Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  “Kastner!” calls Coach Papasian.

  “Hey, sorry, Friedman. I’d like to stay and finish this, but I’ve got to go.” He looks down the field, gives a sort of chin salute, and smiles. “Say hi to Miss Hip Check,” he says, and waddles away, back to his football buddies.

  I’m still on the ground when I see Heather. She’s coming back to get me. Again.

  “Well, I showed him,” I say, rubbing my hand. It really hurts.

  “Yeah, that backward-fall trick works every time,” says Heather. I guess she saw the whole thing. I pull myself up, and she swats some scrunched leaves off my back.

  “I wish I was stronger,” I say as we walk toward the parking lot. “Or at least fast. If you can’t fight, at least you should be able to run away. ”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” says Heather. “They find a way.”

  The parking lot isn’t far, and when Coach T and the other kids see us, they wave and call to us to hurry up. There’s no need to tell them what just happened. The story will be all over school in about three and a half seconds.

  Sammy is actually jumping up and down. Coach T stands behind her car, which has tiny headlights that make it look surprised to see us. It’s a faded silvery blue, and when I get there I can’t help running my finger along the side door, just to see if silver dust comes off on my finger. It doesn’t.

  Coach T sings out a little trumpet call, “Ta ta ta ta ta, tatah!” Then she opens the trunk with a flourish and takes out a canvas bag. She fishes out the light blue uniforms one by one, holding them up to see the size and calling our names.

  “You each get a singlet,” she says, handing them out, “and shorts. They’re brand-new. Take care of them.”

  I have never heard the word “singlet” before, but now I’m holding one. It’s made out of some satiny material that’s so slippery it pours through my hands and onto the ground. That happens twice, and then I roll it up with the shorts and put them both into my backpack. Together, they hardly make up a handful.

  Then Coach T takes out a big black garbage bag. She pulls out an armload of sweatpants and sets them down, then holds a sweatshirt up, so we can see the front. It says “Lakeview XC” and there’s a leopard in white.

  “What’s ‘XC’?” asks Victoria.

  “Cross country,” explains Coach T. “‘X’ like ‘cross,’ and ‘C’ for ‘country.’” She looks at the labels and after about five, she says, “Looks like they’re all XL.”

  “I thought you said XC,” says Mark.

  “No, XL in size. Extra large.” She puts her hand up on her head for a few seconds and then shrugs. “Oh, well,” she says in a not-unhappy way. “They’ll be way too big, but we’re going to have some cold afternoons. I’ll try to reorder for winter, but for now it’s better than nothing.”

  She hands them out quickly, since they’re all the same. They’re huge and soft and the blue color of a Rice Krispies box. I take mine and run my fingers over the sandpapery plastic paint that spells out “Lakeview XC” in white. The leopard is white, too, and they’ve left holes in the paint, so the spots are the color of the sweatshirt. Really, it could be a puma with fleas, but I know it’s a leopard. Its back is curved and its legs are stretched out, like it’s chasing a deer or a wildebeest.

  Mark and Sanjit are stuffing their uniforms into their backpacks and looking around for their rides home. It’s already pickup time, and cars are pulling into the lot. Victoria holds the singlet up to her shoulders and does a slinky fashionshow walk so her mom can see her new outfit. Erica’s mother is laughing at the enormous sweatshirt, which will probably reach Erica’s shins.

  Heather is standing by herself, on the weedy cement island that divides the parking lot. She’s watching those girls and their mothers. When she sees me watching her, she waves, and I hold up my uniform in triumph. She gives a quick thumbs-up, rolls up her uniform, sticks it under her arm, and heads off in a run.

  I stuff my sweatshirt into my backpack and start the walk home. I wonder how ridiculous I’ll look. The sweatshirt will come down to my knees. At least. The leopard doesn’t even have real spots, and nobody is going to understand what “XC” means.

  I think back to what Coach T said. For now, it’s better than nothing. I stop and pull out my uniform, just to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind: sweatshirt, sweatpants, shorts, singlet. They’re all here.

  I have ten practices under my belt and I’m still standing. I have a team uniform right here in my hands. Spots or no spots, I am a Lakeview Leopard.

  It is so much better than nothing.

  Chapter 15

  When I get back home, Grandpa is conveniently occupied in the bathroom. His staying with us has worked out pretty well. My mom has been super busy. At A La Maison: Home and Kitchen, every holiday starts early, so even though it’s still September, they’re practically finished with Halloween and already putting up the Thanksgiving displays. Christmas will start in October, and Valentine’s Day will get going in late December. So she’s been working pretty hard lately. Dad has a new dental suction unit that’s selling like hotcakes, so he’s been working extra hard, too. It makes my parents feel better to know that Grandpa will be here when I get home.

  But today, I need some time alone. I tiptoe past the bathroom, into my room, and ease the door shut. I drop the sweats on my bed and pull the singlet and shorts out of my backpack. I can’t wait to try them on.

  The shorts are tiny, barely even as big as underwear. They look like they could fit my teddy bear, Wilson. I take off my shirt and jeans and try the shorts first. I guess my waist isn’t that much bigger than Wilson’s, and the elastic is super stretchy, so they feel fine. I take a practice run around my room, lifting my knees as high as they’ll go, doing a few circles around the end of the bed. So far, so good.

  The singlet seems to be a piece of clothing that hardly exists. When I slip it over my head, I feel like there’s more armhole and neck opening than shirt. But at the same time, it hangs down practically to my knees. I try tucking it into the little tiny shorts and somehow it all miraculously fits.

  My excitement immediately dims when I turn and stare at myself in the mirror: My skinny arms and legs. My bony chest and shoulders. If I had any summer tan, it’s all faded and I’m about the color of a raw cashew. I flex to see if I can round out my limbs with manly muscles. All that does is make my arms look like the middle section of a chicken wing.

  I wouldn’t blame Charlie Kastner for laughing at me. I would laugh at me. My feet look like flippers. My dad keeps telling me that means I’m due for my growth spurt, and that he spurted right around the age I am now. I keep watching and waiting, but so far no spurt. Not even close.

  I’ve had Get in Shape, Boys! stashed under my bed for more than two weeks now. I haven’t had the nerve to pick it up and look inside. I’m afraid I’ll find a special chapter for kids like me entitled “Lost Cause: Is This You?” I think about those guys on the cover. I can’t imagine how this matchstick of a body could possibly turn into one like that. But the uniform and the practices aren’t doing the trick, so I guess it’s time for more serious measures.

  I almost pull a muscle just picking it up. It’s four-hundred-something pages with thirty-something chapters and each chapter has about a million sections. Not only are the guys in this book fit and handsome, but if they read this book to get that way, they must be speed readers, too.

  The chapters start out friendly enough, but get scarier as you go on:

  “Looking Your Best.”

  “Taking Care of Your Pearly Whites.”

  “The Strange Land of Puberty.”

  “Overcoming Acne.”

  “Hair Removal.”

  Hair Removal?

  There are chapters on smoking cigarettes, taking drugs, and using steroids. I don’t really need any more warnings on those. I’m already terrified of all those things. There’s a chapter on being a vegan, which is kind of scary in its own way.

  There ar
e sections on birth control and sexually transmitted diseases, which I skip over so frantically I almost rip the pages.

  When I finally get to Part II, I find it:

  “Getting in Shape.”

  I look pretty carefully, but I don’t see anything about running. What I do find is:

  “Calisthenics and Pumping Iron: Your Path to Strength and Confidence!”

  In this section our guide is a guy named Pete Power. He’s some kind of official “Pumping Iron” instructor, and he’s a lot older than the kids on the cover. He’s not even a teenager. In the pictures, he demonstrates sit-ups and push-ups and lifting weights. He pushes and twists and pulls, smiling through it all like he’s in a shaving commercial. Even when he’s just stretching, his muscles are round and smooth and shiny, and piled on top of each other like a three-scoop ice cream cone. And he must have read the chapter on hair removal, because even though he’s a grown man, there’s not a tuft to be seen.

  He demonstrates lifting dumbbells and barbells with weights the size of manhole covers stacked about five deep. Then he puts on belts and straps and gloves to use some giant padded exercise machines. In one picture he shows off his stomach, which is rippled with abdominal muscles, or “abs” for short.

  To top it all off, he gives pieces of advice: “Be courteous to other athletes,” he says, “wash your clothes after each workout.” Sounds like a good rule.

  I put the book on the floor and look in the mirror. I untuck my singlet and check for abs.

  Hopeless.

  There’s a knock on the door. “Joseph?” It’s Grandpa.

  “Oh, hey, Grandpa,” I say as casually as I can, but it comes out in a particularly squeaky, guilty voice.

  “You okay in there?” he asks. “Guess you snuck by me.”

  “Sure!” I say. “I’m fine!” I throw my sweats on to cover my skinny self and waddle to the door. Then I remember Get in Shape, Boys!, so I dash over and shove it underneath the bed with my foot. Or at least I try to. It’s stuck on something, probably an old boot or a “Pirates of the Caribbean” plastic sword from our trip last winter.

  “Joseph?”

  “Coming!” I call and give Get in Shape, Boys! another few jabs with my toe, leaving it about half hidden and my big toe throbbing. I waddle over to the door and scrunch the extralong sweatshirt arms up around my elbows so I can have a hand free to let Grandpa in.

  Grandpa wanders over to my bed and sits down, his left foot practically nudging Get in Shape, Boys! He folds his hands and looks me over. I must look like a lumpy pillow, or a powder-blue Michelin Man. He has a little half smile on his face, but at least he doesn’t laugh at me.

  “So,” I say, sitting down on the other side of the bed. I try to casually cross my legs, but the sweatpants are way too bulky. “Did you have a good day? Keeping busy?” My mother asked Grandpa that a few days ago, but as it comes out of my mouth I think it sounds really dumb.

  “Well,” says Grandpa, “I took a walk, went to get some new white socks—the kind without the tight elastic . . .” I nod. I hate those, too. “Then I took another walk and read the paper. Not what you’d call thrilling. How about you?”

  “We got our uniforms,” I say.

  “So I see,” he says.

  “These are just the sweats. They all came in extra large.”

  I’m starting to see why these things are called sweats. I feel a drip under my arm and on my forehead. If I don’t take them off soon, I might pass out. So, I really have no choice but to pull the sweatshirt over my head, step out of the sweatpants, and bare my skinny self to Grandpa. “We have our first meet tomorrow,” I say, shifting a little, trying to look like Pete Power but probably looking closer to one of those stick figures I can’t draw.

  “Your first meet,” he says. “That’s exciting. Are you nervous?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “But I get nervous about pretty much everything. Last year the school psychologist told me I have something called anticipatory anxiety.”

  “You have who?” asks Grandpa.

  “Anticipatory anxiety. It means I worry about things that might happen. She wrote it down for me,” I say, fishing a bright yellow piece of notepaper out of my night-table drawer. I hold it up to show Grandpa. “She said it would help if I knew what my problem was.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not really. I just worried a lot about having it.”

  Ms. Porter’s note is stapled to a piece of lined paper covered in my own writing. She told me to make myself a “worry list” so we could talk about it. I didn’t realize she meant a list of things I was worried about. I thought she meant a list that would help me worry. So I wrote this:

  It’s never too early to start worrying.

  Nothing is too little or unimportant.

  If you have an uneasy feeling, try to pinpoint what’s bothering you. That way you can focus on it and worry properly.

  Worry expands to fill available time.

  Even if something’s already happened, you can still worry about it.

  I thought it was a pretty impressive list, but Ms. Porter didn’t seem to like it very much. Grandpa is watching me as I look it over. Somehow he seems to know that my worries right now have to do with my puny biceps and bony limbs.

  “You know,” says Grandpa, like he’s telling me a secret, “looking at you in that uniform? It reminds me of some men I’ve seen on TV.”

  “Seriously?” I say, horrified. “You mean this could be permanent?” I can’t believe I could look like a walking skeleton my whole life.

  “Wait a second, Superhero. I was going to say, there are professional athletes who look like you.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Marathon runners. The ones who win—in New York, Boston, the Olympics even. They’re skin, bone, muscle—nothing extra to weigh them down.”

  I look in the mirror again, this time holding my arms in a running position. There’s certainly not much to weigh me down.

  “You do some sit-ups, some push-ups, keep up your running, you’ll be Mr. Marathon before you know it.” He gets up and says, “And meanwhile, I thought I’d toast up some of those frozen waffles. When you’re finished in here, maybe you’ll come join me.”

  I suddenly realize I’m starving. Waffles seem like the answer to every question. Waffles with maple syrup. Waffles with peanut butter and jelly. In fact, you could put spinach on top of one and I’d probably eat it.

  I give Grandpa a thumbs-up and he gives one back. A few seconds later, I hear the shunk of the toaster handle going down.

  Skin, bone, and muscle. I get down on the rug and do some push-ups. I stand up and examine my arms in the mirror.

  Still skinny.

  I lock my feet under the bed and do some sit-ups. The bed frame is digging into the tops of my feet and my stomach muscles are cramping up, so I stop after six. I pull up my shirt and look in the mirror.

  No change.

  I put my regular clothes back on, and give Get in Shape, Boys! one more shove, this time making sure it goes all the way under my bed. I toss my singlet and shorts under there, too, but then I pull them back out and stuff them into my backpack. The meet is tomorrow, and it would be just like me to forget.

  I think about what Grandpa said. Marathons. Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe marathons are my destiny. Maybe being a walking Q-Tip will pay off in the end. Once I get better at cross country, I can build up to longer distances and then I’ll run a marathon. How far is a marathon? Five miles? Ten? I lie down on my bed and imagine it. Me, finishing a marathon, while Pete Power lumbers along, his rounded, muscly body weighing him down.

  The smell of Eggos and syrup wafts into my room. As I race to the kitchen, I think about what Mrs. T always says: To achieve every goal, there has to be a first step.

  I’ll make being a marathoner my new goal. And tomorrow’s meet is my first step.

  Chapter 16

  I start the day with bananas in my cereal and a glass of orange juice,
and since there are strawberries in the refrigerator, I throw those into the bowl, too. I’m practically a walking fruit salad.

  Today is our first meet, and I’m ready to start my journey toward my marathon goal.

  “Hey, Dad?” I ask, because he knows a lot of things. “How far is a marathon?”

  “Twenty-six miles,” he answers, picking up his briefcase.

  “Twenty-six miles?” I gulp.

  “Twenty-six point two, actually. Why?”

  I sigh. “Never mind.”

  Sometimes I think goals are overrated.

  “Well, good luck today!” he says. “I know you’ll do great. Whenever you’re ready to have us cheer you on, just say the word.”

  “Okay,” I answer. I’ve stuffed my mouth full of Cheerios, so it sounds more like “Mmmkkmmphhh.”

  When I told my mom and dad I was doing cross country they were really excited. They wanted to come to all of my meets. I pointed out that they’d have to leave work super early since nearly all the meets were at other schools, and also, since we run through the woods, there’s really not much to see. They still wanted to come, but then I told them I’d get really nervous, and I might trip and fall and break something. That seemed to do the trick. At least for now.

  My mom’s going to Maison late today, so she gives me a kiss and I walk to school by myself. I’m in a daze—not that I’m normally Mr. Focus—but all I can think about is the meet.

  When I pass Victoria in the hall, she actually puts up her hand for a high five. In the Resource Room, Erica, Sanjit, and I are a chorus of bouncing legs and tapping pencils. In French, Heather is drawing the team as tortoises and hares. Of course I’m a tortoise, but I don’t mind, especially because she has me sweating, gritting my teeth, and crossing the finish line.

  Finally, after my last class, I duck into a bathroom stall and change into my uniform. Then I run to join the others in front of the gym. I feel like I’m having one of those dreams where I’m out in public half naked. Except, I really am out in public half naked.