Seconds

by Sylvia Taekema

  The official called all runners to the line. Jake got ready. A good start was key.

  “Ready,” shouted the official. He raised his gun.

  Steady. A group of about ten runners popped the line just ahead of the gun. Barely, but still. False start, thought Jake, and he relaxed again at the line. He waited for the runners to return, but they kept going. They weren’t coming back! He looked at the official.

  “False start!” he yelled.

  The official shook his head and waved him on. “Go!” he hollered.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Jake grumbled as he kicked into high gear.

  This was bad. Usually he started out in the top ten, but now he’d have to plow his way through everybody. He caught up to the crowd at the end of the field. Then the path narrowed, and it was steep on both sides. There was nowhere to pass. A heavyset runner in front of him blocked Jake’s way and his view. He was breathing heavily and swayed from side to side when he ran. Move, thought Jake, move! Finally things opened up, and Jake edged by the swayer and at least a dozen other runners. But there were still so many in front of him. Just ahead he saw the familiar flash of the green shoes. Spencer. Good. He wasn’t far ahead.

  Bit by bit, Jake started to move up. The mob ducked back into the forest on the part of the trail that snaked uphill. Trees lined the path on both sides. Runners ahead started to slow. Now what? Keep going! There was activity off to one side. Someone was down. It happened easily in a crunch like this. He’d have to be careful not to trip. Wait. Simon? Was it Simon? It was Simon. Jake recognized the red T-shirt. What had happened? There was blood on his face. His glasses were missing. Runners were chugging by slowly, like cars passing an accident scene. He should stop. Simon needed help. But there was no time for that now. It probably looked worse than it was, and Jake was no paramedic anyway. Plus, there were monitors who would help. It was their job.

  There was a narrow path just off the main trail. Jake saw his chance and slid past the crowd. Maybe Spencer was still caught in the crush of runners. He hoped so. He had to keep moving. He passed another runner. Then a group of four and then another two. Now he was all alone. He ran downhill out of the big trees and over a set of smaller hills in the scrub. He followed the trail through the high grass along the creek. Focus. Focus. Look ahead. Breathe. Breathe. He kept thinking he’d come up behind another runner, but there was no one. It’s mine, thought Jake. It’s mine. Yes! He’d played it smart, and it had paid off. All the sweeter because of the slow start. Keep up the pace. Keep up the pace. He could see the flags of the finish line off in the distance. Maybe five hundred meters. Over the bridge and then up the hill on the other side. Come on. His legs were heavy. His throat ached.

  Jake heard him before he saw him. Heard his feet land on the gravel just before the bridge. Heard him breathing, deeply but evenly. Someone was coming up behind him, fast. Come on. Come on. He wanted to look back, but he couldn’t afford the time it would cost him. He crossed the bridge and ducked under some low trees. Come on. One hundred meters to the finish. Only one hundred meters. Stay ahead. Stay ahead. He climbed the final hill in short strides. Push, push. Don’t slow down. I am not eating mud today, he vowed. I am not. Fifty meters. Twenty. Ten. Almost. Almost. At seven meters he saw the green shoes. At three meters he felt mud spray up beside him. He threw himself across the line, but Spencer had beaten him by a step. A second. Second.

  Chapter Five

  Jake plunked himself down on the curb beside Simon. “What happened?” he asked.

  Simon had a wicked scratch across his cheek and a purple goose egg on his forehead.

  “Caught a branch in the face. Stupid. I should have known. There are always low branches there.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Some. My pride, mostly. My glasses got knocked off in the close encounter with the tree, and when I went off the trail to get them I slipped in the mud and smacked my head on a rock. Little bit of rock and roll.”

  Jake smiled. “Rock and roll, huh? You should come jam with Luke sometime.”

  Simon laughed. “How’d you do?”

  Jake scowled. “Second,” he muttered. “Aargh,” he groaned, flopping back on the grass.

  “You must have had a great run then,” said Simon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t see you ahead of me when we took off, so I turned around to see if I could find you in the crowd. When I looked behind me, everyone was coming at me like a freight train. Better keep moving, I thought. When I turned around again, boom! I hit the branch head on. Stopped me right in my tracks.”

  “You were looking for me?” Jake sat up again. He studied the angry mark on Simon’s cheek. “Look, I would have stopped, but I had to take my chance to get through that crowd. It was a false start, you know. That’s what set me back in the first place.”

  “False start? What is this, the Olympics?”

  Jake shook his head and laughed. “You sound like my mom.”

  Simon gave him a lopsided grin. “Anyway, that’s okay. Max Chen helped me out. He found my glasses for me and then found a course monitor.”

  Max? He was usually in the top ten.

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “See you next week?”

  “Yep.”

  On the way to his bike, Jake glanced at the results board taped on the wall of the picnic shelter. He looked for Max Chen’s name: #33. Ouch. Max could have let someone else look after Simon. The monitors would have gotten there without him. All they had to do was help Simon off the course. Then Jake saw something that surprised him. At #96, Simon Patterson. Simon had finished the race, goose egg and all, and #96 was not the last runner in.

  Chapter Six

  “Jake, dinner!”

  “Coming.” Jake left the running magazine on his desk and headed downstairs. There was an article in it on mental toughness that he wanted to finish. Toughness. That was what he needed to focus on. His back ached a little and the muscles in his legs felt tight going down the steps. He’d added a second run to his daily routine, and his body wasn’t used to that yet. A lot of the articles talked about gradual training, alternating easier workouts and rest days, but Jake couldn’t see how that made any sense. Rest days? How was he going to win if he took it easy? No, he was going to be the toughest one out there. That’s how he would win.

  He entered the kitchen. “Come on, Jake.” His mom smiled. “Dad made his world-famous tacos. We want to eat them while they’re hot.”

  “Oh, no worries there, gang,” called his dad, wearing the Taco-won-do Master apron he’d gotten for his last birthday. It had a picture of a cartoon guy with a black belt juggling tomatoes while snap-kicking a head of lettuce. “They’re HOT, all right.”

  “Tacos?” Jake looked over at his mother, who was pouring glasses of water. “Mom, I told you last week I can’t eat spicy food. I need pasta. Lots of pasta. And rice.”

  “Jake.” His mom laughed. “We’ve had spaghetti three times in the last week. It’ll be good to have something different. And Dad’s tacos are the best! Come on. Sit down.”

  Jake sat. But he didn’t fill up his taco shell. His brother, Luke, was waving a bowl of shredded cheese in front of his face, but Jake didn’t take it. “Serious runners don’t eat spicy food.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s stopping you from eating it?” Luke grinned. Jake glared at him. “Okay, okay, more for me.” Luke shrugged, setting the bowl down in front of himself. “I like tacos.”

  Me too, thought Jake. But…he sighed. “Is it okay if I just have peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches?” He looked at his mom.

  She looked at his dad. “Ask Dad. He’s the chef today.”

  “Dad?”

  “Sure, sport, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” He winked.

  Jake went to the cupboard. “Mom, we need more peanut butter.”

  “Put it on the list.”

  “And more bread. The whole-grain stuff.”r />
  “Right.”

  “And chocolate milk. Chocolate milk is key for post-race recovery. So lots of chocolate milk.”

  “Yes, your highness.”

  “Oh, and Mom,” cut in Luke in a commanding voice, “we need more pretzels. Pretzels are perfect for post-practice recovery.”

  “And ice cream,” Jake’s dad added. “Ice cream is ideal for post-taco recovery.” He wiped his forehead. “Whew. These are hot, all right! Bring on the butterscotch ripple.”

  Jake looked around. They were laughing! He knew he was going to have to work on being mentally tough, but he didn’t realize he’d need it to deal with his own family.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Oh, we’re not laughing at you, Jake-O. We’re laughing with you,” said Luke, grinning.

  “Sure, except I’m not laughing.”

  “Well, then, maybe we’re laughing for you, Jakey. I think you may have forgotten how,” said his dad with a smile.

  Jake suddenly felt frustrated. They just didn’t get it. “Look,” he said. “I need food for fuel. Good food. The right food. What’s the problem with that?”

  “Nothing, Jake. Nothing at all.”

  “I eat to run. I take running seriously. Running is good for you.”

  “Yes,” said his mother softly. There was a hint of worry in her eyes. “It’s supposed to be.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jake was grumpy. He had managed to push himself for another fifteen minutes in his evening run, but it hadn’t come easy. He felt like a fish out of water, gasping for air. His mom was sitting at the table, reading the paper, when he came in. “Hey, Jake. Did you see the construction at the corner?”

  “No. What corner?”

  “They’re putting up a new restaurant. On the corner of our street and Swift. It’s going to be called Sl-ice.”

  “Why are you saying Sl-ice?”

  “That’s the way it’s written. See?”

  Jake looked at the ad she held in her hand. Opening soon. Sl’ice. Your Pizza and Ice Cream Perfectorium.

  “S-ounds g-ood, don’t you think? I doubt they’ll offer as many pizza toppings as Dad does, but as long as they have butterscotch ripple, we should be okay in the ice-cream department.”

  So that’s what Simon had been talking about. He had called just before Jake went out, mentioning a new pizza place, but Jake had cut him off. He’d been in a hurry.

  “Wanna go when it opens up?” Simon had asked.

  “Umm, I’m pretty busy these days,” Jake had answered. “And I’m pretty careful about what I eat too.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Jake would explain to Simon next time he saw him. He sure didn’t feel like pizza or ice cream now. He had a headache, and his knees hurt. “Ah, Mom, I’m going to take a shower and then go to bed, okay?” Jake made his way to the stairs but stopped with his foot on the bottom step. He heard music coming from Luke’s room. “Ugh. He plays that guitar all the time,” grumbled Jake. “Who can get any sleep around here?”

  His mother looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “What’s the matter, Jake?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Jake plodded upstairs. His mother followed, but when she got to the top, she went the other way down the hallway to Luke’s room. Soon it was quiet. Thanks, Mom, Jake thought. He dropped his jacket on his bed. It made a crinkling noise. He pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket. Last week’s spelling test. Thirteen out of twenty-five. Oh yeah. Yikes. He’d been so busy, he’d forgotten to review for it. He didn’t think Mrs. Bradley could keep him out of city-league running because of his grades, but his mother just might. He knew he’d better be ready for this week’s test. He practiced the words as he stood under the warm spray of the shower. Flight, f-l-i-g-h-t. Journey, j-o-u-r-n-e-y. Accident, a-c-c-i-d-e-n-t. Friendship, f-r-e-i-n-d-s-h-i-p. Or was it f-r-i-e-n-d-s-h-i-p? He was tired. Did it really matter?

  Chapter Eight

  Okay, if some guys wanted to jump the start today, Jake was going with them. This was it. He was ready. He was focused. He didn’t even bother looking to see where Spencer was in the lineup. He moved right at the gun and got out front early. No one would pass him today. No one. This was his race. He had to give it his all. He ignored the ache in his gut. He ignored the fire in his chest. Be tough, he told himself. Be tough. So far he didn’t hear any footsteps behind him, but his heart was pounding so hard he wasn’t sure he’d hear them anyway. He wiped the sweat from his face and kept putting one foot in front of the other. Don’t let up. Don’t let up. Up the hill. Through the trees. Watch out for low branches. One foot in front of the other. Down the hill. Along the creek. His stomach clenched. His leg muscles strained and stretched. Never mind! Be tough. One foot in front of the other. Push. Harder. Push. Harder. His fingers tingled. His feet were numb. It hurt to breathe. He pounded across the flat stretches. He forced himself up the hills. Don’t let up. Don’t slow down. Up. Down. Steady. Steady. Focus. Keep running. Look ahead. Keep running. Look ahead. Don’t think about anything else but putting one foot in front of the other. Finally, Jake could see the bridge. His vision started to swim and things began to float around. There were little stars dancing in front of him. Dig. Dig. Up the hill. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other until…until he stepped right over the finish line.

  First. First! He had won! He knew he could do it. He knew it. He threw his head back, trying to draw in enough air, and walked around a bit. The official at the line was giving him the thumbs-up and saying something to him, but he couldn’t make it out so he just nodded. He wanted to wait around at the finish line to see who would come in next. He wanted to see those green shoes come across the line. There was no one yet. No one. This was incredible. Unbelievable. He had nailed it! He felt great. He felt fantastic. He felt…terrible. Before Jake could see who came in next, he had to get out of there. Fast. He had to find a bathroom, a spot in the woods, somewhere. He was going to be sick.

  Whew. Better. Jake sat up against a tree for a while and then, when he felt a little stronger, he wandered down to the picnic shelter to see if the results had been posted. And there it was: #1 Jake Jarvis. He stared at it. The letters looked 3-D, and he imagined big beams of light shooting out of them. Jake smiled and took in a few deep, slow breaths. He saw Simon sitting on the curb and strolled over to him. Jake had his hands up behind his head. He felt really lousy. He was shaky and his insides were in knots and his head felt like a big echoey cave, but he tried not to let on.

  “Hey, Simon.” He sat down, but not too close. His breath smelled like pickles. He definitely felt better sitting.

  “Jake.”

  “Good race today?”

  “Excellent. I came in at twenty-five, and I’m still alive. Moving up just a little bit every time.”

  Jake nodded. He waited. He wanted to tell Simon he had won.

  “It was a great day for a run, wasn’t it?” Simon continued. “The sun’s out for once. The birds are singing.”

  “The birds?”

  “Yeah. Ever notice how many different types of birds there are in this forest?”

  “No.”

  “And all the different kinds of trees?”

  “Like the one that reached out and grabbed you last week?” Jake grabbed Simon’s arm just above the elbow, then punched him lightly on the shoulder. He was glad to see the mark on Simon’s face had faded quite a bit.

  Simon laughed. “It was a sugar maple, I think, but I’m going out on a limb there. Get it? Limb? I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll branch out and become a comic. Ha ha. Branch out? What do you think?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jake waited. He really wanted to tell Simon he had won.

  “There are animals too. Last week there was a snake. This week there were rabbits. These are hoppy trails, you know.”

  Jake was getting impatient. “I’m not here to look at the wildlife, Simon. I’m focused on the finish line.”


  “Well, there’s a lot more going on out there than just the running.”

  “Maybe, but you don’t win that way!”

  “I think you do.”

  Simon squinted at the long line of cars pulling out onto the highway. “Hey, does your dad still drive a green Jetta? Was he here? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  Jake looked at the cars, then shook his head. “Nah, he doesn’t usually come out.” He paused for a moment. “Anyway, I had my eyes on the prize and it’s mine today.” He stood up, hands on his hips in a kind of superhero pose. His stomach cramped. He tried to make his grimace pass for a grin.

  “Oh yeah? First? Way to go!” Simon stuck up his hand for a high five.

  Jake slapped it. “Yep, I knew I could beat that Spencer Solomon.”

  “Ahh.”

  “It was just a matter of time. Just a matter of wearing him down. He’s all show, no go, you know,” said Jake. He thought Simon might appreciate the wordplay.

  “Uh, actually,” said Simon, “Spencer’s not here today.”

  “What?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “Sick?” Jake was reminded of his own queasy stomach. He sat down again. “Not likely! Scared, maybe!”

  “Nope. Not chicken, just the chicken pox.”

  “Get out! Chicken pox is for little kids!”

  “He never got it when he was little. Guess he picked it up from his younger sister.”

  “No way.” Jake remembered having chicken pox in kindergarten. He and Simon had had it at the same time. The first couple days were not so fun, but after that they’d spent most of a week watching cartoons and building Hot Wheels tracks together. They’d tied together a bunch of elastics and made a great bungee jump for their Lego people. “Geronimo!” they’d hollered before every jump. It had been fun.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jake. He was beginning to feel angry. This was not turning out the way it was supposed to. “How come you know so much about Spencer anyway?”