Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  “You heard Coach,” I say. “You’ll rest it before the league meet. It’s probably just a sprain.”

  She still looks pretty grumpy.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to stop for you,” she says. “If I’m in a race, and you’re down, I wouldn’t stop.”

  “Yes, you would,” I say.

  “Would not.”

  “Would too.”

  That’s all we say for the rest of the ride, but I know I’m right. She would do the same for me. She already has.

  Chapter 24

  It’s not that I’ve forgotten what Heather said on the trail, or that I’ve decided she was right. Although I have to admit, some of it was true: I don’t fight. I let other kids trample me. I duck when the ball is coming and I don’t really mind being last. Still, it’s not like I don’t try at all. In fact, I’ve been trying pretty hard. But when she comes into school with her sprained ankle wrapped like a mummy, it doesn’t seem like the right time to talk about it. Even if I wanted to.

  There are ten days before the league meet, and Heather has to rest her ankle for at least a week. The doctor says there’s a fifty-fifty chance that she’ll be one-hundred-percent ready to run. That makes no sense to me. I guess all he’s really saying is, Let’s hope for the best.

  Meanwhile, Coach T has appointed Heather as her assistant coach, so she can still be involved with the team and not get too down. Coach T also tells us that we better get ready for some serious training. She says we’re even going to have a practice on Wednesday.

  When my parents agree to let me skip Hebrew school, I’m thrilled. But that’s before I hear Coach T’s goal for the day: We’ll be running up White Oak Lane, not just once, but three times in a row.

  I find myself wishing I were at Beth Shalom, reciting Torah blessings.

  “You’re going to make this hill your friend,” says Coach T. “When everybody else is struggling, you’ll be jogging up White Oak, whistling your favorite song.”

  Sure.

  As our new assistant coach, Heather stands at the top of White Oak and yells at us.

  “Come on, Sammy, even strides, no kindergarten steps! Victoria, no drama queens! Wes, you’re going to let Erica pass you?!” And the one that really gets me: “Friedman, no kvetching!” She wouldn’t even know that word if it weren’t for me.

  I can’t wait until she can run again.

  We repeat that workout on Thursday, and on Friday, Coach T tells us we’re going to give White Oak Lane a rest. She tells us she has another workout she wants us to try.

  It’s called a fartlek.

  “A what?” says Sammy. His mouth is wide open and his eyebrows are crinkled up. It’s almost too good to believe, a word like that. “It’s called a what?”

  “A fartlek,” says Coach T. “It’s a series of exercises that combines stamina, speed, and agility . . .” She looks up and sighs. “Okay, go ahead. You’ve got two minutes.”

  She times us while Wes and Sammy roll on the grass laughing their heads off, and we all take turns saying it out loud and cracking up. Every time we settle down, someone says, “Fartlek,” and we all start up again. Mark says it in an especially funny way, making it buzz in his throat. At first, Erica and Teresa are pretending to be grossed out, and Heather is looking at us like we’re ridiculous, but then they start laughing, too, and even Erica takes a turn saying it.

  Coach T actually gives us more than our two minutes, and when we finally settle down to a smattering of giggles and snorts, she explains what a fartlek is. Suddenly it doesn’t sound so funny. It sounds more like a form of torture, invented in Sweden.

  First you warm up. Then you run for a while, then you walk fast, then you go back to running, and then when the coach says so you have to sprint as fast as you can. Then you run some more and take some quick little steps, the kind you’d have to use if somebody’s trying to pass you. Then you run as fast as you can again. Then you’re supposed to repeat all of that until you feel like a bowl of Jell-O, or herring, or whatever jiggly food they have in Sweden.

  So on Friday and Monday, we do our fartleks. I go home with sore calf muscles and thigh muscles and everything muscles and eat half the refrigerator before dinner.

  But on Tuesday, we learn another new word. A good word: tapering. That means doing less. Much less. Until the meet, we’ll be tapering, just loosening up with “shake-out” runs, which means short and easy. We’re saving up our energy for the league meet on Friday. Tapering is now my favorite word.

  After practice, I head back into school. There’s something I’ve been wanting to do.

  I’ve had my copy of Get in Shape, Boys! in my backpack for about four days now, and I’m determined not to lug it home and back even one more time. I still don’t look like Pete Power, and I don’t think I’m ever going to. But Pete Power has probably never even heard of a fartlek, so I might have something over him.

  I head to the library and open the door. I don’t see Mrs. Fishbein. I wander to the back and peer into her office. No one.

  I hear the library door open and Mrs. Fishbein’s footsteps coming toward her office. I step out where she can see me and say, “Hi, Mrs. Fishbein,” so I don’t scare her.

  I scare her anyway.

  “Oh, Joseph,” she says, her hand over her heart. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  The last thing I want to do is give Mrs. Fishbein a heart attack. I hold up the book and say, “I wanted to return this. Should I leave it up front?”

  “No, sweetheart, just leave it in there on my desk. That radar gun is on the fritz again.” She waves at the checkout machine, like she wishes it would just go away. “Did you enjoy it? The book?”

  I don’t know if enjoy is the word, but I say, “Yes. I mean, it was kind of helpful. I’m running cross country now.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” she says. “You’ve become a real athlete.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I say, but I like the sound of it anyway.

  “Would you like a Cup O’ Noodles?” she asks, stepping into her office.

  I definitely would not like a Cup O’ Noodles, not only because of those slimy, wormy noodles, but also because that would mean staying to talk, and I can’t think of anything now when I look at Mrs. Fishbein except for her Vintage Cupid page.

  “Thanks, but I really have to get home,” I say. I don’t wear a watch, but I look at my wrist to make it seem more pressing. “Lots of homework,” I add.

  But when I put Get in Shape, Boys! on her desk, I knock over a framed picture. When I scramble to catch it, I end up knocking down two more, and then they all start falling like dominoes, with me chasing after them.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, trying to get the pictures to stay up on their flimsy little stands. But as soon as I get one to stay, another falls.

  “Don’t worry, Joseph,” she says. “Really. They’re old frames. They’re old pictures.”

  I look down at the one that’s in my hand. It’s Mrs. Fishbein with a man in a hat on an old boat. She takes it gently from me.

  “Inishbofin,” she says, like she’s casting a magic spell.

  “What?”

  “We went to an island called Inishbofin. My husband and I. That was our last trip together, in Ireland, on our way to this silly little island called Inishbofin. He passed away five years ago.” She looks at me and asks, “Can you stay? Just for a minute?”

  It would be pretty mean to leave after the mess I made and just as she’s telling me about her husband who died, so I sit down on a chair—luckily, a wooden one, not the slippery gray kind.

  She points at the picture. “Look how rusty that ferry is. We thought it would sink right in the middle of the ride. But it got us there. We rented bikes and the paths took us right through the sheep pastures, to the very edge of the cliffs. The sheep were everywhere, long-haired sheep, all soggy from the rain. You wanted to squeeze them out, like a kitchen mop in a bucket. And people had their laundry hanging on clotheslines.
Reds and oranges and bright greens flapping against the blue of the sea.”

  Maybe Mrs. Fishbein should have been a poet instead of a librarian.

  “It sounds nice,” I say.

  “Oh, it was so beautiful.” She looks off into space, like she’s imagining it all again. So I’m surprised when she says, “And then I hit a rock and my bicycle tire blew out.”

  “Oh, no,” I say.

  “But that’s the thing! Sometimes the best things happen when things go wrong. We missed our ferry back and stayed overnight in a little bed-and-breakfast. We had potato-leek soup for dinner and Irish brown bread. It was perfect. If I hadn’t run over that rock, we would never have seen that perfect sunset or the full moon that night . . .”

  Romantic, moonlit nights.

  “Do you like to travel, Joseph?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” I answer, pulling my mind away from the moonlit cliffs of Inishbofin and back to the library. “I’ve been to Vermont and once we went to Florida, but I’ve never been anywhere like Inishbofin. I’d like to.”

  “Oh, would you?” says Mrs. Fishbein. “I’m too old to go back now.” She sighs. “I’m a pretty tough old goose, but without Artie it’s hard.”

  “My grandpa says stuff like that, too. How he’ll never find someone else like . . .” I cut myself off and start again. “You’re not too old at all.” I look at my wrist again and say, “I’ve really got to go.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Of course, don’t let me keep you.”

  I look at Mrs. Fishbein, still holding the picture, still thinking about Inishbofin. I know she’ll be going home by herself, maybe to look at Vintage Cupid on the computer she hates.

  I think about Grandpa and how much he misses my grandma. That must be how Mrs. Fishbein feels. And Eddie, back at Sunshine Senior Living. I realize how unfair it is for all of them to be alone.

  And before I even think it through, I say, “Mrs. Fishbein? Do you want to come to my cross country meet on Friday?”

  “Your . . .”

  “Cross country meet. It’s the last race of the season. It’s here, at Lakeview. It starts near the track. Lots of teams are coming. It’s the league meet.”

  “Do you think you might win?”

  “Me? No!” She looks surprised. I guess it seems weird to invite someone to a race where you don’t have any chance of winning. I try to explain. “I’m not a very good runner. But there’s something called a PR, a personal record. It’s when you try to do better than the last time. I’ll be trying for a personal record.”

  “Well, that’s a sport I’d love to watch,” she says. “Will your parents be there?”

  “I think so,” I say. “And my grandpa,” I throw in.

  “How lovely. I’ll do my best to be there.”

  I smile and nod and give Mrs. Fishbein a thumbs-up. Then I leave the library without giving a hint that I know anything about Vintage Cupid, or hot chocolate by a fire, or being lonely.

  Chapter 25

  It’s already Thursday. The league meet is tomorrow, and I’m waiting for Heather outside our French class. She went to see the doctor this morning—at least, I think she did. She’s been running with us at practices, just a little at a time, but the doctor has to give her an all-clear so she can race tomorrow. I keep imagining her coming down the hall, telling me she’s gotten the all-clear, then warning me that even though she’s not the assistant coach anymore I shouldn’t expect any mercy.

  This is not a position I usually place myself in. Standing still in school hallways has always invited trouble. Historically, I’ve gotten bumped and banged, been the target of half-eaten cupcakes, seen kids elbowing their friends, whispering some story about what a dork I was in sixth grade. Or kindergarten. Or yesterday. I’m standing close to the door into French, just in case Charlie and Zachary come along and I need a safety zone. They’ve pretty much kept their distance since Charlie’s nose’s encounter with Heather’s fist, but you never know when they’ll decide it’s time to get back in the let’s-get-Friedman game.

  But so far, so good. In fact, today I get a nod, an actual nod, from Danielle Symington, and then Billy Hayward says, “Hey, man.” I’m not sure how to respond, so I raise my hand in greeting, and it seems to go over pretty well.

  I’m basking in my newfound popularity when the halls start to empty and I realize the bell will ring soon. I wonder if the doctor was late. I wonder if Heather got bad news. Then wonder turns to worry, and I start to count all the reasons why she might be late, all the reasons she might not be able to run. Maybe her ankle isn’t healed. Maybe she got the okay, but then tripped coming down the stairs from the doctor’s office and broke her arm. Maybe she got locked in the bathroom or has a stomach virus. All the maybes go flashing through my mind, but then, just as I’m about to give up and go in to French, I see Heather coming down the hall.

  I’m having trouble standing still. I’m bouncing on my toes, and finally I run up to her and barely resist the urge to tug at her sleeve like a terrier puppy.

  “So?” I say. “What did the doctor say? Are you healed? Can you run?”

  “I guess,” says Heather, which is way below a yes.

  “What do you mean? Can you race or not?”

  Heather tries to pass me and go in the door to French. “We have a quiz,” she says, but I get in front of her and say, “Tell me what happened with the doctor. What did he say?”

  “She’s a she, and she said I could run, okay?”

  I can’t figure out why she’s not happy. “So that’s great, right?”

  “She said I should ‘go easy.’”

  “But that’s nothing,” I say, relieved. “You could hop on one leg and probably still beat everybody.”

  “Stephanie Brown Trafton would never agree to ‘go easy.’” Then she stops and looks down and says, “My mom called last night. She wants us to move. To Hawaii.”

  Just then the bell slams my eardrums. My heart starts to race, not just because we’re standing right under the speaker, but because I can’t believe what Heather just said.

  I look at the open door, but I can’t go into French now. I can’t. I need more time. I need to do something. Heather is carrying her drawing pad and a plastic box filled with colored pencils. I do the only thing I can think of. I reach out and grab the pencil box, pull the lid open, and throw the whole thing on the floor.

  “Mes étudiants,” Madame Labelle sings out, coming to the doorway. “Entrez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” Shockingly, I understand her. She’s saying, “My students, come in please.”

  Then she sees the pencils. They’re scattered all over the place. An orange one is spinning down the hallway and a few are rolling into that grubby space under the lockers. I put on my guiltiest face and say, “Oh, Madame. Je suis . . . um . . . stupide. Je . . .” I wave my arms around like a crazy person to show her how I accidentally knocked into Heather and spilled the pencils. “Et je . . .” I point to Heather and then to me and pantomime that I’m going to help Heather pick them all up. Then I put my palms together like I’m pleading. “Deux minutes, s’il vous plaît?”

  Maybe it’s the shock of hearing even part of a French sentence coming out of my mouth, or maybe she’s impressed by my acting ability, but Madame looks at us, nods, and says, “Eh bien. Mais vite! Vite!” which I think must mean just hurry it up already.

  As soon as she closes the door, Heather turns to me. “What was that?”

  “It was all I could think of,” I say.

  “All you could think of to what?”

  “To . . . I don’t know. To find out what happened.”

  Heather looks at the pencils scattered all over the place. She gathers up about six and then leans on the wall, holding the pencils like a bunch of flowers. She lets herself slide down along the wall and sits on the floor. I pick up some more pencils and stand next to her. I try sliding down the wall the same way, but it doesn’t go smoothly. I lose control and land way too hard.

 
; “Ow. So what happened?” I ask. “Your mom. What did she say?”

  “First she talked about that hibiscus again.”

  “The one that changes color?”

  Heather nods. “She keeps saying how much she loves it. How she loves everything in Hawaii and she can’t bear to leave.”

  I don’t say anything. I just wait for Heather to go on.

  “She thinks we’d all be happy there. She wants us to come. My dad and me.”

  “To stay?”

  She nods.

  “But that’s like a million miles away.” I hear my voice rising to a fourth-grade squeak.

  “My dad says she should just come home. He says she’ll get tired of Hawaii and want to go somewhere else. They were arguing. I’ve never heard them argue like that.”

  She opens the box and puts her bunch of pencils back inside.

  “Do you want to go?” I ask, even though I’m afraid to hear the answer.

  She shrugs. “We’d all be together. And it sounds really beautiful. My mom says it’s sunny practically every day there. You can surf all year and there are palm trees and coconuts.”

  I want to say that coconuts fall on your head and sunburn gives you cancer and sharks eat surfers for breakfast. I want to say, “What happens when she wants you to go to Thailand, or New Mexico, or that place with the plants that eat frogs?” Most of all, I want to yell, “Don’t go! I don’t want you to! Don’t go!”

  The late bell screams and Heather gets up. She walks down the hall and picks up the orange pencil that’s made it halfway to the science lab. I fish under the locker behind me and manage to find two more. It’s disgusting under there, but I pluck them up with two fingers, trying to leave the dust balls and grit behind.

  “The thing I don’t understand,” says Heather, “is you’re supposed to be in love with people, not places.”

  I think about Mrs. Fishbein and Grandpa. How places seem empty without the people they love. Maybe it’s not like that for Heather’s mom. Or maybe she’s realizing that it is.