Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  When we get back to the starting line, the ref calls out, “Girls’ race is first! Line up, ladies!”

  By now Wes is jumping from leg to leg. “Hey, JFK kid,” he says, “where’s the bathroom?”

  “Dude, it’s all the way back where the bus let you off,” he says. “You should’ve gone then.”

  “You somebody’s mother or something?” says Mark.

  “Can’t you hold it in?” I ask.

  “I had two Arnies,” he answers, “and a Gatorade.”

  “Two whats?” asks Mark.

  “Arnold Palmers. Half lemonade, half iced tea. Oh, man, saying it makes it worse. I’ve got to go.” Wes looks around and starts off for the woods.

  “Wait! The girls are coming through there in like a minute . . .” Mark says, but Wes has already disappeared into the trees.

  The girls have left their sweats in a pile, and they’re lined up at the start, shivering in their uniforms.

  “Ready . . .” says the ref. I fumble with my earplugs and stuff them in.

  “Set . . .” Blam. I hear the shot, but it’s like it’s wrapped in cotton. I don’t even jump. I wish Heather was here to witness my victory, but then again, if she was here, she wouldn’t be looking at me. She’d be at the starting line, darting ahead of the pack.

  I take the earplugs out, and even though my hearing is sharp and clear now, once the girls’ footsteps fade out, everything is still and quiet.

  Sanjit is stretching. Sammy and Mark are trying to do handstands. I think about Heather, and what Sanjit said. About us being friends. I guess that’s how it looks from the outside. Maybe it’s how it is on the inside, too. I’m not sure.

  While the girls run, I spend some time squishing my earplugs, watching them flatten and pop back into form. I try to remember what Coach T asked me to do: Focus on the race. See the course in my mind. Get ready to run.

  After about fifteen minutes, one of the girls comes out of the woods and starts down the flagged-off finish lane. From where we stand, she looks like she’s wearing boots, but then I realize it’s mud, from her shoes up to her knees. All the girls behind her have mud on their legs too, and splattered on their uniforms. The last of them are half running, half walking, looking down and trying to brush spots of mud off their shorts with quick little strokes.

  When all the girls have crossed the finish line, the ref calls out, “Okay, boys, let’s go.”

  We throw off our sweats and line up. Wes pushes in between Sammy and me.

  “Feel better?” asks Sammy.

  “Yeah,” he says. He seems more cheerful.

  “Did the girls see you?”

  “Yeah. I was like ten yards off the trail.”

  “What did you do?” Sanjit asks.

  “I called, ‘Go Lakeview!’”

  The ref calls, “Up to the line, gentlemen! Two minutes to the gun!”

  As I stuff the earplugs in, a heavy kid in a Fox Ridge singlet lines up on my left. “Watch out going into the woods,” he mutters. “It’s the Wild West out there.”

  I’m not sure if I should say thanks, but it doesn’t matter because the ref calls, “One minute!” and I press my fingers into my ears, pushing the earplugs in deep.

  “Ready. Set . . .” Blam. The gunshot is cotton-wrapped again. I breathe a sigh of relief and relax. The only thing is, I forget to move.

  “Go, son,” says the ref in a cloudy voice. “Go on. Run!”

  “Oh! Thanks,” I say as I start out running, zigzagging across the field because I’m trying to get the earplugs out.

  Up ahead, all the runners are crunched up together, trying to get onto the woods trail. I can see what that kid was talking about. Elbows are flying and there’s pushing and shoving as kids jockey for position. By the time I go into the woods, there’s only that Fox Ridge kid and me left, and we practically fall over ourselves to let the other go first.

  In the woods, the trail is a river of mud. It’s drizzling and the ground is slippery and wet and just overall disgusting. The roots and rocks and dry patches I used to keep my balance in the walk-through are long gone, drowned in mud. With every step it splatters my uniform, my legs, even my face, but it’s no use wiping it off, because all I see in front of me is mud and more mud.

  The Fox Ridge kid has fallen back, but now he’s lumbering up behind me. I think he must have tripped somewhere along the way. He’s covered with mud. It kind of looks like he’s fallen into a vat of hot fudge.

  I raise my hand to let him know that I know he’s there, that I share his pain. It’s kind of a comfort, sharing the trail with him, and we slog along, half running, half walking, for what seems like hours, sliding and sloshing through puddles, until we finally reach the end of the woods. By now the paved path is muddy and slick, so we both slow down even more.

  As I see the finish line in the distance, the Fox Ridge kid pulls up next to me.

  “I’m Heber,” he pants.

  “Joseph,” I say, thinking, Boy, some kids just can’t catch a break.

  “Get ready for the pity cheer,” he says.

  “The what?”

  “The pity cheer. You’ll see.”

  As we reach the last stretch I see a bunch of mothers with looks on their faces like they’re watching videos of cats and puppies slipping and sliding across a waxed floor—sort of a mixture of sad and funny. I guess he has it right. It’s pity.

  “Attaway,” says a guy with a whistle. We walk for a few seconds, then try to run again.

  “Now somebody’s gonna say, ‘Lookin’ good,’” Heber says.

  “How do you—”

  “Lookin’ good!” a stranger calls out.

  “See? The pity cheer. Now go ahead. I can’t keep up.” Heber falls back a few steps and I manage to stumble across the line to a smattering of applause.

  Heber finishes behind me. “See you next time,” he says, then bumbles away.

  When we finally climb back onto the bus, we look like we’ve been in a Civil War battle. As the bus starts up, Coach says, “Now, everybody, did you see how Joseph was running with that boy from Fox Ridge? It’s a good lesson for everyone.”

  “That no matter how pathetic we are, there’s someone more pathetic?” suggests Sammy.

  “No, Sammy. That we can all work to help each other. Even on different teams, we can support one another.”

  “I like what Sammy said better,” says Wes.

  Teresa taps Wes on the shoulder. “That was really nice of you, to go into the woods to cheer for us.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Wes,” says Victoria.

  Sammy frowns when Victoria sits down next to Wes. Mark claps a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, hey, it was nothing,” says a smiling Wes. “Anything to support the team.”

  Chapter 21

  I’ve never been to a girl’s house. Well, maybe not never, but never since about first grade. I know I’ve never been to a girl’s house after she was suspended. And I’ve absolutely never been to a girl’s house after she was suspended for punching a guy because of me.

  But Coach T ended practice early—I guess as a reward for surviving yesterday’s Mud Meet—and instead of going home, I find myself walking down Underhill Avenue to Heather’s house. Underhill is a windy road that splits Lakeview into two jigsaw-puzzle-ish pieces. There are no sidewalks, just a strip of dirt and grass. It’s still raining a little, and every car that goes by sends a splattery fountain of muddy water right at me.

  On this side of Lakeview, most of the houses are big and stony. They have curving driveways with crunchy gray gravel. One house has a tennis court and a pool with a water slide. I can see the slide’s shiny handles peeking out over the fence. But Heather’s house is small and skinny. It’s pinky-tan, with brown windowsills. It blends in perfectly with the fallen leaves, like it’s trying not to be noticed.

  There’s a tall chain-link fence separating Heather’s backyard from Cloverdale Golf Club. Cloverdale’s lawn is still a rich aut
umn green, and its clubhouse is perched on a velvety hill, peering down in an I’m-better-than-you way. I wonder if maybe that’s what Heather’s house is hiding from.

  There’s a short cement walk leading to Heather’s front door. I stand at the end of it and stare. I feel stupid. I should have called. I should have texted. I should have done anything but wander over here like this, not knowing if Heather is mad at me or upset or thinking that I’m the most pathetic coward she’s ever met and this is all my fault.

  I’m about to turn back when the door opens. Heather is talking on her cell, but she waves me in, like I come over every day.

  “I know that,” she’s saying into the phone. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to punch anybody else out.”

  I squish squish my way through the soggy leaves to the front door. I leave my muddy shoes on the rug by the door, even though it doesn’t seem like the kind of house where there are rules about stuff like that. It’s more of a tromp-right-in-and-throw-your-coat-on-the-banister kind of house.

  There’s a high-pitched whistle coming from somewhere, and Heather motions for me to follow her down a short hallway. In the kitchen, steam is streaming from a blue teakettle. Heather puts her phone on speaker and drops it on the counter to free up her hands. Then she moves the kettle to another burner and turns the knob off.

  When the whistle stops, a woman’s voice fills the room.

  “You should see the flora here!” the voice is saying. “It’s just extraordinary!”

  Heather opens a cabinet and shuffles some cereal boxes around, looking for something. I wonder what a flora is. The voice continues, “There’s one flower, the Hibiscus waimeae. It lasts for only a single day. A single day! Each one starts out white and fades to pink in the afternoon. Oh, honey, I’m just in love with it.”

  “Mom—” Heather says, and my heart does a little jump.

  I guess her mom doesn’t hear her, because she just keeps talking. “There are chickens running loose everywhere,” she says, laughing. “And roosters! They jump up on the table and stare me down when I’m eating on the terrace. And the orchids! All the colors, the fragrances. You know they filmed Jurassic Park here. And South Pacific! There are rainbows every day, and there’s a little village called Hanalei—”

  “Mom,” says Heather again, a little louder. She grabs a box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate and puts it on the counter.

  “—Hanalei! Like in ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’!”

  “Mom, I don’t even know . . .”

  Then Heather’s mom starts singing, although it’s more like the phone on the counter starts singing, “Puff the Magic Dra-a-a-a-g-on lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist, in a land called Hana-le-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e . . .”

  Heather shoots me a glance and reaches for the phone, but not before I hear her mother say, “I’m just so in love with this place, Heather, I can’t bear to—”

  “Mom!” shouts Heather, taking it off speaker. “Please, stop. It sounds great. Really. It sounds beautiful, but . . .” She looks at me again. “Somebody’s here and I have to go.” She listens for a second. “A kid from the team.”

  She listens some more. “One meet. Yeah, I won.” Her mom talks some more, then finally Heather says, “Okay, but I doubt . . .” And then, “Of course. I will. I promise. Okay. Okay. Yeah, me too. Bye.”

  She hangs up, and before I can say anything, she looks me over and says, “What happened to you?” I look down. I could be a Tide commercial.

  “Mud,” I say with a shrug.

  “Have some hot chocolate,” she says. “You can spill it all over yourself and nobody could even tell.” I nod, and she turns to pull two mugs from a shelf I’d need a stepstool to reach.

  While her back is turned, I say, “I came to tell you I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” she asks, without turning around.

  “Because if I’d stood up to Charlie then he wouldn’t have said what he said and you wouldn’t have hit him and they wouldn’t have suspended you and you wouldn’t have missed the meet yesterday and you wouldn’t be mad at me.”

  She turns around and waggles two Swiss Miss packets, shaking down the powder so it doesn’t explode all over the place like it does when I open packets of Swiss Miss.

  “I’m not mad at you,” she says.

  “You’re not?”

  “No. For one thing, I got to meet the principal. Definitely a manatee, by the way,” she says, puffing her cheeks and lips into what I guess must be a manatee face. “And besides, I’m kind of glad it’s out of the way.” She rips the tops off the packets and pours the cocoa powder and hot water into the mugs. “Charlie was going to say something eventually. It was just a matter of time. I know he hears them over at Cloverdale, saying all sorts of things that aren’t true. Like my mom doesn’t care about me. Like she’s not coming back.”

  She puts the mugs down on the painted yellow table, drops a spoon in each, and we both sit down.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “Hawaii. ‘The land of Hanalei,’” she adds, shaking her head.

  “Wow. That’s far.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I concentrate on smushing up a clump of cocoa powder with my spoon.

  “She’s writing a paper on some endangered flowers. She’s a botanist.”

  “Like your dad?”

  “Well, almost. He’s a horticulturist. He grows plants, my mom studies them. That’s how he describes it. They met because of Furbish’s lousewort.”

  “Furb what?”

  “Furbish’s lousewort. It’s a plant that someone found growing on a riverbank in Maine. It was supposed to be extinct, so it was a really big deal to find it there.” Heather gets up, takes a small picture off the refrigerator door and hands it to me. I guess it’s her mom and dad. And the Furbish’s lousewort. The plant looks like an asparagus with little yellow flowers, nothing special at all. In fact, it’s pretty ugly. Her dad looks young and skinny and her mom looks really pretty.

  “Anyway,” says Heather, “my mom went to Hawaii and she was supposed to be finished in a couple of weeks, but now it’s been like a month and . . .” She shrugs and points to the phone, like what I heard is all she knows. “My dad says you can find fascinating things right where you are if you just look hard enough. But my mom . . .”

  Heather stares into her hot chocolate. I stare into mine. I have a vision of the two of us sitting here in hot-cocoa silence for the next hour. But then I remember how bad I felt that I never asked Heather anything about her mom. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, but saying nothing doesn’t seem right. Then I think, If I was Heather, what would I want a friend to say?

  Finally, I ask, “Do you miss her a lot?”

  Heather nods. “I guess I should be used to it. When I was ten, she went to New Mexico for a month to study some rare cactus. Before that was a parrot flower somewhere in Thailand. And then there were these pitcher plants somewhere that eat frogs.”

  “The plants? Eat frogs?”

  Heather nods. “And large insects. Sometimes mice.”

  Well, I think, at least it’s good to know in advance what my nightmares will be tonight.

  “And when she’s home, it’s kind of like she’s just planning her next time away.” Heather takes the picture and puts it back on the fridge. Then she comes back to the table. “She sends me neat stuff, though. I have this feathery charm from New Mexico and a jeweled elephant from Thailand. And she’s sending me a sarong from Hawaii.”

  “What’s a sarong?”

  “A long dress-thing,” she says, “with flowers.”

  “Oh,” I say. I try picturing Heather in a long, flowery dress. It doesn’t seem quite right, but then again, it took me a while to get used to Mrs. T in sweatpants.

  “I guess she thinks I’m a Blueberry Princess like her, not someone who goes around punching football players.” Heather gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe if she was around more, she’d know.”

  “Hey, even a Blueberry Princess would
want to punch Charlie,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “Everybody thought you were awesome. We couldn’t believe the look on Charlie’s face when you said the football team stunk.”

  The corners of her mouth do a little twitch. I think she’s trying not to smile.

  “Frank told Wes that Charlie was bleeding all the way down the hall and all he had was this little bunch of brown paper towels to wipe it up.” Heather shakes her head and covers her mouth. “Nicole Abruzzi was so grossed out she had to go home. And the custodian needed like a gallon of Mr. Clean stuff to clean it. We were all talking about it on the bus to the meet.”

  Finally, Heather lets herself smile. She scoots her chair back a little, stretches out her long legs, and folds her arms. “So,” she asks, “what about the meet?”

  “What about the meet?”

  She punches me in the arm. “How was it?”

  “Muddy,” I say.

  “Did you PR?”

  “Barely. It was like swimming in mud. But I wasn’t last. There was this guy named Heber. He was even slower than me.”

  “Heber?” She looks like she doesn’t believe me.

  “Yeah. Really.”

  I tell her about the soft green earplugs and the pity cheer and even Wes’s trip to the woods, but I make her swear not to tell the other girls about that. I tell her about Victoria and how she felt so bad for telling Charlie about me and the starting gun. Heather even agrees with the other girls about Zachary being cute, but a creep. I tell her again how the whole team wished she was there and how she would’ve won by a mile.

  Then I hear the front door open, and footsteps coming down the hall. “In here, Dad!” Heather calls.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a mad scientist in a white coat with goggles and a spray gun to battle all the golf course rot and mold Heather told me about that day at the track. But when Heather’s dad comes into the kitchen he turns out to be pretty much the same tall, gangly guy I saw in the picture, with a scruffy beard. His hair is in a ponytail and he’s wearing a flannel shirt and big work boots.

  “Hey,” says Heather. “This is Joseph. He’s on the cross country team.”