Pumpkin Run

by Mary-Kate Thomas

  “Well, that was well-intended,” said Walinski. He peered up at me from behind his newspaper. “You may go now, Cecelia.”

  I stood up, gathering my backpack. As my hand touched the doorknob, Walinski cleared his throat, and I paused, looking over at his desk.

  “I would hope that this will be the last time I see you in here on a Saturday, Cecelia,” he said, then shook his head. “Don’t become a regular.”

  “I won’t,” I said, slipping into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind me. I exhaled, leaning against the cool cinder block wall for a moment. I closed my eyes, then nearly screamed when a hand touched my arm.

  “I’m so sorry!” said Bronwyn, jumping back a step from my startled expression. She pushed a loose strand of her short hair back behind her ear.

  “I, uh, I was surprised to see you in there this morning,” she said, her face still puzzled. Bronwyn was tiny, not much taller than five feet, and I towered over her. She had short black hair in a bob; it kept that falling past her eyes.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, my face warming. I changed the subject quickly. “We had honors chem together last year, right?”

  Bronwyn nodded. “Yeah,” she said, then tilted her head toward Walinski’s door. “What’s up with Saturday Specials? Is it always like that?” Then her gray eyes widened when she realized what she had asked. “I mean, not like you’re in there all the time,” she added in a rush. “I meant... I mean... oh-”

  “It’s ok, I guess,” I said, shrugging. I glanced at the clock over Bronwyn’s head. “I haven’t really been in Mr. Walinski’s room. I’ve been helping in the media center instead.”

  “That’s right! I saw you on the news a couple weeks ago when the school was evacuated!” Bronwyn said, her eyes wide. “That was one of those kids, wasn’t it?” she whispered, nodding at the classroom door.

  “So I heard,” I said. “I have to go.” I waved, then turned back, “Hey, just so you know, it’s nice of you to try.” Bronwyn looked at me, and I said, “The speech? The whole get involved thing? If you just reach one person, right?”

  Bronwyn smiled and surprised me by shaking her head. “Yeah, thanks,” she said. “It’s nice of you to say so, but really?” She lowered her voice to a whisper as she turned toward to leave

  “That was all just a bunch of hot air. I volunteered to do it only because I’m just trying to do whatever I can to get named co-captain of the Academic Team this year.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I flew up the stairs by twos to the media center, then turned left past the doors and headed toward the storage room. The media center was still closed to the students during the school day while the crews worked on the water damage, but the storage rooms were just around the corner off the small hallway that led to the teacher’s lounge. Since I’d finished sorting the last of the stored books last Saturday but hadn’t turned the key in to Coach Z yet, I planned on spending today hiding out in the second storage room and working ahead on my homework for the week.

  Maybe I’ll finally be able to get some sleep this week, I thought, sliding the key into the lock and hitting the light switch.

  Coach Z sat in a folding chair in the middle of the room, waiting for me. I let out a little yelp, dropping the key which clanged to the floor.

  “Relax, Norwell,” he said, getting up and propping the door open with his chair. Grabbing a large shopping bag with handles that sat on the floor next to the emptied storage shelves, he motioned toward the hallway.

  “Let’s go talk out there. After you.”

  I headed back out into the hallway, kicking myself mentally, and wondering what was in the bag. Probably another special project of his, I thought.

  Coach Z followed me, leaving the door to the storage room open. With a wave of his hand, he pointed up to the corners of the hallway. “School’s security system will record video of us talking out her but won’t have any sound. That’s important. So is this.” He toed the bag. “Don’t open this yet.”

  I stared at him for a few seconds, wondering if I’d be better off just heading back to Walinski’s room for the day. He shook his head, disgust filling his face.

  Yup, Walinski’s room for the win, I thought, turning to go.

  “Norwell! Cici!” Coach Z said as I walked away quickly. “Stop for a second, would you?”

  I was turning the corner back toward the main doors of the media center when he called out, “I know your stepmother’s lying, Cici!”

  I stopped, but didn’t turn around.

  “Good, I’ve got your attention now, Norwell. If you want to know why I know she’s lying, come back here and we can talk.” He paused, then added, “I know you might find this hard to believe, but I am on your side.”

  Spinning on my heel, I pulled the straps of my backpack onto my shoulder and walked back to where Coach Z stood. His face broke into a slight smile.

  “You always go for the smart play, Norwell. Knew I could count on that today.”

  “What did you mean when you said you know my stepmother’s lying?” I asked, my voice wary. Was this a trap?

  “Well, Norwell, even though you barely talk to anyone in this school, you should know you have friends in high places looking out for you.” When he saw the disbelieving look I gave him, he nodded. “It’s true.”

  “Like who?” I scoffed. “Adamson? The Athletic Director? According to you, all they care about is keeping Castlewood High free and clear of any legal trouble from my stepmother or anyone else.”

  “Yeah, those two really caved, didn’t they?” Coach Z said, smiling. “Don’t worry about them, they only think they’re in control around here. I’m talking about the people who really run Castlewood High.”

  I was so confused. “Who?” I asked. “How?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Coach Z said. “Not me, that’s for sure. I’m just a gym teacher. But I did get a useful tip from a friend who wanted to help you out. So I checked it out.” He looked at me, arms crossed. “I know your stepmother’s lying about your health, Cici. Even if you didn’t have a sports physical, you’ve been a student at Castlewood High for three years. If your stepmother was so worried about your fragile health, this is the first time she’s said anything.” He paused, then added, “According to all the annual school forms and paperwork she’s filled out, you’re as healthy as a horse.”

  I stood there, silent. Coach Z snorted, then added, “There’s even a gym waiver, Norwell. Heck, you could’ve spent freshman gym learning to juggle instead of doing laps for me three days a week.”

  I remembered the two kids from my gym class who had been excused from running. I’d envied them. Coach Z was telling the truth.

  “O-kaaaay,” I said slowly. “So what if you’re right? What if I am perfectly healthy? What difference does it make in the long run?”

  “More than you know, but let’s just focus on the small stuff right now.” Coach Z nudged the oversized shopping bag toward me. “That’s for next week. You’ll need it.” Seeing me reaching to peek inside, he shoved it out of my reach. “Not yet. I’ll get to that. What you need to know right now is that after I found three years of school forms declaring you were healthy and signed off by your stepmother, I went ahead and rostered you on the cross-country team.” He paused, fiddling with the whistle dangling around his neck while he muttered. “Good thing, I did, too, with everything else that’s happening.”

  “So I’m rostered on the team, but I still can’t run,” I said. “Even if you have forms in the office on me, my stepmother will find some doctor to sign something saying I can’t.” I paused, then swallowed, shaking my head at the impossibility of all of it. “You don’t know what she’s like.”

  “Oh, I have a few guesses,” Coach Z said. “And I’m not the only one,” he added cryptically. When he saw me open my mouth to speak, he held up his hands. “Can you trust me, Norwell, when I tell you I can’t say more than that right now?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m on
your side, honest. A lot of people are on your side.”

  I finally nodded. Coach Z sighed, then smiled.

  “Good. So here’s the thing. Don’t worry about cross-country. Not yet. What you need to focus on is the Pumpkin Run next weekend.” He nudged the bag over to me again. “That’s what this is all about.”

  I shook my head again. “Coach, the only reason she’s letting me even go next weekend is so she can hijack my follow-up interview with Vicky Lewis. I’m not running next weekend. She’s making me wear a stupid pumpkin costume that I can barely walk in.”

  “Oh, I know all about that,” he said casually. “We all do. So you’ll need what’s in the bag next Saturday morning. And you’ll need to find a place to hide it at Hollenmeyer’s Corn Maze so you can change into it after your interview and run in the race.”

  I looked at the bag. “Another costume?” I guessed.

  “Yep, and a race number.” He paused, looking at me for a few long seconds. “That is, if you want them. If you want a chance to run in the race.”

  He fell silent, and I stared at the bag. I didn’t know who Coach Z was talking about when he said we all know and I’m not the only one. Or who at Castlewood High would have tipped him off about the school forms. Or what he meant by he couldn’t tell me anything more right now. Something was brewing, that much was obvious.

  But does it matter? I asked myself. He’s giving you a way to actually run in this race next Saturday, Cici. Really RUN. Maybe even win!

  I remembered the feeling of flying down the track and finishing first, my legs kicking high and my hair streaming behind me in the wind created by my speed. Feeling strong. Feeling invincible despite the pain.

  Feeling, for the first time after so many long, lonely years living under my stepmother’s domination, like I was good at something.

  Feeling like a winner.

  It was time to stop counting down the days until my life could really begin.

  Day one starts now, I thought, and my voice sounded strong and sure as I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the bag -

  “I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I spent the rest of the week studying the faces of the teachers and staff at Castlewood High, trying to figure out which ones might have helped me out by tipping off Coach Z to check my school health forms. In the end, I had to admit that I had no idea; the teachers and staff seemed like their usual selves, ranging from those who clearly loved their jobs to those who were just clocking in and out, one day closer to retirement and their ulitmate escape.

  Given my own life experiences with my stepmother, I had a lot of sympathy for the second group.

  After taking the bag from Coach Z, he’d headed off to cross-country practice, but not before telling me I was free to spend the rest of my last Saturday detention in the storage room, doing schoolwork.

  “Or taking a nap for all I care,” he had said, handing me back the key. “Just make sure this gets dropped in my mailbox on Monday morning.”

  I hadn’t slept, but I had finally gotten some extra studying done in the quiet of the storage room. Next to me, the bag had sat, untouched, until I had finished my work. Then I had finally allowed myself permission to peek inside.

  Nestled in the bag had lain a blue fairy costume. Made of stretchy material, there was a gauzy skirt that attached over the main leotard, matching leggings. and glittery wings that velcroed to the middle of the back. The costume barely weighed anything at all and it was easy to imagine wearing it while running.

  Best of all, it came with a delicately painted mask that pulled over my entire head and down to the nape of my neck, with lightweight mesh over my eyes, nose, and mouth. I had tried it on and felt a little thrill. I could breathe normally and the back of the mask had fitted snugly over my hair.

  With my face and hair covered, my identity would truly be a secret.

  This might just work, I had thought, my heart skipping faster with excitement.

  Below the costume, I had found a race number. My race number. Coach Z had thought of everything.

  I had debated taking the costume home that day and hiding it in the same thorny patch of woods behind the shed where I had stashed my bike, but quickly had decided the risk was too great. Instead, I had stashed it in my nearly empty locker before leaving last Saturday, bringing it home on after the end of the school day the following Friday. With my books and binder stashed in my locker, I had had enough room in the bottom of my backpack to hide it under Stacie and Drew’s assignments.

  The house had been quiet Friday night, my stepsisters and stepmother all at the away game for the football team. I had dutifully finished my list of chores and had been hopeful when I saw the last one on the list - steaming the wrinkles from three of Drew’s pageant gowns.

  Maybe she found some last-minute pageant for Drew to enter tomorrow, I had thought, but that didn’t seem likely given that all my stepmother had talked about all week was her upcoming in-depth interview with Vicky. She wouldn’t miss that chance for anything, I had thought, running the steaming wand over the beaded dresses over and over again until they looked perfect.

  I had been a sweaty, tired mess by the time I had finished late Friday night, and I had carefully hidden the fairy costume and race number at the bottom of the oversized bag that held the ridiculous pumpkin costume that my stepmother had ordered me to wear when we met with Vicky Lewis the next day.

  “I don’t care what you do with it afterward,” she had sneered, shoving the lumpy orange pile of felt in my hands. One triangular eye and half of a cut-out, toothy grin looked up at me from the front of the costume. “But you better be wearing that costume on Saturday when the cameras start rolling or else!”

  I woke early the next morning to the sounds of my stepmother and Drew screeching at each other.

  “I didn’t use the last one, I swear!” Drew hollered. She sounded like she was in her bedroom. I peeked at my clock. It was six-thirty. Vicky had set our meetup time for seven-forty-five since the race started at eight-thirty.

  Rolling out of bed, I threw on some lightweight running clothes, a pair of sweats, and pulled on my mom’s old running shoes. My stepmother’s voice shrieked in reply.

  “What were you thinking! I told you today was your big break, Drew!”

  Pulling my hair into a tight ponytail, I crept down the attic stairs and into the hall, my bag of costumes tucked under my arm. Beneath my foot, a floorboard creaked, and I cringed, holding my breath outside Drew’s bedroom door.

  “CICI!” My stepmother screamed. A pause, then, “NOW!”

  With a sigh, I placed my bag on the hallway floor and opened Drew’s door. She sat perched on a high stool in the middle of the room, my stepmother buzzing around her frantically, shaking a can of empty hair spray.

  “Quick!” she yelled, finger pressing hard as she tried to convince the can to give up a few more blasts of aerosol hair spray. “Check the hall closet. Top shelf.” She waved the can at me. “There better be another one of these in there!”

  I ran out of the room and to the closet, running my hand over the shelf until I touched the cool metal can.

  “FASTER!” my stepmother yelled as I came back into Drew’s room and handed it to her. She popped the top off one-handed and began spraying in earnest when her phone rang. I trotted back down the stairs, breathless, and plopped them on the counter.

  “There,” I said, then picked up my bag to go just as her cell phone rang.

  “I just CAN’T!” howled my stepmother, pointing the empty can at her phone. “Don’t just stand there, Cici, answer it!”

  Without looking at the number, I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Cecelia, I am so glad to have reached you!” said the voice on the other end. I hesitated. She sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place her, and simply said, “Yes?”

  The voice laughed. “You don’t recognize me,” she stated, then switched over to her professional voice. “This is Vicky R
eporter, from Team 5 Breaking News, just calling to confirm our upcoming interview today.”

  “Who is it?” My stepmother hissed, still fanning hairspray across the stiff curls that lay in crisp ringlets down the back of Drew’s neck. Her hair looked downright crunchy. I started to answer, but Vicky spoke in my ear again.

  “Is that your stepmother I hear, too? Good. That makes it easier for me - I won’t have to do this later at the Hollenmeyer’s Farm. Put me on speaker, would you, Cecelia?”

  I hit speaker, holding the phone in front of me. “Hello, Tammy,” said Vicky Reporter sweetly, her voice in full, smooth, professional mode. “I’m excited to talk to you, too, and so thankful to have both you and Cecelia on the call together. I just wanted to go over a few last-minute changes for today’s followup interview with Cecelia.”

  “And with me!” my stepmother demanded, then gave a trilling laugh. “I mean, that’s we planned, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, I have you slated in for the followup interview, too, Tammy. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Give me my phone!” hissed my stepmother as she made to lunge at me. She came up short, pulled back by the with the curling iron still entangled in Drew’s hair.

  “OWwww! That HURTS!” howled Drew.

  Vicky kept talking, her voice louder against the din.

  “It sounds like you have quite a bit going on there this morning so I’ll be brief. I won’t need to interview Cecilia until after the race; I’ll be too busy getting good coverage of the costume contest and shooting footage of the little kids at the Pick of the Pumpkin Patch contest beforehand. Did I read the names right? You’re one of the contest judges?” Vicky asked.

  “Of course you read that right,” my stepmother said, her voice sweet while her eyes shot daggers at the phone. “The committee asked me if I would volunteer my professional expertise and I agreed. Especially when they asked if Drew would help, too, in her official capacity as the inaugural Princess of Pumpkin Run.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “How fortunate for Drew. I’ll be sure to congratulate her when I see her. At any rate,” Vicky continued, “If you and Cecelia could meet me after the race is mostly over, around nine-thirty? Near the end of the race, by the corn maze? We can do the interview then.”