Pumpkin Run

by Mary-Kate Thomas

  “I CANNOT believe this!” Coach Z’s bellowed, striding through the infield toward me, slapping his clipboard against his leg. I groaned as I pushed myself up from the ground. Coach Z had threatened to fail me in ninth grade gym. It wasn’t personal. Coach Z regularly threatened to fail everyone in ninth grade gym.

  He waved the clipboard over his head, his whistle bouncing against his chest as he strode closer. His face was getting redder with every step. “What are you doing on my track?!”

  “Nothing!” I called, jumping to my feet just as the hurdler stopped in front of me. He was tall and lanky, but his shoulders were broad enough that he blocked my view of Coach Z approaching. I was sure I’d never seen him at school before because I would have noticed him. His hair was black; under the morning sun, it shone like the feathers of a crow’s wing as he pushed it off his face. He took a deep breath, reaching down to rub his right knee.

  “Are you ok?” he asked, the words pitched in a way that reminded me of British accent but different, too. Rolling, with musical vowels that stretched the words.

  I nodded, brushing myself off. “Yeah,” I said, then added, “Sorry.” He wasn’t rubbing his knee anymore, but he was walking around gingerly in a tight circle, limping and wincing.

  “Um... are you ok?” I asked, but he didn’t say anything, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head as he walked away from me. I turned to go but nearly dropped my backpack at the shrill blast.

  “Don’t move,” Coach Z said around the whistle clenched between his teeth. Pointing his clipboard at me as he stepped in front of me, he let the whistle fall and smiled. Coach Z grudgingly ran the cross-country team and some of the track events at Castlewood High, but his crown jewel was the wrestling program. He had wrestled when he was a student at Castlewood and won state two years running.

  Not that I was an avid wrestling fan or anything, but I had spent two semesters of ninth grade gym listening to his daily pep talks on dedication, drive, and determination and how he hadn’t missed a day of lifting since he was a freshman himself. He looked like a walking testimonial for the muscle-building power of a diet based on protein powder and egg whites.

  “I can’t believe my eyes. I thought I was seeing things, Norwell, when you came flying onto my track. You’re moving a few clicks faster this morning than the snail’s pace I remember you putting forth in my PE class.” He stared at me, clipboard tapping against his leg. “Wanna tell me why?”

  Not really, I thought, frantically trying to come up with an excuse.

  “Awfully early to be out and about on school property,” he added, one eyebrow raised. “Unless you’re here for practice.” He paused, then snorted. “Course I don’t remember seeing your name rostered on any teams this fall.”

  “Um, I - uh,” I stalled, wondering if there was any chance he hadn’t seen me coming from the direction of the creek and the hole in the fence.

  “Hey coach?”

  “Yeah? What, Encantador?” Coach Z replied over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from me. I was trapped.

  He limped over to where we stood, shooting a dark look at me before turning to Coach Z. “My knee. Feels like I pulled something when I jumped over her.” He lifted his chin at me.

  Coach Z stared at me, clipboard tap-tap-tapping. Then he grabbed his whistle and blasted it. The treeline behind the track exploded with a flock of startled birds taking to the sky. “Time to wrap it up. Let’s get you to the trainer.” He turned away from me and before I even thought it through, I seized the chance to escape.

  “NORWELL!” Coach Z bellowed behind me, but his voice was already fading as I sprinted away toward the parking lot, backpack bumping against my shoulders. He called after me, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying; my legs were flying, and the wind was rushing past my ears as I reached the edge of the parking lot and sprinted across it, then down the long lane that led into campus until I finally reached Main Street.

  Three blocks ahead stood the Castlewood town square and I could see the top floor of the library under its distinctive silver roof as I raced down the sidewalk.

  Why are you still running? You’re late, I told myself. After all that, there’s no way you’re getting there by nine.

  But I just ignored the annoying little voice in my head and kept running. It felt good.

  I felt good.

  Traffic was light that morning; it was still early enough that most of the businesses along Main Street weren’t open for business yet. As the sidewalk changed from concrete to brick pavers under my feet, I reached the town square, ran across the street when the light changed, and cut diagonally across the green lawn in the center of the square, following the brick paver paths that cut through the park. Up ahead, the library sat on the northwest corner of the square, its white front steps leading up to a columned front porch that held a row of weather-beaten wooden rocking chairs.

  As I reached the bottom step, I stopped, my sides still heaving and my legs burning. I looked up at the front double doors. Even through the diamond-patterned glass, I could clearly read the sign. CLOSED.

  Jogging slowly now, I went around to the back of the building and rang the round brass doorbell by the delivery door. Inside, I heard the familiar trill of the chimes. Leaning against the red brick wall, I pulled off my backpack and fumbled inside the front pocket for my watch and nearly dropped it when I read the red digital numbers -

  Eight-fifty-seven.

  Even after all the mess with my stepmother and stepsister. Even after wading through that freezing creek and nearly getting trucked by the best-looking hurdler I’d ever seen.

  Somehow, I’d still run fast enough to make it to work on time.

  Grinning, I wiped my face, pulled a few stray leaves from my hair, and stomped my muddy, wet Chucks. As I lifted my hand to ring the doorbell one more time, the door opened, and I strolled into work with a minute to spare, wondering -

  What kind of name was Encantador?

  Chapter Six

  After I got inside, I headed down the long hallway and into the staff room on the left. The lunch table was empty and the small kitchen area was neat and tidy and smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Just past the lunch area was the staff bathroom; I pushed the door to go in, switching on the light with my other hand, and peered in the mirror.

  I groaned as I caught sight of my reflection. You’re supposed to help in the story time room with the little kids this morning, I told myself. You can’t walk in like this.

  My ponytail had slipped to the side, springing hair loose in every direction. As I pulled it out and raked my fingers through my hair, a few tiny twigs and a handful of small leaves fell out, brushing my shoulders as they drifted to the floor. My face was a mess of dry sweat, dust, and dirt, with long streaks of dried grime along the sides of my face that ran from my temples to my jaw line.

  Grabbing a bunch of paper towels, I ran warm water over them and added a squirt of soap, then scrubbed my face clean. Splashing cool water over my face, I patted it dry, then peered in closer at the mirror, lingering for a moment.

  Plain Jane, that’s what my stepmother liked to call me, and I couldn’t really argue. My hair was dark brown, and so were my eyes; nothing remarkable there. I had a few freckles across my nose, but the rest of my face was clear - for now. I was sure to get a pimple or two later in the month, but those came and went on the same regular schedule as everything else did.

  I stepped back and shook my hair loose, then quickly changed into the dry clothes stashed in my backpack. I wasn’t rail thin anymore like I’d been as a kid, but I wasn’t that curvy, either.

  Still, I looked in the mirror one last time as I fixed my hair, pulling the thick mass of it back from my forehead, and I couldn’t complain. I might not be flawlessly camera ready like my stepsisters who both spent hours every week on their hair and makeup, but I was fine with that. My stepsisters and my stepmother looked like different people without their makeup and over-processed hair. But me?


  You look the same morning, noon, or night, I thought, checking the mirror one last time.

  “Get hustling, girl,” I whispered to myself as I turned from the mirror and smoothed my shirt down over my jeans. I wiggled my bare toes which were still swampy in my wet Chucks then had a flash of inspiration. Clicking off the bathroom light, I headed to the staff closet and pulled the storage bin out, digging through it until I found what I was looking for - a pair of plain black canvas flats that fit my long feet. They were boring, but they were dry. I slipped them on and tossed my Chucks in my backpack, then hung my backpack on the hook on the back of the closet door.

  As I stacked the items back in the bin, a sheer fabric peacock blue and green printed scarf caught my eye.

  Without thinking, I pulled the scarf out and wrapped it around my ponytail, knotting it loosely and letting the ends drape down against my hair. As I grabbed my backpack and left the staff room, I caught sight of myself in the long mirror that my boss kept on the back of the staff room door. The girl looking back at me looked like me, but more pulled together, with the pop of color from the scarf in my hair adding something to my otherwise simple outfit - a simple navy shirt over a pair of stone-washed skinny jeans. With the simple black flats instead of my blue Chucks, I looked different, a little older.

  That’s because you look like someone who might have a real life, I told myself, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My spray tan stained fingers glowed a deep orange-brown next to my cheek.

  Or not, I thought, sighing as I dropped my hands and turned away from the mirror.

  Heading out of the staff room toward the stairs to the main floor of the library, I shoved my hands into my pockets and headed out of the staff room toward the stairs to the story time room on the main floor.

  A few minutes later, I was busy setting out the little letter rugs for the kids to sit on while listening to the stories when one of the older librarians ducked her head through the doorway. She eyed me nervously.

  “Cici? There’s someone at the front desk who said he needs to speak to you.” She fiddled with the reading glasses hung on a chain around her neck. “A teacher from school? A man with a clipboard?”

  I stopped, frozen, my hands gripping the rough nap of the carpet squares. The librarian continued. “He said something about running.” She gave me a little wave, then disappeared back toward the main desk.

  I swallowed and carefully set the pile of carpet squares down by the doorway. Flipping the lights off and pulling the door shut behind me, I headed slowly toward the front of the library. Ahead of me, I saw the librarian stepping behind the main desk, gesturing and smiling to someone as she walked out of sight.

  My mind was racing, trying to come up with a reason to plan that would keep me out of the principal’s office and a month of detention as her voice drifted back to me.

  “Oh, cross-country is what they call it? Just running?” She laughed. “They didn’t have that in my day, you know.”

  “Well, you know, it’s come a long way,” Coach Z answered. I still couldn’t see him; the main desk wrapped around in an L-shape in the center of the first floor. He had to be on the other side. As I passed the doorway to the stairs that led to the back door, I thought about disappearing to the basement staff room and playing sick.

  But as I paused, Coach Z stepped into view, spotting me, and waving his clipboard in my direction as he kept talking. “It’s a great sport for the kids who can run fast but can’t do squat with a ball. And it’s great conditioning for winter athletes.”

  I let my hand drop from where it had hovered over the doorknob to the stairwell. Can’t run now, I told myself, cringing at my own terrible pun.

  I took a deep breath and slowly started weaving my way through the bean bags and low couches grouped in the space between the children’s wing and the main lobby of the library.

  “Morning run,” I practiced whispering to myself. “Just a quick morning run. Got a bit lost following the creek and was so relieved to see the high school and figure out where I was.”

  That is the lamest excuse, ever, I thought. You deserve to get in trouble if that’s the best you can come up with.

  My time was up. I sighed, then stepped under the archway and off of the soft carpet of the children’s wing to the cold blue slate tile floor of the lobby. Coach Z stood near the front desk, his dented silver whistle hanging from his neck and his clipboard tucked into the back of the waist of his shorts. His head swung my way, and he grinned.

  “Twice in one morning, must be my lucky day.” Coach Z’s voice was just above a low bellow, perfect for gym class or the track, but not so much for the library. The people milling around the lobby hushed in the seconds that followed, all eyes peering our way. The librarian gave him a stern stare above her glasses, now perched on the end of her nose, her eyebrows raised. Placing a single finger to her lips she whispered, “Shhhh!”

  His cheeks reddened. “Sorry,” he said, his voice lower, as he stepped closer to me. As the normal quiet murmur of voices settled over the lobby again, he pointed a finger at me. His voice was tight with anger as he whispered, “Either that was you, Norwell, hotfooting across my track this morning during my workout, or you have a doppelganger who just moved into town who runs like the wind.”

  Crossing his arms, he looked at me, bouncing on his heels. Trying not to panic, I knew I had to give up on the morning run angle. Despite the aging-jock-turned-gym-teacher image he cultivated, complete with tall, striped basketball socks worn with the same pair of navy blue polyester coach’s shorts no matter what the weather, I knew the truth -

  Coach Z was smart.

  I had squeaked through ninth grade gym with an A-minus only after figuring out the perfect balance between maximizing the particpation part of my grade (I never missed a class and my gym uniform was always clean and with a tucked in shirt) while minimizing the actual sweat-inducing effort part of my grade. I had thought I was pretty clever until I read his comments on my end of year report card and knew he had figured out my game.

  Game sense: A+. Game effort: C.

  After watching me trotting at the back of the pack during gym class warm-ups for two semesters, there was no possible way that Coach Z would ever believe that I would willingly go for a run.

  Chapter Seven

  I gulped and stared back, saying nothing. Don’t answer! I thought.

  Coach Z gestured over toward the front entrance vestibule, which stood like a small glass box between the main lobby and the front steps, nodding his head at the same time.

  “Your game sense is still keen, I see.” He pointed to the vestibule. “If I could just have a moment of your time to discuss how you miraculously appeared out of thin air and on school property this morning, I would appreciate it.”

  I followed him into the vestibule and gently pushed the glass door shut behind me. Through it, I could see the librarian standing at the front desk, watching. She waved to both of us and I waved back, a weak smile on my face.

  Coach Z hooked a thumb in her direction. “She’s a nice old lady, looked out for you just now, you know that?” When I didn’t answer right away, he cleared his throat twice, then coughed behind his fist. “She made me show her my school ID before she would let me talk to you.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Can’t believe she didn’t recognize me.”

  I nodded, but kept my mouth shut, trying to calm down the little worrywart in my brain who was on the edge of freaking out. I tried taking a deep breath, tried to convince myself that it was no big deal, but my brain wasn’t buying it.

  This day had all the signs of moving from just another average day in my life as an orphan - complete with an alarm clock ambush, spray-tanning my bossy stepsister in the garage, and my bike trashed by my stepmother - to seriously bad. Visions of Saturday morning detention with all the kids Coach Z referred to as, “Castlewood High’s special projects,” popped up in my mind.

  And guess what happens then? The worried voice i
n my brain demanded. No more Saturday morning job at the library. No more money. You’ll never get out of Castlewood. You’ll be trapped with your stepmother. FOREVER.

  Shoving away the fear, I tried to settle my face into a blankly curious expression. I took a deep breath, decided it was time to abandon silence and go on the offensive instead. “So what’s up, Coach Z?”

  “Ahh, now she speaks,” he replied with a smirk, then looked pointedly at my feet. “How’d that water feel this morning, Cecelia?”

  “Uh, what do you mean -” I started to answer as I crossed my feet, trying to pull my feet back as possible under my legs without falling over. I glanced down quickly then looked up, but not before I saw streaks of dried mud around my bare ankles. Coach Z stared at me, his eyes narrowed.

  I tried to salvage the situation, shrugging my shoulders as casually as I could, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. “Wh-what water?”

  Coach Z snorted, stared a moment longer, then shook his head. “You know, Norwell, you really don’t do stupid well.”

  I sputtered, speechless, and he held up a hand. “Cool your jets, that’s supposed to be a compliment, Norwell.” Leaning in again, he scowled at me, his face getting redder with each clipped word. “You and I both know you memorized the syllabus, read the school handbook, then did the math and figured out how to get an A in my class without ever breaking a sweat or moving faster than the guy who comes in third behind a snail and sloth in a footrace.”

  He stepped back a step, then made a big show of smiling and waving through the glass toward the main desk. “You wave, too, Norwell. We’re all friends here.”

  Teeth clenched, I forced my cheeks to stretch into a big, fake smile and the librarian at the front desk smiled back, satisfied that all was well.

  “Good job, Norwell. You’ve always had excellent game sense. Knew I could count on it.” Coach Z turned back to face me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And I’m counting on you to keep using that game sense and think through one possible outcome if Assistant Principal Strickland learned you had been trespassing on school property this morning.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Especially so close to that part of the fence that just can’t seem to stay fixed.”