Sunny
Page 8
I ran off the track and gave Gramps and Aurelia hugs and they wished me happy birthday and asked if I was ready and all that, and I told them I was nervous and it felt like all those balloons were in my body. And that’s when Aurelia pulled out a green marker, grabbed me by the wrist, and drew a star on my forearm. Where my mother’s was.
For good luck.
When I got back to the benches, there were questions.
Yo, Sunny, why you ain’t tell us today was your birthday?—Lu
How you surprise your team with your birthday?—Patty
Anything else you want to tell us that we don’t know?—Ghost
Um . . . I don’t go to school.—me
You don’t go to school! Who are you?—Ghost again
Be quiet, Ghost.—Patty
I mean, I do wanna know about this school thing, but right now we talking about your birthday. So, how come you didn’t want us to know?—Patty again. We were passing the Tupperware of orange slices—the ones from Lu’s mom—around.
I told them that I just never really talk about it too much because I don’t do that much to celebrate or nothing because it’s also the day my mom died. And before they could make melty-sad faces, and do all the awful awww-ing, I told them it was fine. I was fine. And showed them the green star on my arm. None of them understood it—plus it was hideous—but . . . I knew.
Dear Diary,
The announcer made the announcement—because that’s what announcers do—that the order of events had changed slightly, and that there would be an add-on at the beginning of the meet. The discus. He announced who would be participating.
And lastly, from the Defenders, formerly the master of the mile, Sunnnnnnny Lancaster!
It was time.
I walked out onto the track, and across it, onto the grass over to the throwing circle. Coach came behind me, a few discuses in his hand. Two other throwers and their coaches were there swinging their arms around, trying to loosen up. They definitely looked a lot more relaxed than me.
Then the referee told us the rules.
If you go over the line or on the line, that’s a foul.
If you step out of the circle, that’s a foul.
If your discus goes outside the sector lines, which means if it hits the track—foul.
We all nodded. And then the ref said that because my last name, Lancaster, was alphabetically before Watkins and Young, I was up first.
Lucky Lucky Lancaster. Ugh.
Coach waved me over to where he was, which was just a few feet behind me. He put the first discus in my hand. He told me—reminded me—that I had this. That it was just like dancing. Whoosh. He told me to just let it flow, and let it go.
I stepped into the circle.
The sound of everyone watching . . . was silence.
I let the discus rest in my palm, let just the tips of my fingers grip it, just like we practiced. I wound, wound, wound, then . . . spun, stepped, spun-step, THROW!
Foul! Stepped over the line, son.
I tried to shake it off, and just grabbed another discus. Got back in position. Coach told me it was okay, and to settle down. Settle in. Coach bent his knees to demonstrate what he wanted me to do. Just like we practiced. Invisible chair. Sit in the invisible chair.
Darryl popped up just like he did a week ago when I quit. But his face wasn’t stone. Or wax. And I wouldn’t have even known if he didn’t scream out, Let’s go!
Aurelia popped up next to him.
Patty shouted, You got this, Sunny. You got this!
And Lu and Ghost, and even Aaron and Lynn and Curron and Whit and . . .
Ease up, Sunny. Nice and easy. Again, I let the discus rest in my hand. Then, when I was ready, I wound, wound, wound, and whipped into my double-spin again, this time getting the discus off clean, spiraling through the air.
But hard to the right.
Foul!
The discus plinked onto the track, followed by the ohhh of the crowd. Coach ran over to me.
He said he could see it in my face.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
Coach explained that he could see . . . sound. In my face. In my body. He told me I needed to let it out. I needed to scream.
Diary, remember what I said about choking? When I had the biscuit stuck in my throat blocking all my vowels? That’s how I felt again. Like I should knock everything over, but there was nothing to knock over. Like I was panicking. This was my last chance. My heart was kicking a hole in my chest. Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap! Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap! And as I tried to settle it, tried to get it to quiet down, suddenly . . .
Sound.
A rumble coming from the audience like a storm approaching.
And I stared at the discus, and at that star scribbled on my arm in green marker, and wound . . .
Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap! Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap!
Everything is moving. Everything is changing. Everything is connected.
And wound . . .
I am not a murderer. I am not a hurricane. Nothing is wrong with me.
Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap! Boom-bap bap, buh-boomboom bap!
The sound tears make on the inside, I have to get on the outside. Baraka. I’m going to scream. Baraka. I’m going to scream it out and away. . . .
And, SPUN!
Turned.
And turned.
And let go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgments are interesting because I always feel like I’m thanking the same people. But that’s because I’ve been fortunate enough to have consistent support. So . . . thank you Caitlyn, Elena, and Justin. You know how I feel about you all. Thank you, Mom. You definitely know how I feel about you. Thank you, Pop. Most people don’t know how I feel about you, but soon they will. Thank you to the librarians, teachers, and booksellers. I hope by now you know how I feel about you. Thank you to my siblings, all of whom are kind of strange, but in the best possible way. And most of all, to the young people who read these books. If you’ve read this one—which I’m assuming you have if you’re reading these words—hopefully your inner weirdo has been energized. We need your imaginative, courageous, unashamed selves now more than ever. THANK YOU.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
jasonreynolds is crazy. About stories.
Whenever he’s not writing stories, he’s sitting at the window waiting for the ice-cream truck to roll by. But not so that he can run out to get a Popsicle or a cone of soft serve. So that he can dance to the music. And he has a lot of reasons to dance. He’s won a bunch of awards, like Coretta Scott King Author Honors, the Walter Dean Myers Award, the Kirkus Prize, and he was a National Book Award Finalist. See? Dance-worthy, right? But more importantly, he dances because he knows you’re reading.
So if you ever see him, sing the ice-cream truck song and watch him bust out the Robot. Trust me, it’s just as good as his books. Check him out at jasonwritesbooks.com.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Jason-Reynolds
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
Simon & Schuster, New York
also by jason reynolds
When I Was the Greatest
The Boy in the Black Suit
All American Boys
As Brave As You
Ghost
Long Way Down
Patina
For Every One
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Jason
Reynolds
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2018 by Vanessa Brantley-Newton
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ISBN 978-1-4814-5021-8
ISBN 978-1-4814-5023-2 (eBook)