Pumpkin Run

by Mary-Kate Thomas

  They? All waiting?

  Coach Z, I thought grimly, but it didn’t add up. Not only had I come to the tryouts yesterday, I had run faster than any of the girls there. And I was trying to figure out a way to make cross-country work. Why would he turn me in now?

  I reached the office and raised my hand to knock, only to have the door opened at the last second by Mr. Adamson himself. He didn’t even pretend to smile; behind him, I could see my stepmother, Coach Z, and the Athletic Director all seated at the round table in the corner, facing the door.

  “Cecelia, come in and have a seat, please.” Mr. Adamson closed the door behind me and gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the table before taking the last chair with the other three. I sat, swallowing hard, my hands clenched together in my lap.

  Mr. Adamson glanced at the other three, nodded, then stared at me for a long moment before sighing. He rubbed his bald spot once, then smoothed his hair down across it, shaking his head as he looked at me.

  “Well, let’s get right to it, Cecelia. I just want to start by saying how disappointed I am to even need this meeting with you. I don’t expect this kind of behavior from you - from some of your fellow students, yes, but not you.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it immediately as my stepmother burst into tears. Here we go, I thought. Cue the camera for the closeup.

  “Oh Mr. Adamson, you can’t imagine just how hard it’s been on me, worrying so much about Cecelia’s health all these years, worrying about providing for her and my two daughter’s after her father - MY husband’s - horrible and untimely death, worrying about how...” She trailed off into tears, hiding her eyes behind one artfully placed hand, but not before I noticed something move and shift at the hollow of her throat.

  She was wearing my mother’s cone shell necklace.

  Seeing my stare, she moved her hand just long enough to flash me a tiny and wicked grin before sobbing loudly again and burying her head in her hands.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Coach Z slid the box of tissues from the center of the table over to her and she took one, breathing deeply as she dabbed her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The Athletic Director looked decidedly uncomfortable in the face of this feminine breakdown. Coach Z peered down at his watch, his toe tapping under the table. Only Mr. Adamson looked unmoved, his face giving up no clues as he spoke again.

  “I can only imagine, Mrs. Norwell, what you’ve been through.” The words were kind but his voice was flat and I glanced up for a moment from my hands at him and saw a flash of something - impatience? Annoyance? - in his eyes and a brief flare of nostrils before he turned his stare on me again. Gulping, I met his eyes, and he finished.

  “Cecelia, you’re here because we have video surveillance footage of you violating school policy yesterday.” He stared at me expectantly, waiting for me to protest. When I said nothing in reply, he continued. “Down by the bridge?” He stared again, his head bobbing. “Hmm, well, if you’re not going to say anything, why don’t we all just take a look at this together, ok?”

  He flipped an iPad that had been sitting on the table up to a standing position and hit the play button. And there I was, stretched out and paddling on the board across the creek yesterday, the bridge at the top of the frame, an enormous sign hanging from the bridge that read:

  This Area Is Under 24 Hour Video Surveillance. NO TRESSPASSING! VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  I swallowed and took a chance. “Mr. Adamson, I can explain,” I started, but he cut me off.

  “No need to explain, Cecelia. You can read the sign?” He hit the 15 second rewind button, then play, and enlarged the image until the words were enlarged, dominating the screen - NO TRESPASSING VIOLATORS! WILL BE PROSECUTED before hitting pause.

  “Yes, but -” I said, wanting to smack myself. How had I not seen the sign? Mr. Adamson cut me off again, shaking his head.

  “Legally, we could call the police but Coach Z has done you a huge favor.” He turned to Coach Z, raising his eyebrows.

  Coach Z cleared his throat and stared at me, glowering a warning. “When Mr. Adamson brought this obvious violation of school policy to my attention, I immediately took responsibility for not making sure you left campus safely yesterday after cross-country tryouts.”

  Mr. Adamson nodded, absently rubbing his bald spot again. “Yes, well, that’s our protocol for extracurricular activities. Coach Z here also reminded me of what an exemplary student you are, Cecelia, including your fine work with the Welcoming Committee.” Steepling his fingers together, Mr. Adamson frowned at me and said, “For those reasons, we have decided not to involve the police.”

  Sobbing erupted again from my stepmother and I closed my eyes quickly to make sure no one saw me rolling them in disbelief. Coach Z pushed the tissue box closer and Mr. Adamson barreled onward, ignoring my stepmother’s tears.

  “However,” Mr. Adamson continued, “The consequences of violating school policy for trespassing are clearly stated in the school handbook and rules, Cecelia, and we cannot allow this to go unpunished. Therefore, it has been decided that you will be required to attend Saturday detention for the next four weeks and excluded from Castlewood High extracurricular activities for the same amount of time.”

  My vision blurred for a moment, but I clenched my hands tighter, digging my fingernails in my palms to keep myself from crying in front of all of them. Coach Z shot me another look, his eyes narrowed, but I ignored him.

  “What about cross-” I started to ask, but here the Athletic Director lifted his head, finally engaged; it was like he had been waiting for his cue.

  “Well, that is an extracurricular, Cecelia,” said the AD. “Coach Z shared with us before you came in that you’d had a very good tryout yesterday. He was disappointed to learn about the trespassing violation since it means you won’t be eligible to run cross-country for most of the season.”

  The AD opened a file that sat on the table in front of him. “But the bigger problem, Cecelia - after the four weeks are up - is that you haven’t had a physician approved high school sports physical, a fact pointed out by your stepmother.” Clearing his throat, the AD looked over at my stepmother who sniffled gently into her tissue, dabbing her eyes. “Without violating any healthcare confidentiality considerations, your stepmother explained that you have a preexisting condition, one under treatment by your own doctor, and that the doctor has expressly forbidden you from any athletic activity that might put your health at risk, including running.”

  My eyes widened, but I bit my tongue as my stepmother sniffled, looking up at me imploringly, her makeup somehow still flawless despite the two perfect tears trailing down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Cici,” she said, her hand reaching out to caress my cheek. “Your father told me about your condition when he asked me to marry him but I told him it didn’t matter, I’d love you like one of my own girls and take care of you no matter what.”

  She dropped her hand, gracefully using her index finger to wipe the tears from her face as she turned to the Athletic Director. “I don’t blame you.” She gracefully waved her hand to include all three men. “I don’t blame any of you. How could you know? Without a proper high school physical form, you have no way of knowing.” She sighed, a ragged breath escaping her as she gathered her composure. “The risks, gentlemen, are simply too great.”

  “I fully understand, Mrs. Norwell,” said Mr. Adamson, as the AD nodded. Coach Z stared into the distance, his face unmoving. “And you’re correct. Cecelia needed a completed and signed sports physical form before participating in any athletic activity here at Castlewood High.” He paused, staring at Coach Z for a moment, then finished. “We’ll take steps to make sure no other student slips through the cracks like this again.”

  Mr. Adamson pushed away from the table, standing up, and everyone followed suit except for me. I took my time, rising slowly as I waited for the final blow.

  “Cecelia, unless your physician advises differently after
performing a full physical, you’re medically ineligible to take part in cross-country or any other athletics at Castlewood High. And we will expect you to report here beginning this Saturday for Saturday detention for the next four weeks. Mr. Walinski - your history teacher, I believe - is the supervising faculty member for Saturday detention through the month of September. He’ll be expecting you promptly at eight-thirty.”

  “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Norwell,” said Mr. Adamson as he ushered us toward the door.

  She smiled, flashing her white teeth briefly before touching her hand to her heart, her face crumpling with sadness. Her fingers fiddled at the neckline of her dress and she slid her eyes toward me, slitted with malice, as she toyed with my mother’s cone shell necklace. With a small sigh, she turned back to Mr. Adamson, her eyes wide and wet with tears. “I’ll do anything for my girls.”

  Coach Z flashed me a final dark stare before stalking out the door.

  I swallowed, then followed him out, leaving my stepmother and Mr. Adamson and their banal small talk behind. In the outer office, the school secretary held up her hand, glaring at me, as she flicked on the school PA system, cleared her throat, and began the morning announcements.

  “Good morning, Castlewood High,” droned the nasal voice of Mrs. School Secretary. “Just a few reminders. Wednesday will be an all-test day. Please prepare accordingly by packing your own number two pencils. Friday’s home football theme for the student section will be Welcome to the Jungle - we invite all students to wear camouflaged-patterened clothing.”

  She cleared her throat, pushing the mute button. “Last, all students, faculty, and school families are invited to register for the first annual Pumpkin Run 5K, organized by the Castlewood Community Coalition as a fun, community building event prior to Halloween. This event will be on the second Saturday in October and is open to runners and walkers; prizes will be awarded for best costumes. Please see the office for information on costume categories and for a race registration form.”

  Shuffling the papers on her desk, Mrs. School Secretary finished, “For students with younger siblings or staff with young children, there will also be a Pick of the Pumpkin Patch costume competition for children five and under. For students needing service hours, volunteers are needed to help with this event. Please see the Athletic Director if you wish to volunteer. And with that, the administration wishes you a terrific Tuesday at Castlewood High.”

  Terrific? I thought, fighting back the unexpected urge to laugh.

  Pushing my hair from my face, I tugged my backpack on and headed out of the office back to the end of math class, my hands clenching the straps, as I trudged down the hall.

  Cross-country? Gone.

  My job? Probably gone, too.

  And Deke?

  He was never yours to begin with, I told myself, as the bubbles of hope that had lifted me, daring me to dream of a life beyond my stepmother’s grasp, popped one by one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite my endless days filled with school, three sets of homework, cleaning and cooking, and meeting the whining demands of my stepmother and stepsisters, the week flew by. I had avoided Coach Z at school, seeing him only once in the hallway on Friday. He glared at me as I hurried past.

  Since I didn’t have any classes with Deke, I only had to avoid him in the halls and at lunch. I’d taken to hiding in the media center at lunch; it was a ghost town, no one ever went in there. And when I had seen him in the halls or the lockers, I’d made my face blank and ignored his smile and quick wave. After a few times, he stopped, but still looked at me, confusion clouding his face. By Friday, he simply walked past me, cool and unruffled, like I wasn’t even there.

  It’s for the best, I told myself, but the lie sunk like a stone in my stomach, a heavy weight that hurt when I thought about him.

  Saturday morning dawned, and I rose early, the house quiet. My stepmother and stepsisters had been out late after the football game; I could hear Stacie snoring like a foghorn as I crept down the stairs and out the backdoor. The sun was burning gold at the horizon as I headed for school on foot; the valve caps for my bike’s tires had disappeared again. The air was cool and the sky was mostly blue with a few puffy clouds, the nearly full moon still visible as it tipped down toward the opposite horizon.

  I can’t believe I'm on my way to Saturday detention, I thought, pulling my hair back in a ponytail as I began the two-mile walk to school on streets that were empty and quiet, the sporadic sounds of traffic from the center of town still a distant buzz. Stacie and Drew had tormented me all week, telling me that I wasn’t just a loser, I was a soon-to-be juvie loser. The only positive thing about all-day detention was getting away from those two for eight hours.

  My feet followed the familiar streets, turning right and left as I wound through the neighborhoods toward the heart of town and then up further to the high school. I’d had to tell my boss at the library that I needed the next four Saturdays off, and when she’d simply raised an eyebrow at my request, I’d had to tell her why. I didn’t bother lying; what was the point? My stepmother had ears everywhere.

  Instead, I’d taken a lesson from my stepmother and forced some tears that turned real when, after telling my boss I’d gotten into some trouble at school and begging her for mercy, she’d patted me on the hand, exhaled softly, and simply said, “Your job will be here when you get back, Cecelia.”

  Ahead on Main Street, the sign for Castlewood High loomed. As I got closer, I could see the message below the school name had just been changed; it now read, “UPCOMING EVENTS: 1ST ANNUAL PUMPKIN RUN 5K RUN/WALK; SEE OFFICE FOR DETAILS.” I glanced at my watch, walking faster until I reached the school’s front doors. Arriving late to Saturday detention earned you... you guessed it... an extra Saturday.

  I made my way to Mr. Walinski’s classroom and slid through the doorway just as he began taking attendance. There were seven other students there; six boys and one girl, all sitting in the back row. They all gawked at me as I slid into the front-row seat closest to the door.

  Mr. Walinski cleared his throat again and tilted his head, looking at me over his half-glasses, unblinking. His eyebrows went up, a questioning look on his face.

  “Good morning?” I ventured, my voice small. “I’m, uh, Cecelia Norwell?” I don’t know why I introduced myself; I’d just been in his US History class yesterday afternoon, listening to his lecture on the Bay of Pigs go sideways into a rant on the United States government turning a blind eye to the black market imports from Cuba. I’d tuned him out and focused on just reading my textbook while he went on and on about the dangers of communist cigars.

  Mr. Walinski continued to stare at me, and I squirmed, meeting his eyes. “I’m in the right place, right?” I finally asked, my voice a near whisper. From the back, I heard guffaws and chairs scraping as two of the boys muttered something, then laughed and started slapping their desks.

  “That’s enough!” Mr. Walinski said, turning his head to stare at the pair as he whipped his glasses off and pointed them at the boys. “Bannon, Rinaldo, I instructed you to sit on opposite sides of the classroom and to keep your mouths shut. We already have four Saturdays to look forward to spending together, gentlemen. Let’s not add any more fun to the schedule this school year.” Sliding his glasses back into place on his nose, he pointed with both hands to the back corners of the room. “Move. Now. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Sliding down in my chair, my eyes fixed on the doorway, I heard the pair shuffling slowly around the back, making it a point to hit every desk or chair they passed until they found their way to their designated spots. Mr. Walinski ignored them, turning his gaze at me again as he scanned the paper in his hand. “Cecelia Norwell, yes, I saw your name on my list and had to look twice. I thought it was a typo.” He stared at me again, a full five seconds, before continuing, “I’d ask why you’re here, but it really doesn’t matter. You’re on time, that’s what matters.”

  He shook the papers in his hand, pulling
another one loose. “Oh yes, and this, that also matters. Seems you have friends in high places, Ms. Norwell. I have a note here to send you to the Media Center. They need student volunteers for the day. Please take your things down there and report to the staff at the desk.”

  “Whoa, what?” This was from one of the other guys still seated in the middle center of the back of the room. I turned and glanced over my shoulder, recognizing him - he had started in a couple of my honors courses freshman year, but had disappeared by the second semester, something about his wrestling schedule. “Mr. Walinksi, all due respect and all, but why does she get to go help and not anyone else?”

  “Thank you for the due respect... and all, Mr. Dennison, but I have a note here requesting Ms. Norwell’s help in particular because she has experience volunteering at the town library.” Walinski turned to me, glasses perched on the very end of his nose, the earpieces not even in place. “Is that correct, Cecelia?”

  I nodded. Who had requested me?

  What does it matter? I thought. Someone had just handed me a get out of jail free card. I wasn’t going to mess it up.

  “Yes,” I added, trying to sound like I had been expecting to be dismissed.

  Mr. Walinski turned his head, staring again at the center of the room. “And you, Mr. Dennison? Do you have equal or better experience working in the town library... or any library of any sort?”

  “Uhhh...,” the guy I remembered now as Greg stuttered, his face pinking up beneath his ball cap.

  “I will take that as a firm no. Ms. Norwell, head out. The staff member in the media center will sign off on your paperwork today. I see on the detention roster that I can expect you for another three weeks. How disappointing.” He cleared his throat and waved at the door. “Go along. Please be here on time next Saturday.”

  “Yes, thank you, I mean, I...,” my voice trailed off as I leapt for the door. I swallowed the urge to apologize. Walinski stared at me, watching me as I left the room.