Pumpkin Run

by Mary-Kate Thomas

  “Hey!” Drew huffed, elbowing Stacie hard. “I heard that!”

  “Quit it!” Stacie said, rubbing her ribs, “That hurt, you buffalo!”

  Deke took a step back, then another, his eyes shifting from Drew to Stacie, face blank. “Nice to meet you both,” he said finally, his eyes meeting mine, panicked, before he turned and headed around the corner, his pace quick.

  Stacie and Drew both shot me nasty looks, then hurried after him, elbowing and shoving each other.

  “Wait up!” Stacie’s voice rang out.

  “Yeah, wait!” Drew called out, her voice even louder. “We can give you a tour of the school!”

  Chapter Nine

  I spent the rest of the day trying to come up with some way to get out of going to cross-country tryouts. I was still desperately trying to figure out some plausible reason as I sat through my last class of the day, history with Mr. Walisnki. The only workable plan I’d come up with included throwing myself down the stairs and hoping for a fracture, but having a cast on my leg would only make keeping up with all my stepmother’s chores at home that much harder.

  With a sigh, I turned the page of my history book and tried to tune out Mr. Walinski’s lecture on the dark underbelly of life in the 80s due to the fearful reality of the ever present threat of nuclear annihilation. Walinski taught US History with a doomsday and apocalyptic approach and liked to end his lectures with warm and fuzzy thoughts like, “It’s a wonder this nation has survived.” A grainy black-and-white picture of his backyard bunker hung tacked to the bulletin board behind his desk; rumor was that he’d snuck into school grounds and dug a secret bunker somewhere in case a world ending event happened between first and last period.

  I hadn’t seen Deke since the morning, but I’d heard his name all day as the word rippled through school that a hot new guy was here. In the bathroom, I’d heard three girls talking about him, wondering what country he was from. I’d kept my mouth shut, washing my hands in a hurry, remembering the sound of his voice and how it rolled over the vowels in my name, musical. I’d known he wasn’t from around Castlewood, but hadn’t realized he was from some faraway place.

  Maybe you’ll get a chance to ask him at cross-country, I thought, doodling in the corner of my notebook. Then I gave my head a little shake. I was supposed to be thinking of a way out of this whole running mess, not trying to plan a casual conversation with the new guy from some exotic foreign country.

  The thing was, the more I thought about trying to find a way out of the corner Coach Z had put me in, the madder I got. And even though at first I was just mad about being forced to try out for cross-country, as the day had worn on, my anger had shifted. As I sat in class after class, trying to come up with excuses to tell my stepmother why I was late getting home from school, resentment had bubbled up inside of me. It just wasn’t fair.

  And then there was this: despite all the sweat and pain and feeling like my lungs would burst, there had been a moment when I was running when nothing hurt at all, when all I felt was the wind whipping past me as my legs kicked. I had felt unstoppable.

  I had felt free.

  Well, you will be free in 633 days if you stick to the plan, I reminded myself, pushing away the memory of running as the dismissal bell rang. Everyone crowded for the door and I hung back, waiting, trying my best to ignore the two girls at the back of the room giggling and talking about the new guy.

  “Have a pleasant afternoon, students,” Walinski said as I joined the last of the stragglers at the door. He looked up from his desk where he sat shuffling paper and nodded at me, peering over his glasses that had slid down his nose. “You, too, Cici. Remember,” he pointed one finger at me. “Be ready for anything.”

  “You bet, Mr. Walinksi,” I replied nervously, wishing I’d pushed through the crowd to get out of the classroom sooner. I headed for the closest bathroom, locked the stall, and waited until I was alone before getting changed into my old gym uniform shorts and t-shirt. After seeing myself in the mirror, Castlewood High Phys. Ed. blaring across my chest, I pulled the t-shirt off and put it back on, inside-out.

  “Here goes nothing,” I sighed, kicking off my blue Chucks. In their place, I pulled on the pair of my mom’s old running shoes I’d found a couple of years ago when my stepmother had locked me in the basement and told me to bag up all my parents’ old stuff to donate. I’d kept some of my mom’s clothes that I’d thought might fit and had tossed the shoes on top as an afterthought. They fit perfectly.

  Seven minutes later, just as the face of my watch read three-thirty, I peered through the gap between the bleachers that sat on the school side of the track. In the grassy oval in the middle of the track, a few groups of boys and girls were milling around, talking, laughing, and stretching in ways that looked downright painful. I swallowed as I clutched my backpack straps and willed my feet to move one after another from the safety of the gap, then out onto and across the track.

  I slowed my pace and sauntered up, forcing my fingers to relax and let my backpack slide down with a thump. Two of the three girls looked up from their conversation, stopped talking, and eyeballed me up and down. Then they rolled their eyes and went right back to their conversation.

  Great, I thought. Looks like even cross-country has mean girls.

  The last girl was in the middle of stretching, reaching back to grab her heel and pull her foot somewhere up high on her back. She watched the entire exchange, then shook her head, thick red curls tossing from behind her headband, and dropped her foot. She walked over to where I stood, still clutching my backpack, and smiled at me.

  “Ignore them,” she said in a barely audible voice, leaning her head toward mine so she wouldn’t be overheard. “They failed basic social skills back in kindergarten and still haven’t learned to play well with others.”

  I laughed; I couldn’t help it. The girl stepped back and smiled again; an ocean of copper freckles covered her face. “I’m Emma.” She nodded toward the two girls. “Don’t worry about them. They’re mostly harmless.” She cocked her head and looked closer at me. “Cici, right? Didn’t we have World Lit together last year? Honors with McAllistair?”

  “LISTEN UP!”

  Emma jumped, and I nearly fell over. Coach Z had a bullhorn up to his face and in three syllables had managed to get the head of every student and coach down on the athletic fields to turn and focus on our little group. Silence followed for a few seconds, broken only by the sound of a goose honking as it flew overhead.

  Glaring up at the goose as it disappeared in the blue horizon, Coach Z blew his whistle, staring at each cluster of runners.

  Emma sighed and straightened up. “Good luck, Cici,” she whispered.

  “RULE NUMBER ONE!!” hollered Coach Z, holding up his clipboard and pointing it at Emma and I. “When I’m talking, you llisten, got it?”

  I wanted to melt into the ground, but Emma just flashed a thumbs up and smiled. “Gotcha, Coach.”

  Coach Z squinted his eyes, then snorted. “I see you brought back the sass for a repeat year, Emma.” He slapped the clipboard against his leg. “Better hope you brought back your speed, too.” A few of the guys behind Coach Z guffawed, then nearly choked when he wheeled around on them, glaring. “That’s funny, huh? I seem to remember you guys sucking air in the back of the pack in every meet last year while the girls’ team actually made it to districts.”

  What?! I thought, looking around at all the girls. All of them just looked like runners - long arms and legs and lean bodies. Only Emma was built differently, shorter than me, but still strong, with legs that looked like she’d spent her childhood trekking up and down the sides of a mountain. I peered down and saw everyone wearing some slick kicks with spikes on the soles - everyone except me. I hunched my left toe in, trying to keep the white of my sock from glaring through the tiny hole in the side of my mom’s old Nikes.

  “I know you’re all itching to go. Since you’re all so devoted to your sport and you always read my emails, I�
�m sure you’re already loose and warmed up like you’re supposed to be by three-thirty.”

  Warmed up? I gulped and looked around. Everyone did look a little sweaty. Some of them were still catching their breath and stretching various parts of their legs.

  It doesn’t matter, I reminded myself. Remember the plan. Do the bare minimum. Leg cramps might be the best thing that could happen if they slowed me down. But even with my carefully calculated plan to miserably fail at tryouts, I found myself taking two steps to the left and sliding behind a group of girls who were listening intently. Bounding up and down on my toes, I shifted my weight left and right, rolling and stretching my ankles. The girls were shorter than me. Coach Z saw what I was doing and snorted.

  “Well look at you, Norwell, just itching to go aren’t you? Since our newest tryout is full of energy, let’s get this party started with a fast mile.”

  Everyone groaned and the girls in front of me turned, one giving me a dirty look while the other mouthed, “Thanks a lot.”

  Coach Z smiled, his eyes narrowing as he pulled the lanyard on his neck. “ON MY WHISTLE!”

  Everyone dashed in a mad pack to the track, jostling for position. Emma wove past me toward the front, slowing long enough to whisper over her shoulder, “Get loose early, go fast, but save some gas to kick it up at the end.” Then she was gone.

  Loose? Fast? Kick it up? I tried not to hyperventilate but before I could catch my breath, Coach Z’s whistle shrieked in my ears and I took off like a panicked animal.

  What are you doing? Slow down! I thought, my blood pounding as the adrenaline hit my veins, but I was right in the middle of a pack of runners, boys and girls, who were moving like one large beast, legs moving in unison. On either side of me, elbows jostled me and from behind me, voices and shouts carried over my head, other runners joining up. With a sickening feeling in my stomach, I realized there was no way I could slow down unless I worked my way out to the edge of the pack.

  I raced through the two laps at top speed, stuck squarely in the middle, trying to find a gap that might let me escape. I saw Emma at the end of the first lap; she was sitting, rubbing her calves and grimacing. She saw me as I ran by and shook her head once, mouthing, “Easy!”

  At her side stood Coach Z. He had his stopwatch out and as he stared at me, he held it up and clicked, his face stony. With his clipboard, he pointed to the woods that led to Ditcher’s Lane, mouthing slowly, “Saturday detention.”

  Gasping, I picked up my feet and threw myself into the third lap. You’re trapped, you’re trapped, you’re trapped, my mind repeated numbly, the words matching the thudding of my feet on the track. Ahead of me were the two girls who had eyeballed me; they’d claimed the inside lane of the track and were steadily moving away from the pack leaving just enough room for me to slip out from the middle and head for the inside lane, too. The girl on the left tilted her head back over her right shoulder as she heard me coming up behind them. She nudged her friend, who didn’t even glance back, and they both picked up their pace.

  Under my ribs, what had been a flutter of a cramp now reared its ugly head and turned into a full-on muscle spasm that locked up my side from my armpit to my hip. My throat was burning as I pulled in and pushed out air, each turn of the third lap feeling like it would be my last. The soles of my feet stung as I slapped down one stride after another in my mom’s worn-out shoes.

  Time to slow up, I thought, letting my pace stall.

  Then the girl on the left tilted her head back again and saw me slacking off. With a snort, she turned forward again, but read her lips as she said it in a rush, her eyes meeting the eyes of the other runner -

  LOSER.

  And then something happened.

  I still hurt. The pain didn’t go away - if anything, it got worse. Death on the track due to my own overall stupidity still seemed like a certainty.

  But that word - that one word that dogged me day and night, always dripping from my stepsisters’ mouths with scorn, their faces sneering as they ordered me around, insulted me, tattled on me to my stepmother - that word rolled over me like gasoline poured over the embers of a fire. The frustration that had simmered inside me all day boiled over, fury flamed, and I picked up my pace again, a grim satisfaction tingling down every nerve as the girls ahead of me slowed down, their faces twisted and shocked as they peered back at me quickly, then turned front again, trying to keep their lead.

  Without thinking, my knees rose higher and my legs spun faster, my arms pumping at my side. In ten seconds, I was next to them, close enough to see an angry surprise flash across their faces and their mouths trying to form words around the air they were gasping for, too. I didn’t even look at them; I kept kicking, edging over in front of them and taking over the inside lane for the last lap.

  I flew down the long stretch, passing a group of three guys who were running together, sweat flipping off their shoulders and fingertips.

  “Who’s th-” I heard from one of them as my legs churned, feet slapping, right-left-right-left, the rest of his words lost in the wind that whipped past my ears.

  The cramp in my right side dug in for one last fight, wrapping around my ribs like a fist, but I ignored it, curling my body to the side, my right arm flagging as I hit the last turn where Coach Z stood waiting, stopwatch clicking madly.

  “Decent kick, Norwell!” he hollered after me as I sprinted past him. “But running hunched over like that won’t win you any races!”

  He said something else, but I didn’t hear him. My eyes were closed against the black spots that started crowding my vision. With my focus on the finish line, I let my legs slow down as I crossed over, head spinning. Trotting, then walking, nearly staggering, I headed toward the grass infield, feeling the little bit of water I’d choked down before practice pushing up in my throat as the cramping in my side hit a crescendo of agony.

  I leaned over the grass, head hanging between my knees. Within seconds, the water I’d sipped before practice came sliding out of my gasping mouth, splattering everywhere.

  “Are you ok?”

  The voice was male, but it sounded like it was coming from far away down a long tunnel. The rolling accent triggered little alarm bells in my head, but the lack of oxygen going to my brain made it hard to focus.

  I gripped my knees with my hands and cracked my eyes open to see a pair of feet clad in green and gold spikes. The left foot had a long trail of spit - my spit - over the toes.

  I peered up through slitted eyes. In the shadow that he cast, I glimpsed black hair shining blue in the sunlight and dark brown eyes, crinkled with worry.

  Deke, I thought before my knees buckled, his face shrinking into a tiny circle of light before it disappeared, gone, in the darkness that swallowed me whole.

  Chapter Ten

  “Norwell! Come on! Snap out of it!”

  Squinting against the sun, I peered up from where I lay on the grass, looking up at a ring of faces. Coach Z loomed over me, his face wrinkled in a scowl.

  Next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, stood Deke, who had his hands propped on his legs as he leaned over. He smiled encouragingly at me, then frowned, pointing to my face.

  “Looks like you got a little road rash,” Deke said. My face felt tender on the right side and when I reached up a hand to touch it, Coach Z snorted.

  “It’s just a scrape, Norwell. You’re lucky I broke your fall, or it’d be worse.” He jabbed a finger at Emma. “You. Get some water for her.” Then he glanced down at me. “That was a good mile, Norwell, but we’re going to have to work on your conditioning. Can’t have you dying like this in the middle of a race.”

  I sat up and nearly went down again as their faces began spinning.

  “Head between your knees, Norwell, slow the world down a bit,” said Coach Z. Emma hurried back and handed him a cup of water. “Drink this, but slowly,” he said as he put it in my hands. “Just sips.”

  I sipped. The horizon settled into one straight line again.


  Coach Z nodded, peering into my face. “Ok, Emma, you keep an eye on her. The trainer’s coming over from the football field to have a look at her.” He stood up and picked up his bullhorn. “SHOW’S OVER PEOPLE! BOYS, LINE UP ON THE TRACK!” He dropped the bullhorn, watching the boys scramble for position in the lanes, then stalked over toward the starting line.

  Deke lingered, looking down at me. I suddenly remembered his shoes and my face burned with embarrassment.

  “Sorry about your shoes,” I said. “I’ve never...um...never done anything like that before.”

  He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “No big. We’re runners. Puke happens.”

  Next to me, Emma snorted, then we both jumped a little, startled by the whining feedback of Coach Z’s bullhorn.

  “ENCANTADOR!” Coach Z bellowed, his voice echoing off the trees that bordered the lower athletic field. Heads turned again, and I ducked my shoulders down, pretending to focus on the ice chips floating in my water cup. “GET ON THE TRACK NOW!”

  Deke straightened up, rolling his eyes, before shrugging his shoulders again. Underneath the rich tan of his cheeks, I thought I saw a flush of red as he gave me a brief wave then trotted off toward the starting line.

  Coach Z waved the bullhorn at the group of girls clumped next to where Emma and I sat on the grass. “Mallory, Brielle,” he called out, and the two girls I’d raced past at the end looked up from where they stood at the edge of the group.

  “Yeah, Coach?” the taller girl answered.

  “You two get the girls stretched out and ready for the course,” Coach Z replied, then turned and blasted his whistle. The boys took off with Deke in the lead.

  “Sure Coach!” said pony-tailed girls in unison. “Circle UP, ladies!” the taller one yelled as the shorter one smirked at me and Emma. “Nice knowing you, girls.”

  “Wish I could say the same, Brielle, but don’t worry. It’s a long season. I’m sure your well-hidden finer qualities will emerge at some point.” Emma replied, flashing her an enormous smile. “What can I say. I’m an optimist.” Brielle looked at her, confused, but Emma just kept smiling. Then she turned to me, her voice cheery and conversational. “So Cici, how’d it feel to beat the team captains on that fast mile?”