Fiona’s all excited. “We should go to the fabric store and pick out something really cool! You could do flames or flowers or just a solid, like hot pink!”
I’m holding still now, as Hank’s tweaking the adjustments of my top coupling. “But … I really just want a leg that looks like a leg. I don’t want flames or flowers, and I sure don’t want pink.”
Hank says, “Well, we can’t order your permanent leg until your residual limb is completely stabilized, so you have a couple of months to decide if you want a cosmetic cover or an exposed, artistic socket. Maybe consider it for your running leg?”
Suddenly flames seem like a really cool idea.
I grin at Fiona. “That I could get into.”
On our way out, Gavin holds doors open for me and makes sure I’m safely in the car before closing my door and getting in back.
“Well,” I say as Fiona’s driving out of the parking space, “thanks for taking me.” I turn to Gavin. “I hope it didn’t freak you out too much.”
“Not at all,” he says.
“So where am I dropping you?” Fiona asks, looking in her rearview mirror.
“Home, if you don’t mind,” Gavin replies.
“He’s just a few blocks past me,” I offer. I glance over the headrest. “I used to run by your house to get down to the river.”
“I’ve seen you,” he says. “You’ve got a cool dog.”
“Sherlock!” I laugh.
He laughs too. “And your cool dog has a cool name.”
Fiona drives to my house, and it’s strange—I’m laughing and joking with Gavin like we’ve been friends forever. And when we get to my house, I’m feeling flushed.
Happy.
I know he has a girlfriend, but he’s being really nice to me. Why did he want to go to Hankenstein’s?
It couldn’t just be scientific curiosity.
He gets out of the backseat while I maneuver out of the front, and he holds the door open for me.
“Thanks,” I tell him with a smile.
“Sure,” he says. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
Then I watch from the sidewalk as he gets into the front passenger seat.
And drives away with my best friend.
IT HITS ME like a ton of bricks.
Gavin wants to spend time with Fiona, not me.
Immediately, I start to make connections.
Who did Gavin help with the WELCOME BACK JESSICA sign in the Greek theater?
Who’s bound to have caught his eye while he was with Merryl at the high-jump pit?
Who did he cheer for up at Rigor Mortis Bend?
Who’s always there when he comes up to talk to me?
Who is caring and involved and a doer, just like him?
My beautiful, long-legged best friend, Fiona.
Over the weekend my thoughts grow darker.
And darker.
I feel like a total idiot.
What was I thinking?
How could I even have hoped that Gavin might actually like me?
How could I have fantasized, even for a minute, that things could be “normal”?
I also can’t help but fixate on the fact that while I’m hobbling around at home, Fiona’s at league finals running.
I was supposed to be there!
I was on track to win.
I try to think of good things, but somehow negative thoughts creep in. They take root so easily. Like pesky weeds in a delicate garden.
What I need is a run.
A good, hard run.
To clear my head.
To make me feel whole again.
Instead, I walk Sherlock to Rosa’s. She’s just back from a CP yoga class—something she says is part of her physical therapy program. I tell her it sounds like a lot more fun than mine.
It’s nice to visit with her; nice to laugh a little. But I’m restless and moody, and after about half an hour I leave.
“Cheer up,” she calls as I make my way to the sidewalk. “Your finish line is right around the corner.”
“Thanks,” I call back, and I think about that as I walk home.
Fiona calls late Sunday afternoon, and I make myself sound upbeat. “Hey! How’d it go? Did you place?”
“Nah,” she says. “I had kind of an off day. And we got second in league. Langston squeezed us out.”
She sounds very low-toned.
Very un-Fiona.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I tell her.
There’s a pause and then, “Listen, can I come over?”
“Sure!”
I can tell something’s wrong, but it isn’t until after she’s hung up that I realize what it must be.
I’m right about Gavin.
He’s fallen for my best friend.
In the fifteen minutes it takes for her to arrive, I remind myself what an amazing friend she’s been. I tell myself I’m happy for the two of them, and I promise myself that I will tell her he’s perfect for her, and that I’m so glad my tragedy has brought them together.
I reword that last bit in my mind, then cut it altogether.
When the doorbell rings, I usher her in and hug her and congratulate her on an amazing season and tell her I’m sorry she’s bummed.
“I don’t know if I’m actually bummed,” she says, following me inside.
“So what’s wrong, then?”
We settle in on the couch. She takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it go. “How would you feel if I went to the prom?”
He asked her to the prom?
Not just to the movies?
To the prom?
And when did he break up with Merryl?
My heart tries to sink, but I yank it back up.
I can handle this. I’m ready for this. It’s okay.
“I’d be really happy for you!” I say with enthusiasm. Then, to save her the trauma of breaking it to me, I ask, “Did he ask after you dropped me off on Friday?”
“Did he …?” She gives me a confused look. “What?”
“Gavin. Did he ask you to the prom after you dropped me off on Friday?”
She looks horrified. “Gavin?”
“Fiona, he obviously likes you, and I think you’re perfect for each other.”
“Shut up.”
“I do!”
“He doesn’t like me! And he has a girlfriend! What are you, crazy?”
There’s a lump forming in my throat. I feel so … wrecked.
So emotionally wrung out.
She grabs my arm. “Mario’s the one who asked me to the prom.”
“Mario?” I ask, and my chin starts quivering.
“Mario,” she says back.
“But I thought …” I shake my head. “Why else would he have come along?”
She scoots in and gives me a hug. “You are worthy, okay? Quit telling yourself you’re not.”
All of a sudden I’m crying. “Thanks,” I whisper, and hug her tight.
MONDAY BRINGS SOME GOOD NEWS—my first A on a test in Ms. Rucker’s class.
“Ninety-three!” Rosa squeals. “Congratulations!” She has her usual one hundred percent, but that doesn’t bother me a bit.
I earned a ninety-three!
“Thank you so, so much!”
I think Rosa’s as happy as I am about my grade. And I guess we’re being a bit exuberant, because Eric Hollander in one of the seats in front of us turns around and says, “You got A’s? Dude, I got a D.”
I snort. “I would have had an F if it wasn’t for Rosa.” I put my arm around her. “She’s an amazing tutor.”
He scratches his forehead. “I’ve been going to math lab twice a week, and this is what I get?”
“Forget math lab,” I tell him. “Go to Room 402 at lunchtime. Rosa’ll whip your grade into shape.”
He looks at her. “Really?”
“Any day.” She smiles. “I’m good.”
I laugh, because “I’m good” is just not something you’d expect from Rosa … but it’s so true
.
He frowns at his paper. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
I can tell he’s in the place I was a month ago—he’s thinking that there’s got to be some other way to get help. That he’ll figure something else out. Something that doesn’t require dealing with a girl in a wheelchair.
So after math is over, I hurry to talk to him outside the classroom. “Hey, I know she’s hard to understand at first,” I say, keeping my voice down. “But that goes away. She’s really nice, she’s patient, and she’s great at explaining math. I’d be flunking without her.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
I can tell he’s still not convinced, so I call after him, “You can always take the course again next year!”
He turns and pulls a horrified face.
I laugh, “Exactly!” Then I call, “Room 402, lunchtime!”
As the week wears on, Gavin bumps in and out of my life. He’s nice. Friendly. I do see him with Merryl from time to time, but he also appears out of nowhere a lot. I try hard not to read anything into his presence, but it’s an effort.
I try to tell myself that I’m more than a legless girl, but that’s an effort too.
Then Thursday during lunch, I decide to stop by Room 402, and to my surprise Eric Hollander is inside getting tutored. I wave a quick hello, then slip out again feeling very … I don’t know … satisfied?
Whatever it is, it feels good.
During math, Rosa jots me a note: He is so lost.
I jot back: You will save him!
She smiles at me, and later I see her read the note again, then slip it inside her pocket. I think about all the notes from her that I’ve kept, and I wonder if she knows that she’s helped me with much more than math.
It’s nice to think I’ve helped her, too. She will save Eric, and when she does, he’ll see her, not her condition.
I wish more people could.
FRIDAY MORNING THERE’S A MESSAGE from Kyro in the announcements, commanding all track members to report to his room at lunch to return uniforms and finalize banquet plans. But when Fiona and I arrive, we discover there’s a third item on the agenda:
Running-leg money.
After checks started coming in from the newspaper article, Kyro drew a fund-raiser thermometer on his whiteboard, only it’s not a thermometer—it’s a prosthetic running leg, with zero at the toe and $20,000 at the top of the socket. He’s been coloring in the leg with green marker, and anytime anyone wonders how the fund-raising’s coming along, all they have to do is look at the board.
Ever since the televised newscast I’ve been trying not to check, but now I can’t help but see that the leg is completely colored in.
Actually, it’s overflowing.
Kyro asks everyone to settle down, then announces, “This weekend’s car wash is hereby canceled, and those of you who are still baking can stop already!” He points to the whiteboard. “Way to go, people. You did it!”
A loud cheer goes up, and then he continues. “I spoke with our anonymous donor this morning and she—”
“She?” I ask. I know it’s hopeless, because I’ve been nagging him about it since he announced that there was an anonymous donor, but I try one more time anyway. “I’d really like to thank her, Kyro. Can’t you please tell us?”
Kyro realizes he’s slipped up, but he shrugs it off with a wave of his hand. “I just eliminated half the population. That’s the best I can do. Now, as I was saying, our anonymous donor is still going to send a full ten thousand dollars, even though we’ve collected nearly fifteen thousand on our own.”
“Fifteen thousand?” I look around the room. “You guys are amazing!”
Another cheer goes up, and after Kyro explains that any extra money can go to helping my parents with my medical bills, he calls, “Item two!” and moves on to passing out banquet information and checking in uniforms.
While this is going on, I notice Fiona and Mario fluttering awkwardly around each other. It’s incredibly cute, and pretty obvious that he really likes her. And when people begin filing out of the classroom, Fiona’s eyes ask me if it’s okay if she leaves with Mario, so I smile and nod, like, Go have fun!
Soon it’s just Kyro and me.
“Quite a year,” he says to me, and we both laugh at the understatement.
“How can I ever thank you?” I ask quietly.
He smiles at me. It’s a kind, tired smile. “Just meet me on the track next year. That’ll be thanks enough.”
I nod, and even though there’s no handshake, the deal is made.
Which means there’s no room for excuses.
I’m going to have to learn to run again.
THE REST OF THE SCHOOL YEAR sort of fizzles to an end for me. It feels like a waiting game.
First I wait for the prom to be over. During the weeks leading up to it, everyone seems to pair up. Then the only thing the girls want to talk about is their dresses and how they’re going to do their hair, and what their before and after plans are.
Fiona goes to the prom with Mario.
Gavin goes with Merryl.
I stay home and watch TV.
I try to be big about it but can’t help wondering if I’d have a date, too, if I wasn’t walking around on a pipe. I try to block it out, but the thought keeps springing up.
More weeds in my garden of worthiness.
At the track banquet the team presents me with a check for my running leg, which is an awesome and very emotional thing for me, but when I go to see Dr. Wells, he tells me that my stump is still changing and that I’m not ready for a “definitive prosthesis.”
I have to wait until the end of June.
Or maybe July.
The school year closes out with finals and all-too-frequent encounters with Gavin.
I manage to get a B or better in all my classes—even Ms. Rucker’s, where I’ve climbed up to eighty-two percent, thanks to Rosa. It’s Gavin I can’t seem to figure out. He’s still with Merryl, but when I see them together, he looks … quiet. When he runs into Fiona and me, he comes to life, laughing and smiling and talking about … everything.
But Fiona’s still with Mario, and I’ve still got a pipe leg.
I try not to define myself that way, but I can’t help it. And even though my gait is now smoother and people swear they don’t even notice, I never forget that under my pants is a pipe.
So the school year fizzles to an end, and I wait.
Fiona keeps me moving forward. She gets us Preparing for the SAT books for over the summer, because I didn’t take the test this year, and she wants to retake it in November. “This way we’ll both be totally prepared. Plus it’ll actually be fun to study, ’cause we’ll be doing it together and we won’t have any other homework!”
I know I’m supposed to take the tests, but it seems so pointless.
You don’t need SAT scores to get into the local JC, which is where it looks like I’ll be going.
Still. It’ll be something to do with Fiona, which is better than doing nothing.
Fiona also manages to get us job interviews at the Tremont Theater. It’s an old-timey single-screen movie theater that shows foreign films and cult classics. A funky-cool place that’s run by a bohemian grandma named Greta.
I don’t mention my leg when I go in to interview, and Greta’s got hobbles of her own and doesn’t seem to notice that there’s anything different about me. She just talks to me about popcorn and pigeons, and hires me on the spot.
Fiona and I don’t actually start working there until school lets out for summer, and it turns out to be a pretty fun job. After we’re trained, Greta’s nice about giving us the same shift, and we do everything from selling tickets and making and selling popcorn to sweeping up between shows and shooing away pigeons.
Kids from school come in—especially the artsy ones. It’s kind of nice, because even though it’s a totally different crowd from the one I hang out with, they take their movies very seriously.
And then at the e
nd of June Dr. Wells decrees that my leg is stabilized and gives me a prescription for my permanent leg.
Which means I can also get my running leg.
I go through the same routine all over again with Hank—casting, wait a week. Socket fit, wait a week. But then I have to wait another week for the leg fit.
And another week.
Hank has decided that what I need is an active foot for my everyday leg—a “flex foot” that will even allow me to run. “It’s not for track work,” he tells me, “but it’s a very dynamic foot—you’ll be amazed.”
But there’s a part on back order.
A part on back order.
Somehow I’ve almost blocked from my mind that I’m an assemblage of nuts and bolts and carbon graphite.
July is almost over when I finally get called in for my fitting. And since, after weeks of proving to her that I can, Mom has finally allowed me to start driving again, she lets me go to Hank’s alone. She usually likes to come to my appointments and hover, but she tells me she’s swamped. “Would you mind?” she asks.
“Not a bit,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. I love driving. It did take a little adjusting to learn to drive with my fake leg, because my ankle doesn’t flex and I have to control the gas and brake pressure by using my knee and thigh. But I’m good at it now, and it’s nice not to have my mom in the passenger seat, scared out of her mind that I’m about to crash.
Plus I know the appointment’s going to be a long one.
We’ve got two legs to fine-tune!
“You’ve got your cell phone, right?” she asks.
“Right.” It’s another thing I’ve had to wait ages for, and now that it’s replaced, I don’t go anywhere without it.
So I’m feeling, uh, footloose and fancy-free? But when I arrive at Hank’s, I learn that the running leg is not done. “A manufacturer delay,” Chloe explains. “Hank’ll call you in as soon as it’s ready.”
I try not to show how disappointed I am. The thought of running again has kept me awake nights for weeks. My heart starts racing, and I just can’t seem to settle it down. Some nights I sneak downstairs to watch the YouTube clips, just to convince myself that it’s not a dream, that I really am going to be able to run.
The Running Dream Page 16
