“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s never happened. But it could.”
I thought, So could a stampede of unicorns down Whyte Avenue. “But you like your implant,” I said.
“What made you think that? I hate it. I’m a freak.”
“No, you’re not. I am. I’m like somebody’s grandmother. Nobody our age wears hearing aids.”
“Nobody any age wears implants,” Sierra said. She was about to say something else, but Mrs. Shewchuk walked by, and Sierra turned back into her I’m-more-important-than-you self.
“Do you have a hot glue gun, Mrs. Shewchuk?” she asked. “We need to attach fishing line to the batteries.”
“We do?” I asked. What I really wanted to know was, If you hate your implant, how come you’re always giving speeches about it?
But it was too late. We were done pretending we had anything more in common than a science project.
“It was so weird,” I said to Lucy on the way home. “One minute she was saying how lucky I am to have hearing aids, and then Mrs. Shewchuk came by and she was Little Miss Perfect again.”
“Maybe she changed the subject because she felt stupid,” Lucy said.
“About what?”
“Making a big deal about how her implant is great and costs so much when, really, she hates it. Maybe she’s afraid you’ll tell everyone. Maybe people made fun of her at her last school. Maybe that’s why she moved.”
Sometimes Lucy’s imagination runs away with her.
“Okay, maybe that’s not it,” Lucy said. “But don’t you think it’s kind of interesting that you thought she thought implants were cool, and it turns out she’d rather have hearing aids?”
“She didn’t say she’d rather have hearing aids. She said I’m lucky I do. But all I want is to be able to hear like you do. Like a normal person.”
Lucy was quiet. If only having normal hearing was as easy as saying, “I quit.”
Chapter 16
The morning of the next race, I was emptying my backpack at my cubby when Henry pointed to my fm. “Do you use that at night?”
“No,” I said. Why did he care what I used at night?
“Can I borrow it? For my radio club? We’re meeting tomorrow. I bet it has really cool electronics.”
“Um, no,” I said. Did he think it was a show-and-tell toy?
“I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”
Sierra walked up behind us. “You can borrow mine, Henry,” she said. “I’ll come with you. I can answer any questions.”
“Really?” he said. “That would be so cool.”
I had to walk away before I said, You hate your implant, but you want to talk about your fm to a bunch of radio club geeks?
“Did you hear that?” I asked Lucy as we waited for Mrs. Shewchuk to take attendance.
“You mean Sierra offering to go to Henry’s electronics club?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with her?”
“She likes attention,” Lucy said.
“Then she should like her implant. Look at all the attention she gets from it.”
“That’s because she talks about it all the time,” Lucy said. “If she acts like she likes it, people think she’s important. If she says she hates it, they feel sorry for her.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way. And it was exactly what made me not like her. Also the way she acted as if she was an expert on everything.
But Sierra did know some things. She took the soles Mrs. Shewchuk brought us that morning and began snipping until they looked more like fish than shoe parts.
“Here,” she said and handed me a black Sharpie marker. “Watch me, and do what I do.” She drew spots and lines and voila! A fish!
“You’re really good,” I said.
“I know.”
I would have just said thank you. But as my grandmother says, it takes all kinds.
We spent the rest of the period finishing the mobile. It looked way better than I’d expected. Everyone’s did. Sarah and Lucy’s had musical notes, and Ursa Major was made from bent paper clips. Stephanie had convinced Henry not to use guns, so their mobile had bows and arrows made from tooth-brushes, twigs and fishing line.
Next week we would present oral reports. Naturally Sierra wanted to read ours, but Mrs. Shewchuk said we had to take turns.
“These are paired projects, and I want to hear from everyone,” she said. “You all have something important to say.”
The race that day was back at Laurier Park. Because we’d already been there, we didn’t have to go over the course, but Miss Fielding did a walk-through anyway. “It’s a good way to warm up,” she said.
“Besides, not everybody’s been on the whole course,” Emma said, smirking.
“Emma, did you say something?” Miss Fielding asked.
“Just that it’s a good idea,” she said.
I don’t think Miss Fielding believed her, but what was she supposed to do? Call her a liar? That’s when I remembered Joanne’s advice about using anger to fuel adrenaline.
Should I thank Emma? The thought made me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Stephanie demanded.
I smiled but didn’t answer.
“Come along, girls.” Miss Fielding waved us toward her. “Let’s do this so I can get you to the starting line. I don’t want you in back again.”
Kelsey and Miranda babbled during the entire walk-through. They talked about their oral reports and dance recitals and whether 3d-tv was better than hi-def. After they couldn’t agree whether Taylor Swift should get a tattoo, I said I had to turn off my hearing aids to save the batteries.
“Oh, of course,” Miranda said, as if I’d said something important, which, I guess, to her it was. But it was more polite than saying, “I have to turn them off because listening to you is killing my brain cells.”
When we got to the starting line, Miss Fielding lined us up, as she had the first day. But this time she put me in front with Stephanie and Emma. After Miss Fielding left, I moved away from Stem. Some girls from the second row came forward and filled the space.
I bent over and stretched, then jogged in place like the girls on either side of me. They were all talking to each other. I switched off my hearing aids. I didn’t want to listen to anyone. I saw the Adidas man raise his gun, so even if I didn’t hear it, I would see him pull the trigger and know to run.
The gun was so loud I had no trouble hearing it. The entire first row of girls surged forward together across the grassy field. I remembered what Miss Fielding had said at practice: “Keep some girls in front of you. Let them set the pace. You’re strong enough to overtake them if you keep them within fifteen meters.”
Within seconds, nearly thirty girls were ahead of me. I sped up and passed the ones blocking my view of Stem. We were separated by a group from Barton Elementary. I liked their purple T-shirts, but not how slowly they were running. I passed them too, careful to stay far enough behind Stem so they wouldn’t see me.
I felt like I was playing a spy game, not running in a race. It was fun. Or maybe it was the running that was fun. I didn’t have a cramp. I wasn’t out of breath. The field had narrowed slightly into more of a path. Everything felt good. Everything was working. Except it was so quiet. It was a little weird, so I reached up and turned on my hearing aids. I could hear feet pounding on the grass. I knew there were girls behind me. I kept waiting for the sound of someone about to pass me. That made me nervous, so I turned my hearing aids off. Now it was peaceful again.
I was halfway through the course. I could tell because we were passing the path to the boat launch. Last summer one of my dad’s co-workers took us out on the river from here. We had never been on a boat, and my mother wanted me to take off my hearing aids in case we tipped over.
My father said that was ridiculous. “Cruise ships would go out of business if you couldn’t wear hearing aids on a boat!” he said. That didn’t make me feel better, but at least my mother stopped nagging me. I wore my hea
ring aids, and everything was fine.
The path narrowed to about the width of a sidewalk. I could still see all the girls in front of me. The one who had been leading since the beginning—a tall, thin girl with a school shirt I couldn’t read from this far back—was about to be passed by a curly-haired girl in a green and yellow shirt.
I sped up. That’s when I realized I was right behind Stem. I started to pass them, but when they saw me, they sped up. I tried to pass them again, and they sped up again. Then they spread out so I couldn’t go around or between them.
I knew I could run faster, but it didn’t make a difference if they wouldn’t let me pass. Then I felt something behind me. When I looked back, I saw a bunch of girls. I switched on my hearing aids in time to hear them yell at Stem to get out of the way. When Stem finally moved over, we all ran past them.
“What idiots,” a short girl said.
“What school are they from?” another asked.
“Mackenzie, like her,” the short girl said, looking at me.
“I don’t like them either,” I said and switched my hearing aids back off. I didn’t want to hear more, and I didn’t want to talk. Actually, I kind of wanted to yell, I passed you! How do you like that, Stem!? But more than that, I wanted to run as fast as I could. Maybe I wouldn’t finish in the top ten, but if I could stay ahead of Stem until I crossed the finish line, that would be as good as winning.
The rest of the race went by quickly. I was sweating harder than I had in the other three races combined. As we neared the finish line, I turned my hearing aids back on.
I had never seen my mother so excited. “Addy! Addy! You finished sixth!” she yelled.
I had done it! I’d finished in the top ten! And beaten Stem!
My mother held out my water bottle. I handed my hearing aids to Lucy. After I emptied the bottle over my head, I dried my ears with the bottom of my shirt and put my hearing aids back in.
I was so happy I almost hugged the lady at the official’s table as she handed me a purple ribbon and a blue form. I was reading the form—a running club application—when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see my mother, but it was the short girl who had called Stem idiots. She was holding an orange ribbon that said seventh place.
“I’m Catherine,” she said. “Was this your first race?”
“My fourth.” I showed her my ribbon. “I’m Addy.”
“That’s great,” she said. “Especially after what those girls did. They go to your school, right?”
I nodded. “They didn’t want me to beat them.”
“So they blocked everyone?” She shook her head, then looked at the form. “Are you going to join?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Are you?”
“I’m already in it. It’s a great club.”
“The Tornadoes?”
“No—the Road Runners. The Tornadoes stink.”
I thought about telling Catherine that Stem ran with the Tornadoes, but she was still talking. “The best runners are Road Runners. Like Nina.” She pointed to a curly-haired girl with a medal around her neck. It was the girl with the green and yellow T-shirt. “She wins every week. And Kristine and Maddison— they’re always in the top five.”
Lucy came running over, breathless. “They did worse than last week! Fifty-fourth and fifty-fifth!”
“Who?” Catherine asked.
“The girls who blocked the path,” I explained.
“They blocked the path?” Lucy’s eyes widened.
Catherine and I nodded. While we were telling Lucy what happened, Catherine’s mother and mine found us. They introduced themselves to each other. I heard my mother saying, “Yes, those are hearing aids. She’s worn them since she was three.”
She started telling Catherine’s mother “The Story.” I wondered if Sierra’s mother had a story she told everyone about Sierra’s cochlear implant. But Sierra probably wouldn’t mind. She talked about her implant all the time. It made her feel important, like she was the star of her own hearing-loss story.
I wanted to be the star of a different kind of story.
On the way home, Mom and Lucy couldn’t stop talking about the race and my superstar future as a cross-country runner. All I could think about was Mrs. Shewchuk saying, “Everyone has something important to say.” Sierra thought she was the only one who had something important to say. She was wrong. I pictured Lucy, standing up for herself and telling her mother, “I quit,” in front of everyone.
If Lucy could do it, so could I—although not in front of everyone. I waited until after my mom dropped Lucy off. As we drove toward home, I said, “Please stop talking to people about my hearing aids.”
She looked confused. “When did I do that?”
“All the time. And just now, with Catherine’s mother.”
I expected her to argue, but instead she said, “She asked,” in a hurt kind of voice.
“So just tell her I wear them. You don’t have to tell the whole story. If you want to talk about me, say I’m a good student. Or a good runner.”
My mother didn’t answer. She looked as if she was trying to remember something. When she finally spoke, she sounded a little sad. “I’m so used to speaking up for you, I forget you have your own voice.” She smiled, a small smile. “You’re growing up.”
I was still holding the Road Runners form. “I think I’ll join,” I said. “It might be fun.”
After dinner I filled out the application form.
There was a space for medical conditions, such as asthma or allergies. I checked “none.” Then I handed it to my mother so she could sign the parent or guardian line.
She studied the application carefully. I was sure she would write hard of hearing on the medical conditions line. I got ready to say, “My hearing has nothing to do with running.” But she left the line blank.
“I am going to tell everyone you’re my champion Road Runner,” she said.
Then she signed her name and handed me back the form.
Author’s Note
Whenever I read a story, I wonder how much is true and how much the writer made up. In case you’re that kind of reader, here’s the scoop. Most of this story is made up. The significant true details are that my daughter Elizabeth joined her school running club when she was in elementary school (but not to keep anyone company), she has worn hearing aids since she was three (but nobody teased her about them), and Jim Ryun is a champion distance runner who lost his hearing when he was four years old and gained a lot of confidence when he discovered he had a gift for running.
Addy is no expert on cochlear implants, so her statement that Sierra had to get her head cut open isn’t exactly accurate. If you’re interested in learning more about implants, there’s lots of information on the Internet.
Acknowledgments
A lot of people helped bring Addy to life, and I hope my memory isn’t failing as I attempt to remember them all.
For the initial encouragement that gave me the confidence to move the story out of my head and onto paper, I am grateful to Maggie de Vries. For prodding, cheerleading and astute feedback, I thank Caterina Edwards, Mar’ce Merrell, June Smith-Jeffries, Lorie White, Lorna Schultz-Nicholson, Holly Robinson, Stewart O’Nan, Therese Gaetz and Dawn Ius. For feedback on hearing loss, I thank Candy Carrier and Emily Bennett. For providing me with young readers’ perspectives, I thank Sarah Bacon, Odessa Bauer and Jaren Wiley Voigt.
Tony Abbott’s novel, Firegirl, inspired me. Tony himself was very helpful when I turned to him for advice about trimming the final version of Addy. I am also grateful to Jim and Anne Ryun, for sharing stories of what it was like for Jim to grow up with hearing loss and how it indirectly led to his running career.
The folks at Orca have been wonderful to me, especially Sarah Harvey, whose enthusiasm pulled me out of my malaise, and Christi Howes, the best editor I’ve never met.
I am particularly grateful to the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, whose funding gave me the
freedom to devote the time I needed to revise and polish Addy’s Race.
Finally, I want to thank my family: Elizabeth, for turning off her hearing aids during an elementary school race; Noah, who kept asking when I was going to finish the story already; and David, who encourages me in so many ways, not the least of which is by insisting it’s okay if we have take-out or frozen food for dinner every night.
Debby Waldman is the co-author of Your Child’s Hearing Loss: A Guide for Parents (Plural Publishing), which she began writing after learning that her then three-year-old daughter would need to wear hearing aids for the rest of her life. Addy’s Race is inspired by her daughter and the many children she learned about while working on the book. Debby is also the author of the Orca picturebooks A Sack Full of Feathers, Clever Rachel and, with Rita Feutl, Room Enough for Daisy. She lives in Edmonton, Alberta, with her husband, daughter and son.
According to his best friend Zach, Wes owes a life debt to the old lady who saved his life. Wes isn’t sure that Zach is right, but it doesn’t help that Wes keeps hearing his dead father’s voice saying things like, A man pays his debts, Wes, and, A man always treats a woman with respect, Wes. But how does a guy go about paying back a life debt anyway? And what if it involves a transmission tower, an ice-cream truck and a few sticks of dynamite?
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