Pumpkin Run

by Mary-Kate Thomas

  Emma lay sprawled on the edge of the course, her face wrinkled in pain as she clutched her knee. I slowed and stopped, kneeling down next to her.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Emma looked up at the sound of my voice. “Cici?”

  I nodded, my vow of silence over. “Yeah. Are you ok?”

  She shook her head. Feet pounded past us as the other runners flew by. “My toe caught a tree root,” she said, rubbing her kneecap. “I felt something pop.”

  More runners pounded past us. “Think you can walk?” I asked.

  “No,” said Emma, then, “Maybe,” as I leaned over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe,” she repeated. “First aid will find me. Go finish the race!”

  “I can’t leave you here,” I said, pulling her up. “Can you stand?” I asked, and Emma nodded, gasping slightly.

  “Stand, yes, but I can’t put any weight on it,” she said.

  “Ok,” I said, moving to her right side, “Then it looks like you and I are competing in the three-legged race division.”

  “Seriously, Cici, you don’t need to do this. You could still sprint to catch up and finish in the top ten.” Emma said, but I shook my head.

  “I’m not leaving you here,” I repeated, as the first wave of runners from the rest of the pack started flying down the hill toward us. “Can you bend your knee and keep your foot off the ground?” I asked, planting my left foot as she leaned her right side into me.

  “Yes, but -” she started to say, but I spoke fast over her.

  “Then this is what we do - your left leg and my right leg on one, my left leg and your bent right leg on two, got it?” I said. Emma nodded, and we squared up on the right side of the race course.

  “ONE!” we yelled in unison, my right leg and her left leg pushing forward as I planted my left foot to hold her weight. “TWO!” we yelled, and I pushed off my right leg, as we swung our other legs, me landing on my left foot, Emma keeping her knee bent. As I took my next step, my left shoe wiggled loose, sucked away from my ankle by patch of sticky mud. It pulled free and landed on the ground. I looked back, then sighed. I’d just have to finish without it.

  Emma and I kept one-two-one-two-ing slowly down the right side of the course toward the first aid station just outside the edge of the trees. “This is my stop,” Emma said, pointing at the canopied tent.

  Before I could say anything, she hollered, “HELP!” and two volunteers looked our way, then hurried through the runners over to us. Emma pulled my arm off her shoulder and slid down to the ground. .

  “I’d give you my shoe,” she said, then laughed as she held her right ankle out and off of the ground. “But I’m pretty sure it would be too small.”

  The first aid volunteers reached us, leaning over to look at Emma’s knee. She peered up at me through her gold mask. “This is the part where you go and finish the race for both of us.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, “I can stay with you.”

  “Go and finish,” Emma said, reaching up to squeeze my hand. “And, hey? I’m sorry I was a jerk the day of the fire. That wasn’t fair of me. Just promise you’ll think about cross-country next year.” She smiled. “It would be nice to have a friend on the team.”

  “Ok,” I said, smiling. “It would be nice.”

  Emma flashed me a mischievous grin. “And I’m not the only one who’s been missing you. There’s a certain guy, a distant cousin to royalty, I hear, who’s been asking Coach Z if you’re still rostered on the team every time he thinks no one is listening.”

  “Wait, what? Who?” I blurted. “Deke?” I asked, my voice shaky. “Royalty?”

  Emma’s grin grew wider.

  “According to the rumor mill. Maybe you can ask him after the race. Now go. Finish!” Emma gave my hand one last squeeze and pushed my leg.

  “I will!” I shouted, taking off with a wave to Emma, running so fast it felt like my legs were just floating over the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sprinting, I passed one group of runners after another, not hearing anything but the sounds of my lungs moving air and my feet pounding the ground. I reached the corn maze, winding through the twists and turns until I came out the other side, the finish line in sight. There were runners ahead of me, but that didn’t matter now.

  Coming in first might earn me a medal, but after all I’d been through to just get to this point - having a chance to run, discovering there were people in my life who cared about me, daring to hope that I could transform my dreams into my new realiy -

  I was starting to understand that finishing first wasn’t the only way to win.

  As I crossed the mats at the finish line, I looked up to see a vast crowd of runners. Hundreds of people were moving around in the staging area, some runners, most just friends and family that had come out to cheer them on. The flashing clock at the finish read 9:00 a.m. How was I ever going to slip into the corn and change my costume with no one noticing?

  I glanced toward the edge of the corn maze where I’d hidden the pumpkin costume. I could only see the tasseled tops of the cornstalks; groups of runners were standing and talking, some sipping water, others stretching their muscles as the began their post-race cooldown. There were little gaps here and there.

  Maybe you can slip in there, change, then just sit down and wait until it’s time to meet Vicky, I thought. The crowd might thin out over the next fifteen or twenty minutes.

  Before I could edge away from the pack of runners in front of me, the crowd parted. Moving toward me, her microphone ready, came none other than Vicky Lewis herself, Norm trailing her with his camera on his shoulder.

  “A few questions please!” shouted Vicky, her microphone held high over her head and pointing at me.

  No! I thought. Not now! I tried to duck down and make my way toward the chutes that led away from the finish line, but Vicky saw me move that way and changed direction to intercept me.

  “Sources have it that you were almost in first place when you stopped to help an injured runner,” Vicky asked, shoving her microphone in my face. “Is that true?” Norm swung his camera in my direction, his light blinding me once again.

  “Did you know the runner?” Vicky asked, her questions coming faster. “Were her injuries serious? Is there a chance she was the victim of foul play out there on the course? Did she tell you what happened?”

  I gulped and looked around. The crowd had come to a halt, transfixed by the news camera and the reverberating sound of Vicky’s microphone. Norm’s light made it hard for me to focus, but I didn’t need to see clearly to recognize who else was rushing to join us. The mincing gait and brassy hair announced the arrival of my stepmother. She wove her way through the small knots of people to where Vicky and I stood.

  “Could you tell us your name? Are you a student at Castlewood High? My sources tell me that the injured runner is also a student at Castlewood - did you stop because she’s a friend of yours? Or -” Vicky lowered her voice dramatically, “Is she a running rival?”

  I was utterly and totally trapped. My stepmother stood just a few yards away, She mouthed my name, her eyes narrowing with malice as she pushed past Norm.

  Vicky switched gears, smiling widely again as she pushed her microphone even closer until it was nearly touching my nose. “And the last question - the one everyone is dying to know the answer to...,” she let her voice trail off before throttling it back to full volume as Norm panned his camera down toward my feet. “How did you lose your shoe?”

  My stepmother’s hand touched Vicky’s sleeve as Deke’s voice rang out.

  “You mean this shoe?”

  With an audible gasp, Vicky turned, swinging her microphone away from my face and motioning for Norm to switch his focus to Deke. Peering through her tortoiseshell glasses, Vicky’s face clouded before her eyes widened as she watched Deke thread his way through the runners and spectators toward us.

  “That’s him!” she whispered fiercely to Norm. “The son
! Whatever happens, whatever he says, keep his face in the frame and keep rolling!”

  Vicky lunged forward to meet Deke, leaving my stepmother standing next to me. With a snarl, she grabbed my arm. “Don’t you dare move, Cici! I know it’s you in that costume! I saw that stupid shoe that used to belong to your mother!” She squeezed harder, and I struggled, trying to wrench my arm free. “Oh, no you don’t!” she hissed. “How dare you defy me! How dare you think you you could fool me and get away with it!”

  The crowd around the five of us - Vicky and Norm, Deke, my stepmother and I - had yielded, forming a small circle. Deke stood across from me, my shoe still in his hands.

  Where he had found it, how he had found it, I had no idea, but as he smiled at me, my resolve strengthened. With one last mighty tug, I yanked my arm free from my stepmother and stepped across the circle to meet him.

  “Oohs!” and “Ahhs!” rose from the crowd; a few voices shouted out, “Kiss her!” and Deke’s face flushed under what was left of his green paint. He handed me my shoe, our fingers brushing, and I hooked my fingers under the edge of my mask, pulling it free.

  He was leaning closer to me, his eyes on mine when my stepmother shoved me in the side, both of her hands connecting squarely with my rib cage. I heard the crowd around me gasping and booing; a woman shrieked, the sound piercing the air. Deke’s eyes grew wide; he grabbed for my hands, but my fingers slipped through his.

  The last thing I saw as I stumbled, lost my balance, and cartwheeled toward the ground was my stepmother, wrestling with Vicky for the microphone, her face lit with a furious determination.

  Then I hit my head on something hard; the voices and noise of the crowd ebbed and disappeared as everything blurred then faded into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When I came to, I wasn’t on the ground anymore. Beneath my fingers I felt the crisp starch of a cotton sheet; my head was cushioned on a small pillow. Cracking my eyes against the light shining in my face, I saw two faces I didn’t recognize peering down at me.

  “There you are,” said the woman holding the penlight. She waved it in front of my eyes in a pattern, nodding to herself. “Pupils are fine. Just a nasty knock to the head.” Opening my eyes a little more, I saw she and the man standing next to her, making notes; both wore blue uniforms with City of Castlewood EMT patches on their shoulders.

  The man nodded, not looking up from his notes. “Probably a little dehydrated, too, Hotter this morning than normal for this time of year. I’ll get her a sports drink.” He walked out of view but was back in a few seconds, his hands unscrewing the lid of the plastic bottle for me.

  “Thanks,” I said, looking around. I was under the tent by the finish line. First aid, I realized, as I sat up carefully, taking the bottle and sipping it.

  “Take it slow,” said the woman, but she smiled. “You don’t want it to come back up.”

  “Nope, you definitely don’t want that.”

  “Deke?” My voice was scratchy, but I felt fine except for a headache. I peered past the woman. From the folding chair behind her, Deke smiled at me. The mask from my costume was draped across his knee. He stood up and walked over to the cot where I sat, handing me the mask.

  “I’m glad you’re ok,” Deke said. He studied the side of my head, grimacing. “Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts.”

  “A little,” I said, gingerly touching the lump over my right ear.

  The woman with the penlight turned back to us. “If you’re with her, she’s good to go. Just make sure to check in with the trainer at school. You’ll have to do some followup concussion testing before you’re cleared for activity again.”

  I stood up on shaky legs and Deke wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You ok?” he asked, and I nodded, leaning into him a bit as we walked out of the first aid tent. I started to straighten up after we ducked under the doorway, pulling away, but Deke squeezed my shoulder gently and murmured into my hair. “You can keep leaning on me. I don’t mind.”

  Outside the tent, the crowd had shifted. Two police cars - one local and one unmarked car - were parked near the finish line, blue lights flashing. Vicky Lewis stood interviewing a man in a dark suit, her face animated. He answered her questions one by one, his face serious and thoughtful.

  Then I saw a Castlewood police officer leading my stepmother toward his police cruiser. My stepmother’s face was twisted in fury.

  “You can’t prove a thing! I want my lawyer! I know my rights! Do you know who I am?” The officer simply nodded to his partner, who hopped out of the front seat and popped open the back door. The officer leading my stepmother gently guided her into the back seat, his hand on her head.

  “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” she screamed as he closed the door, then slid into the driver’s seat next to his partner. Lights still flashing, the siren bloop-blooped a few times as he slowly drove away.

  I turned to Deke, my mouth hanging open in utter surprise. I stuttered, then finally found my voice. “Hang on... I just want to check... I mean, I just hit my head and passed out so I’m not sure if I just saw what I think I saw...”

  “Oh, I’d say you just saw exactly what you think, Norwell,” Coach Z said, dropping a hand on Deke’s shoulder as he walked up behind us. He gave him a quick clap, then pulled his ball cap off, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Nice work on the course today, by the way, Encantador. Took second overall.”

  “Ok, wait a second,” I said, stepping out from under Deke’s arm. “Hang on, Coach. Are you telling my stepmother was just arrested by the Castlewood police?”

  Coach Z smiled at me. “Yep.”

  I looked from him to Deke. Deke shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just the new guy in town, remember?”

  Coach Z watched the police car drive away. He was still smiling, but it had changed. His face looked wistful.

  “Did I ever tell you, Norwell, that I used to play ball with your pops when we were kids? Best pitcher I ever saw.” Coach Z smiled at me, a real smile, and his voice was different; not loud and booming or sarcastic. Just kind, with a note of sadness. “We were grade school age, maybe ten or so, when he beaned me in a pickup game one summer at the park. Nearly broke my rib with his fastball.” Coach Z looked off in the distance, lost in the memory, then added, “Hurt so bad that I decided maybe I’d better focus on wrestling instead of baseball.”

  “I-I-” I started to say, the words trailing off. I tried again. “You knew my dad?” I asked, my voice small.

  “Yep. So did Wild-Eyed Wally,” he said. Then seeing Deke’s confusion, he added in a stage whisper, “Mr. Walinski. Teaches history. Used to coach baseball at Castlewood.”

  He turned to me again. “Your dad took his shot playing minor league ball, I know you know that, Cici. But when he met your mom, and you came along, well, he left that behind. Family was all that mattered to him. When your mom died, he was a broken man. It’s not too hard to see how your stepmother trapped him.” He paused. “Tammy hasn’t changed a bit.” This he said with a grimace. “But that she would stoop so low....” his voice trailed off.

  Deke’s green face paint did nothing to conceal his confusion. “I don’t understand. Why did Cici’s stepmother just get arrested?”

  Coach Z grinned, then stretched his fingers until the knuckles popped. “Excellent question, Encatador. You’ll go far on this side of the pond which is good since that prince thing didn’t really work out.”

  Deke winced at this, but Coach Z didn’t notice; he was peering at me now. “Norwell, you’ve lived with your stepmother for a while now. She ever work?” he asked. “Like at a job?” He waited, watching my face.

  “No,” I said honestly, “She never needed to - she had my dad’s money after he died in the accident.”

  Coach Z grinned. “Well, that’s what she told you. Your dad didn’t leave her a thing. Your dad put everything in a trust for you and even had a prenup to boot. She’s been contesting your dad’s will since the ac
cident, paying one out-of-town lawyer after another to try to find a way to get her hands on it. It hasn’t worked. The estate should finally be settled by Christmas. The house, the money, everything - it’s all yours.”

  “Wait,” I said, my mind reeling, memories flashing through my mind. How many times had my stepmother lorded it over me, that my dad had left her the house? The money? Everything? She had never stopped telling me that the only reason I had a place to sleep was because she felt sorry for me, her own brand of cruel mercy for me, left poor and orphaned by my father’s death.

  And what’s worse... I had believed her. I had spent years wondering why he’d married her, then wondering how she had fooled him. She’d told me he had died without a will so everything was hers by law, but it had all been a lie?

  “So...,” I said, thinking fast, “If she didn’t have any money of her own, how was she paying for everything?” I thought of the pageant dresses for Drew, the convertible for Stacie. Then another thought struck me. “How did she even pay all those lawyers?”

  “You’re always thinking about every angle, Norwell,” Coach Z said. “Remember how I told you about friends in high places?” I nodded.

  “Well,” Coach Z said, his voice low. “Your stepmother has been taking hundreds of thousands of dollars from elderly people online in a bunch of different frauds, selling them fake investments or fake health insurance or fake burial plans - whatever she could use to convince them to send her money. That’s where she’s been getting her money all these years. But the last guy she tried to hustle was none other than Hubert Walinski, Wild-Eyed Wally’s uncle who lives with him. When Walinski found out what your stepmother was up to, he didn’t just call the police. He called the feds and they’ve been investigating her ever since.”