagna from the fridge and a fork and hops up on the counter. His mother didn’t show up to District and now she’s out for the night. She wrote four words, none of them “sorry.” His dad would have been there, Zain thinks. Dressed in a River Valley Hornets XC t-shirt, screaming his lungs out.
Gradually the slow brain nap feeling fades, replaced with excitement. And with it any guilt he’d had at the possibility of going out without telling his mom disappears with the setting sun. After all, Cross Country season is over, mom is out for the night with who knows whom (who cares whom), and Zain has been invited to some mysterious post-season Varsity-only engagement. If it isn’t a punishment, tonight could be the kind of night he and Jackson used to imagine in middle school. A night of freedom and possibility! Zain yells a triumphant “ya!” into the darkening house, laughing around a mouthful of cold lasagna.
The far turn of the track glows in the moonlight where a black clad mass lounges in the moon shade, quietly whispering and laughing, free and mischievous. Zain jogs over, counting the bodies. He’s the last to arrive.
“Meat!” Michael whisper-yells. “You ready?”
“For what?”
“Circle up,” Greyson orders.
The other boys stand and Zain falls in.
“Team tradition,” Michael whispers out of the side of his mouth, bouncing one eyebrow.
The boys circle up around Greyson. To each of the runners Ortega passes out small rectangular laminated slips of paper. Each paper is titled with just three letters: BPM. Below that is a list of three addresses typed in bold. Beneath each address, there are smaller words. Before Zain can read them, Greyson is talking.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to the annual BPM,” he says.
Everyone but Zain is nodding. Michael lets out a breathy “yeeeeessss!”
Zain glances over at Michael’s paper, barely visible in the moonlight. Same addresses, but the second and third are switched.
“Now for the rules,” Greyson says. “In your hand is your directions for the race tonight. According to tradition, last year’s loser has selected the course—”
“There are no losers on this team,” Michael interrupts in his best Coach Branson impression. The other guys laugh. All but Ortega who is stretching his long bird legs, lifting his knees up, then shifting them back from the hip. He pops his neck, looking determined. He must be last year’s loser, Zain thinks.
Are they really racing each other 12 hours after the toughest race of the season? he thinks. Better not to look like a clueless idiot, even if he feels like it, though. So Zain slides his hips back and forth trying to loosen up.
“It’s an excellent course,” Greyson continues, “lots of options and opportunities. Under each stop on your list is a brief description of where to find the cans.”
Cans? Zain thinks. He doesn’t ask.
“Remember,” Greyson says, “each runner may select any path from one stop to the next, but each stop must be visited. Runners must jump at each house and be in possession of three empties, one from each stop, to earn a place and rank when crossing the finish line.”
Jump? Empties? Zain is starting to freak, but he doesn’t interrupt. Michael is the only person who can cut Greyson off without catching a glare. Instead, Zain looks down at his list again. His first address is on Palm Street, two streets over, the street of a thousand hill repeats.
“As always, not finishing the race for any reason, getting caught or quitting, will result in a DQ—”
“And don’t puke, pussies,” Michael says. Everyone laughs.
Greyson finishes, “Varsity alternates are waiting at the finish line at
Cloudbank Park. Last one in loses.”
Six runners look around the circle.
“To the line, gentlemen,” Greyson says.
They jog toward midfield. Zain looks at the addresses on his list: 1401 Palm Street, 1526 Pine Street, and 512 Spruce Circle. An entire neighborhood of streets named after trees nowhere to be found in a desert town. It seems stupid. Almost as stupid as starting a race with no idea of what the hell you’re supposed to do, he thinks. He cups the laminated sheet in his hand and catches up to Ortega, whispering something about a route to himself.
“What are we doing?” Zain asks.
“Just follow the directions on the card and drink at every house, before you jump. Don’t wait, that’s a rookie mistake,” explains Ortega as if that clarifies anything.
“Drink what? Jump where?” Zain asks. The others stop ahead of him. He gets his toe to the fifty yard line just as Greyson says “runners set!”
Instinctively, fingers pinch stopwatches, ready to start their times.
“Go!”
Fourteen feet leave the line, headed for the gate exit of the track. When they hit the fence, the runners split. Four to the left, and Zain, Michael and Ortega to the right, towards Palm Street.
“What are we doing?” Zain says, on Michael’s heals.
“Just one mile, Meat,” Michael yells back.
“What the hell is going on?” Zain says.
“A race and you don’t want to get last! Right, Ortega?”
Ortega picks up the pace, lengthening his lead on Michael. “Fuck you, Cabrón!” he says.
“Last at what?” Zain yells, speeding up.
Michael’s voice echoes down the empty street ahead of them, “The Beer Pool Mile!”
10
Palms
As he and his two teammates round the corner onto Palm, Zain settles in behind them, letting his legs move him along while his mind runs through the rules of the Beer Pool Mile again. Jump must mean into a pool, he thinks. Don’t get caught must mean strangers’ pools. Find the cans must mean the beers. Bring the empties must mean bringing the empty cans to the finish line. It all makes sense now. Not that he isn’t still worried. Zain has never gulped a full beer in his life, much less three.
“Yo, O! Where them cans, bro?” Michael yells out.
“I just set the course. Alternates hide the beers. Read the clue.”
Zain looks through the darkness, up driveways at the address numbers of passing houses, 1355, 1357. Michael picks up the pace, passing Ortega, sprinting up the hill to the next corner, slowing briefly under a streetlight. When Zain passes beneath the light, he reads his paper. Under the first address are two words: Special Delivery. Michael stops beside the brick mailbox of the next house and looks up and down the empty street like a spy. Zain wonders what he is doing until Michael pops open the mouth of the mailbox, and withdraws a single gleaming can. Ortega groans as he retrieves his can and follows Michael into the darkness of the yard whispering, “smart fucker.”
It is the biggest house on the block. Dancing pool lights in the backyard silhouette the mansion against the dark sky, making it all seem impossibly monstrous. The task, the night, the house. Zain wonders at people confident (arrogant) enough to build such houses, cast such shadows. He grabs a beer can from the mailbox and climbs up the steep lawn where Ortega and Michael are arguing between glugs.
“I picked it ‘cause it has a pool, puto. How would I know?” Ortega says.
“What’s the matter?” Zain whispers.
“Sh. Listen,” Michael says.
Through the otherwise silent night, comes a scream and a splash. Michael burps loudly and takes another swig.
“Shit,” Ortega says, “who the fuck swims in October?”
“Rich people, cabroanie,” Michael says.
Ortega grins and downs the rest of his beer in a long draw. He crushes the can in his hand. “At least we’re first,” he says and sneaks away, up to the south gate.
“Get drinking, Meat.” Zain opens the silver can, more bitter beer scent polluting the clean, desert air. Michael pulls on his can again. “Let me see your list,” he says. Zain hands it over, following Michael, crouching around the opposite side as Ortega. While Michael looks over the list, Zain grimaces down a swallow of warm bitter suds. They hunker in the manicured side yard, looking through the slats of the fence at the pool. Michael crushes his can and hands back Zain’s list.
“Some quick advice. Down that quick,” Michael says, “hop the gate, take a dip and hop the back fence. You know what is back there, right?”
Zain swigs a mouthful, holding back a gag, “The ditch?”
“Big brain there, Meat.” Michael burps loudly.
Just then there’s a splash and they peek through the slats. Ortega emerges from the pool. Michael pinches his list against his crushed can and hops the gate, just as Ortega’s bird legs swing his skinny body over the back fence. Zain stares down into half a can of floating yellow beer.
“BPM!” Michael yells as he jumps, flailing into the shallow end. He lands between two confused blonde boys, and swims out of view toward the other front gate. For a moment there is silence. Then, one of the boys is yelling for his mom, the other “wait!” after Michael. Now or never, Zain thinks. He gulps the rest of his beer. A bit of it comes back up and he spits it onto the grass. He tucks his list into his shorts and jumps the fence. Across the yard and into the heated pool, three quick strokes to the other side and out again. He hits the fence just as the back door opens. “Sorry!” he yells.
Zain clambers up the side of the ditch, dust clinging in clumps to the bottom of his shoes, heart beating out of his ears. A bit of vomit threatens in his throat, burning his tonsils. He keeps it down as he crests the bank and starts his run, free and wet with 1401 Palm in his past. He laughs and whoops into the night. He pulls the pokey plastic instruction paper from the liner of his shorts. Of course, Zain thinks, Palms, Pine, and Spruce all back up to the ditch. The fastest trail between each house is the ditch he’s running on. Three quarter miles of ditch between him and the park. Thank you, Michael, he thinks.
As Zain descends into the ditch’s bottom, something up ahead catches the moonlight. A hundred yards down the ditch Ortega is crossing the dry bed to the other bank, metal can gleaming in hand. Panic pierces Zain’s excitement, deflating his legs, running down his arms into his palms. His totally empty palms. He stops, frozen. No empty can in either hand.
11
Pine Street
Zain has already retraced his steps all the way back to the house. No can. He crouches in the ditch bottom. Just over the edge, the mansion’s pool lights dance in silence. Going on to the next house seems to be his only option. But it also means doing something he doesn’t often do, hoping. Hoping there are enough cans to snag a replacement and hoping it is the same brand. Zain listens. Still quiet. He must have dropped it in the pool, or the yard. Either way he’s screwed. Mommy’s pissed off scream after he leapt the fence still rings in his memory. She’s probably sitting in a fancy deck chair now, 12 gauge across her lap, waiting for other pool jumping trespassers hell bent on disrupting her boys’ perfect little lives. Fuck it, he thinks. Zain stands and sprints off down the ditch, towards the next house.
Running the ditch is the most direct and concealed path, but seeing addresses from behind all the houses isn’t easy. Zain had hoped to run until getting to another pool, but almost every yard has a pool, tucked between big trees. He thinks of riding over hot summer streets to the sun-warmed neighborhood pool he and Jackson visited up until last summer when Jackson stopped being interested. Bike tires rolling over hot asphalt, backpacks stuffed with snacks and ice water bottles and towels. Summer after summer of sharing the pool with so many strangers made the families they’d seen year after year feel like extensions of his own family. His summer pool cousins. The bike riding, free on the streets with his best friend, headed to the pool was what summer was all about.
Life with your own pool, just a walk out the back door sounds nice. Lonely though, he thinks, and too easy. Zain almost feels bad for the poor rich kids trapped in their little backyard paradises.
Zain stops and squints through the dark to the opposite side of the street, 1509. He looks down at the instructions again, 1526. He runs on. Eight or nine houses to go, he thinks, maybe more. Don’t addresses skip numbers? As he runs, Zain tilts the paper to reflect the moonlight and reads the clue again: Be polite if you want to enter her bush. Say yes ma’am and no ma’an. Clever, dirty, and totally confusing. He guesses the cans are under a bush, or inside one. But why the polite part?
Zain stops again to look between the houses. The one across the street is obscured by a large mulberry tree, no address is visible. Jogging back down the ditch to try and find his lost can lost him some time, so he’s had to sprint. Zain closes his eyes and slows his breathing, listening for a splash. How far ahead could Ortega be? he wonders. He must be close to jumping, Zain guesses. He waits, his dizzy brain worrying again. He’s lost too much time, passed the house. He’ll show up at Cloudbank Park with zero cans, hours after everyone has gone home. All of them assuming dumb little Meat got caught. Zain grunts and opens his eyes, spitting into the dirt. A single footprint sits between Zain’s feet. He looks up the ditch, at the prints extending down the ditch bank. Zain picks it up, following their path.
After a few houses the footprints veer down an embankment toward another yard. No kids this time, but no lights either, just dark water glinting in moonlight in an enormous black yard. Rows of bushes ringing around a huge back lot. Zain hops the fence. Midair he hears cursing. He freezes as he hits the ground, hoping it’s not another pissed off homeowner.
These Dreams Which Cannot Last Page 5