Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

“I thought it was that Batman suit I used to wear.”

  “No! It’s because of those beautiful, magical powers you have. Your super senses. And your super heart. That alone makes you a superhero.”

  “But the earplugs . . .”

  “You can do it without them.”

  “I can’t.” Even as I say it, I picture Mrs. T’s disappointed face.

  “You can. Try. I know you can.”

  “I’m still going to be slow.”

  “What was that about a personal record you told me? What Mrs. R said?”

  “Mrs. T—Coach T,” I say.

  “So that’s what you’re running for: a personal record.”

  “Seventh-grade boys, to the line!” calls the ref. I look over and see that everyone else is already there. I spot Lakeview’s light blue jerseys. Sammy and Mark are looking around for me.

  “Go on,” says Grandpa. “I came to watch you run. Now go!”

  I take a deep breath and go to the start. I squeeze in between Sammy and Sanjit. I can see that farther down the line the Brockton guys are already throwing jabs with their elbows to get the center position.

  “We thought you weren’t coming!” says Sanjit. He sounds relieved.

  “I lost my earplugs,” I say.

  “Oh, man. Guys!” Sanjit pulls Mark over. “He lost his earplugs.”

  “Get him in the middle,” says Mark. “He doesn’t have his earplugs.”

  Sammy and Wes slide in on one side of me and Sanjit and Mark go on the other. “Don’t worry,” Sanjit tells me. “You’re coming with us. Just hang on.”

  “Boys, ready!” calls the ref.

  I put my hands over my ears. The guys press together around me. I feel them on either side. I try not to shake too obviously and to keep breathing.

  “Set!” calls the ref. I press on my ears as hard as I can.

  BLAM!

  I feel myself moving forward, but it’s sort of like my body is leading and my legs are just keeping up. I realize that Sanjit has his arm through mine and Sammy has the other one and they’re not letting me go. It’s a sea of pounding feet and flying elbows. I swear I can feel the earth shake underneath us, and I run as fast as I can.

  When they’re sure I’m steady, they unwind their arms from mine. Somehow, I manage to keep up and we stay in a shaky pack, even though some kid steps on the back of Sanjit’s foot and his shoe is half off. Wes is muttering something about throwing up. We’re keeping up a decent pace, but way up ahead, Brockton is cruising in the lead—no surprise.

  The whole Brockton team slips into the woods way before the rest of the teams, who have to fight for position. There are at least five teams bunched up and one little trail opening to fit into. It’s a stomping, crazed race to get there. Our pack stays together, and we manage to get in ahead of JFK, but Hampton pushes in front of us at the last minute. We’ve all lost time in the shuffle for position, unlike the Brockton guys who are probably through the woods already and halfway up White Oak Lane.

  When we’re finally in the woods, everyone slows down. I know we have to pace ourselves and hold steady. The hill comes after the woods, then the trail behind the gym, and then we’ll do it all over again.

  In the woods, there’s only the sound of runners: thumping feet, the huff and puff of our breathing. I just keep moving, following Mark and Sammy, being careful not to trip, as we wind our way through the trail to White Oak Lane. I think back to the first time I ran in these woods, sitting in the fallen leaves, pinned to a bush, and Heather coming back to find me. I remember how much I wanted to quit, how I would have quit, if it wasn’t for her. And now she might be leaving and I’ll be on my own again.

  A few of the coaches are positioned on White Oak to stop traffic, so we don’t get mowed down by unsuspecting parents coming to pick up their kids. When we come out on the road, I look up the hill. It’s dotted with runners. I see every color jersey except for Brockton green. I guess those guys are already up the hill and on the trail behind the gym.

  Everybody’s grumbling. It’s too steep. It’s not fair. But to us it’s just White Oak Lane, the hill we’ve run a million times. Even though I feel like I’m creeping along, I’m actually passing a couple of guys. Coach T told us it would be our friend. Now I understand what she meant.

  Way in the distance, I can hear someone call “Brockton!” They must be racing toward the woods for their second loop.

  Wes looks like those chips were a big mistake, but he’s digging in, still moving. Sanjit got his shoe back on. Our team is spread out, each of us going at his own pace. I’m almost up the hill, and for a second I feel relaxed, like maybe this will all come to a good end.

  But then I hear another cheer. The Brockton boys are coming out of the woods and starting up White Oak for their second time. They know they’re in the lead, and nobody can catch them, but now they’re racing each other to finish first.

  I turn onto the trail that goes behind the gym. It’s just runners back here. There’s no room for spectators, no coaches or parents, until the point when we come around the corner of the gym. It’s a narrow trail, no space for packing up, hardly room for passing.

  I hear footsteps and glance over my shoulder to see who’s coming. It’s the Brockton kid. The one who ruined my earplugs. The one who pushed Heather. I’m still huffing and puffing from the hill, but I stay in the middle of the trail. I hate the fact that he’s coming up behind me, that even on his second loop, he’s going to catch me.

  The footsteps get closer and I feel an elbow. It’s him.

  “Get out of the way,” he says.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I jab him back. I remember those fast little steps from the fartleks, and I pick up the pace so he can’t pass.

  “Get out of the way, stupid,” he says. “You still mad about the ear things?”

  “No,” I say. “Heather.”

  “What?” he says.

  “The last meet,” I gasp. This is way faster than I’m used to going. “Last meet you pushed my friend.”

  “You mean a push like this?” he says. I know it’s coming, so I somehow duck under his elbow, just missing being bounced off the back wall of the gym like a pinball.

  I’ve slowed us down enough so that the other Brockton runners are catching up. “You’re”—gasp—“a cheater.” I say it loud enough so the others can hear.

  “What’s up, Trey?”

  “Nothing,” Trey says. “This kid won’t move.”

  “The last”—choke—“meet,” I gasp. “He pushed a girl and she sprained . . .” I don’t have enough breath to finish, but they get the point.

  “Trey, you pushed a girl?” one of the guys says.

  “No, I didn’t,” Trey says.

  “Did,” I say.

  “She tripped.”

  “Elbowed,” I say. My legs are killing me, but I have to keep blocking him.

  “She was in my way,” says Trey.

  “You couldn’t pass a girl?” says another kid.

  “Not”—gasp—“this”—choke—“girl,” I say.

  “You’re an idiot, Trey.”

  We’re almost at the end of the trail, and I know the coaches and parents will be positioned to see who’s coming out first. I know that Trey has had enough of me. I know he’s itching to go. But I hold my ground in the middle of the trail, my legs shaky. As we come to the corner of the building, I slow down, just a little. Just enough. I feel his elbow in my armpit and this time I don’t fight it. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I feel the shove and just as we come around the corner, out into the open, I’m jolted up in the air.

  It feels like I’m up there for a long time—long enough to see parents dressed in Brockton green, and some with their faces painted Hampton orange. There are people in Lakeview blue and Fox Ridge purple. Coming down, I see the shock on their faces, the Brockton coach’s face most of all. And as I finally land on my rear in a stinky, wet cushion of leaves, I think to myself: Mission accomplished.


  Chapter 28

  One of the other Brockton runners stops and helps me up. He’s shaking his head and looking ahead at Trey, who’s raced off to finish. The Brockton coach is writing something on his clipboard. I hear Sammy’s voice, “Joseph, get up, come on,” and then he’s pulling me up, too. A few runners pass by, a few fast kids on their second loop, but most are still on their first, like me.

  I brush the dirt off my knees. One is scraped and a little bloody, but I don’t care.

  “Joseph!” It’s Heather, calling from the crowd. Even from a distance, I can tell that she saw it all. Finally, I’ve paid her back. “Personal record!” she calls. “Bring it home!”

  I’m still shaken up, but before any more runners can pass me, I stumble to my feet and start running on the strip of field that leads back to the woods. I’m starting to understand what it means to be on your last legs, but everybody’s watching and I can’t quit now. I keep going until I stumble into the woods, and the cheers of the crowd disappear.

  It’s quiet again. We’re all spread out, no more packs, just runners, each one of us trying not to give up. It’s cool and shaded and I look at the trees around me, bouncing and blurry as I run. The trail stretches out ahead, and a squirrel dashes across it, looking edgy and upset by all these kids coming from who-knows-where. I hear the crinkle of leaves underfoot and the vague huffing sound of another runner behind me. I keep trudging.

  After all the action and the cheers, it’s amazingly peaceful here. My mind says, Keep going, keep going. My body is shouting, What, are you crazy? But for once I have no energy for worrying. I just have to finish.

  When I get to White Oak Lane, I’m back in the sun and I stare up the hill. I remember the first time I climbed it, the stitch in my side, gravity pulling me down. Even though I’m stronger and fitter and I’ve done it a million times, it’s still steep and I’m still tired and I still wonder if I can make it.

  But I put one foot in front of the other, and I see Sammy and Wes at the top of the hill. Somewhere along the way, Wes must have picked it up. I think about who’s waiting for me: Heather. Coach T. Grandpa. Maybe my parents have even made it. I think about finishing. I think about a personal record.

  I finally make it to the trail behind the gym. There isn’t far to go now. This time there are no Brockton runners. They all finished a long time ago. I know the crowd is waiting, and I wish I could smile as I turn the corner, but everything hurts, especially the hip I landed on and my knee. I just have to concentrate on making it to the chute and then to the finish line.

  I hear Grandpa’s voice first: “You’re almost there, Joseph!”

  And Heather’s: “Finish strong!”

  And then a chorus of girls’ voices: “Go, Joseph! Looking good!”

  “Go get ’em, Joseph!” calls another voice. It’s Mrs. Fishbein! I’d forgotten all about Mrs. Fishbein!

  Up ahead I can see Sammy and Wes. They’re crossing the finish line. There are a couple of kids in front of me, and they look even worse than I feel. I find one last, painful burst of energy and push as hard as I’ve ever pushed myself to pass them. I race to the finish line, stumble across, and tumble to the ground.

  Coach T is jumping up and down and clapping her hands. George and Ringo pounce on me, covering me with bulldog snorts. Wes is pointing back to the course, where Mark and Sanjit are finishing. I manage to pull myself up to cheer them home. They cross the line and then we’re all catching our breath, watching, amazed, as maybe twenty-five kids finish after us. Twenty-five runners, maybe more! After us!

  Sanjit brings me over a cup of Gatorade and my hand is shaking so hard I can barely drink it. The girls are all on the other side of the field, waiting for the signal that all the boys are through so they can cross back over to join us at the finish.

  But all the boys aren’t through. In the distance there’s a lone figure coming out from behind the gym, wobbling his way toward us. It’s Heber. All the spectators are too busy gathering their stuff and looking for their kids to even bother with a pity cheer.

  I somehow make my legs move, and I pull Sanjit and Mark with me.

  “Heber!” I call to him. I try to give him the most unpitying cheer I can think of. “You’re not looking good. You look terrible. Awful! But you’re going to finish. You’re going to finish! You can do it.”

  Then Sammy and Wes join in, and Heber’s teammates come over, too.

  “You can do it, Heber!” they call out. “Finish strong!”

  There’s not much change in Heber’s stride. He just keeps chugging along, but his face brightens and his eyebrows scrunch together, and he keeps moving. Barely, but he keeps moving. We follow him to the finish chute. It’s slow going, but we’re with him, step for lumbering step.

  When he finally crosses the finish line, we all break into cheers.

  “Way to go! PR! PR!” we cheer, even though we have no idea if he PRed or not.

  I’m suddenly aware that I can’t move another inch. I don’t think I have the strength to lower myself to the ground, but I can’t stay up, either.

  The girls have gotten the signal that they can cross the field, and soon every girl on every team is heading toward us in a wave.

  “Wow,” says Sammy. “It’s like a dream come true.”

  Soon they’re surrounding us and there are high fives and hand slaps and lots of jumping around. Erica rushes over to Sanjit and hugs him around the waist. He looks surprised and then he smiles really wide. I think he finally gets it.

  Then, all of a sudden I’m being picked up and spun around.

  “Great race, Friedman! You did it!” It’s a little embarrassing to be so easily hoisted in the air, but Heather looks so proud of me, I don’t really mind. She puts me down and now I’m not only tired and shaky, but dizzy, too. I lie down on the grass and Heather sits next to me. She starts talking right away.

  “You PR’d for sure. Isn’t it the best feeling ever?”

  I hardly have breath enough to answer. “Yuh,” I say with a nod.

  She lowers her voice a little and says, “And that move with Trey.”

  “Who?” I say. My mind is a blur.

  “Trey, the Brockton kid. You timed it perfectly,” she whispers. “Don’t you want to know what happened to him?”

  “Why?” I ask. “Did he get in trouble?”

  “He was DQ’d,” says Heather.

  It takes every ounce of energy I have left to raise my head two inches and ask, “Dairy Queened?”

  “Disqualified,” she explains, letting a smile spread across her face.

  I get a surge of strength and sit up straight. “Disqualified?!”

  “Unsportsmanlike conduct.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Are you kidding? They’d have to be blind not to see that elbow.”

  Coach T’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Awards in ten minutes! Everyone over to the finish line. Awards in ten!”

  I guess I have to get over there, if for no other reason than Coach T says so. But there’s the question of moving. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to make it from sitting all the way to standing. I’m about to give it my best shot when Heather says, “Hold on. I have to tell you something.”

  And then it all comes rushing back. How Heather might be moving. How she hugged her father, the sign he gave, the way she was crying.

  “I talked to my mom today,” says Heather.

  “Today? I thought she was calling—”

  “Tonight. I know, but . . . I couldn’t think of anything but her. I couldn’t concentrate. Have you ever felt like that? Like you just can’t focus?”

  “Like every day?” I say.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She covers her mouth, trying to hide her smile. I guess for a minute there she forgot who she was talking to. “So, with the race today and everything . . . I couldn’t wait till tonight. I left school early and we called her. We talked. My mom, my dad, and me.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, but I
’m thinking, Please stay. Please, please stay.

  “I told her the truth, like you said. I told her how much I liked it here and how I don’t want to move again. But I said if the only way we could be together was for us to move to Hawaii, then I’d do it.”

  I don’t say anything, but I realize if it was me, if it was the only way I could be with my mom and dad, that would be the truth for me, too.

  “We talked about everything. We really, really talked. It sounds weird, but we never did that before. She told me things I never knew. How she got to be a scientist. How she never even liked being Blueberry Princess.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No! She just did it to make her mom happy. She told me how much she missed being with me and Dad. Then I told her stuff and she listened. I told her about school and my drawings and the team. I told her stuff about being . . . me.”

  “Awards, ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes!” calls Coach T. “At the finish!”

  “So—” I start.

  “So, when I left, my mom and dad were still talking. They needed to work things out, too. But I felt like whatever happened, somehow things were better. Somehow, it would be okay. And I got here just in time.”

  “But you didn’t know if you were staying or . . .”

  She shakes her head. “Not until I saw my dad.”

  “Doing this.” I imitate what her dad did with his hands.

  She smiles. “The baseball sign. It’s the sign for home. If you’re on third base it means, ‘Run home.’”

  I still don’t get it.

  “My mom’s coming home.”

  When I hear that I feel like I could bounce to my feet in a single jump. In reality, though, I push off and fall right back down again.

  “We’re going to Hawaii for Christmas,” Heather says, laughing at me. “She’ll show us the Hibiscus waimeae and the orchids and the rainbows, but then she’ll come home with us.” She leans over and plucks a last little clover flower out of the grass and twirls it between her fingers. “She’ll still travel. She has to. But she wants to spend more time with me. She wants to see me run. I told her about Lakeview, how much I like it here. Even with Charlie Kastner and those Brockton guys. Even with the fartleks.”