Chain Letter (11 page)

“If you had fun, why not?”

“Neil . . . ”

“I would never tell you what to do.”

I wish you had
, Tony thought,
a year ago.
Almost involuntarily, he found himself searching the stands for Alison. Dozens of
people waved to him but none of them looked like her. One of the reasons he was defying
the Caretaker, petty as it sounded, was so that he could show off in front of her.
“When are you going to get that leg fixed?” he asked, as if that were relevant to
the topic.

“Soon. Why?”

“So we can run together.”

“I could never keep up with you.”

“You wouldn’t have any trouble today, I don’t feel so hot.”

“But you said you felt great.” Neil reached for the empty carton. “The lemonade! Maybe
there was something in it.”

Tony laughed. “Would you stop that! I mean, I don’t feel so hot because of what I
did to you. I think it would help if you’d at least get mad at me.”

Neil was hardly listening. “Another time, maybe.” He pointed to the starting line,
where a half dozen young men in bright colored track suits were peeling off their
sweats. Crete High had a quarter miler who had not lost this year. Tony could see
him pacing in lane two, a squat, powerfully built guy. Tony knew he would snuff him.
“You better get moving,” Neil said.

Tony stood. “Will you cheer for me?”

Neil grinned. “Only if you win.”

While the other contestants fought with their starting blocks, Tony stood patiently
inside lane one behind the white powdered line, taking slow deep breaths, wanting
to be mildly hyperventilated before they took off. Blocks had never helped him in
a sprint as long as the quarter mile and he doubted they would be helping anyone else
in the race. Being in lane one, he had the disadvantage of the tight turns but he
always opted for the position for it gave him a clear view of the other runners. This
fellow from Crete High—Gabriel was his name, Tony remembered—would feel him on his
heels until the last turn. That is when he would blow past the guy. He would
rely on his kick. He had to save himself for the half mile. He wasn’t feeling any
surplus of energy at the moment. Yawning, he pulled off his sweat pants and put his
right foot a quarter of an inch behind the starting line.

“We’ll go at the gun, gentlemen,” the starter said, a short fat man with a cigar hanging
out the corner of his mouth. He pulled out his black pistol and aimed at the sky.
“Set!” Tony took a breath and held it, staring at a point ten yards in front. He thought
he heard Alison shout his name and smiled just as the gun went off. The distraction
cost him a tenth of a second before he could even begin.

Gabriel was either a rabbit or else he was extremely confident of his endurance. Tony
was two strides in back of the guy’s stagger going into the first turn. And he was
working. No matter how he trained, some days he was simply flat, and he knew this
was one of those days as he reached the first quarter-lap white post. He was not unduly
concerned. He had such faith in his superior physique that he was still positive he
would win.

Yet when they straightened into the backstretch and he saw that he had failed to gain
ground on Gabriel’s stagger, which he should have done automatically, he began to
worry. His breathing was ragged and he couldn’t seem to get his rhythm. He would have
to gut this one out. Driving his arms, he
willed
the gap between them to close.

The final curve was agony. The quarter mile, which
required as much strength as speed, was never easy, but this was ridiculous. Each
gasp squeezed tighter a red hot iron clamp around his lungs. He must be coming down
with something, he thought, a heart attack, maybe. Hitting the straightaway, he finally
managed to draw even with Gabriel, which is exactly where he wanted to be at this
point. The problem was, he couldn’t get in front of the dude. His legs were—in the
words of the sport—going into rigor mortis. All the way to the tape, which had never
approached so slowly, he thrashed with his arms, the only thing pulling up his knees.
Five yards from the finish, he had somehow managed to slip a body width behind. He
had no choice. He threw himself at the line. The tape did nothing to break his fall.
Nevertheless, it was a relief to feel it snap across his chest. He had won.

The cigar-puffing starter helped him up and slapped him on the rump, congratulating
him on a thrilling victory. His teammates jubilantly pumped his hands and Coach Sager
went so far as to hug him. Tony received the gratitude in a hazy blur of oxygen debt.
But he distinctly heard his time—49.5. He had run 48 flat last week and had finished
waving to the crowd. He had to be sick. He couldn’t be getting old.

The half mile was in half an hour. Normally, he jogged steadily between the two events.
Today he staggered about unable to find his sweats. He had another lemonade from the
ice chest and had to struggle to keep it down. His digestive
tract felt like it was digesting itself. Had this not been such a crucial meet, he
would have called it a day.

“You looked like you were running in mud,” Neil said unhappily, popping out of nowhere,
holding his sweats. Tony took them but felt too weak to put them on. “Are you OK?”

“I’ve felt better.”

“You’ve
looked
better. I’m glad you won but don’t you think you should forget the half?”

He leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, shaking his head, which seemed to be
coming loose. “We need the points.”

“Then at least get out of the sun for a few minutes. Go sit under the stands.”

That sounded like good advice. “I will.”

Neil turned away. “I’m going to help at the pole vault. I tell you again, don’t run
if you’re sick. It’s not worth it.”

Tony dropped his sweats and stumbled toward the seats. Several people, mainly girls,
shouted his name and he answered with a vague wave. By sitting down he was running
the risk of tying up, but he felt he had no choice. He found an unoccupied spot in
the shadow of the snack bar and plopped to the ground, leaning his back on the cool
concrete wall, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t have minded just sitting there for the
next eight hours.

He might have dozed. The next thing he knew, Alison was kneeling by his side. She
had on a green T-shirt and sexy white shorts that showed her legs to the point where
his imagination
could comfortably take care of the rest. Green was one of Grant High’s colors and
the green ribbon in her curly black hair was the best piece of school spirit he’d
seen all day. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“You were wonderful.” She smiled.

“I stunk.” Sweat dripped off his arms. “I still do.”

“But you won.”

“But I should have won easily.” He rested his head on his knees. “I feel like a space
cadet.”

Alison put her arm around him. Her flesh was cool like the wall, soft like he remembered
from their kisses in the car. “I’ll walk you down to your car. You should get home,
take a shower, and lie down.”

“I have to win the half,” he mumbled.

“You have to run again? That’s crazy, you’re exhausted. You’ve done enough.” She paused.
“Are you doing this to show the Caretaker?”

“To show you.” This was a fine time he had picked to pour out his feelings. He felt
like he might throw up.

“I don’t care how many races you win.”

He had expected her to say that, and still she had surprised him. She had said it
like she had meant it. He sat up, saw her concern. He was still playing the game of
trying to impress the girls. “I know you don’t,” he said, taking her hand, seeing
past her to center field where Joan and Kipp were rampaging the ice chest. Unlike
Neil, they were not helping put on the meet and
did not belong out of the stands. “But I have to run. For the team’s sake and for
the sake of my Algebra II grade. Remember, Sager is also my math teacher.” He went
to stand and without her help he would have had trouble making it.

“But how can you possibly win like this?”

He smiled. “I was born under a winning star, don’t worry.”

He spent the next ten minutes plodding up and down the football field, searching for
his legs. A tall lanky fellow in Crete High colors, loosening up near the starting
line, caught his attention. Tony groaned; he recognized him—Kelly Shield. The guy
was traditionally a miler, very strong. Crete High must be dropping him down, hoping
for an upset. Tony leaned down and massaged his knotting calves. This was going to
be harder than the last one.

The fat starter called his number and Tony found himself being placed in lane two.
Kelly Shield was at his back and that bothered him more than it should have. He did
not feel the perspiration roll in his eyes but his vision blurred and he assumed it
must be from stinging sweat. His usual routine of mild hyperventilation started to
make him dizzy and he had to stop it.

“Set!”

Tony crouched down, swaying slightly. The bang of the gun made him jump up rather
than forward. Like before, he was off to a bad start.

Naturally, the pace was not as frantic as the quarter mile
and he did not feel as quickly winded. On the other hand, he didn’t feel very swift,
either. Striding down the first backstretch of the two-lap race, he was amazed to
find that Kelly Shield had already made up his stagger. Going into the second turn,
the guy had the nerve to pull slightly ahead. This time, Tony did not press the pace.
Mr. Shield was making a mistake. He would go through the first lap like a hot dog
and die on the second lap. Then Tony glanced to the fourth lane, where his teammate
Calvin Smith was running, and began to have doubts. Taking into account the varying
staggers, Calvin was also ahead of him, and Calvin normally couldn’t have beaten him
on a motorcycle. Could they
all
be off pace?

You just keep telling yourself that, buddy.

Passing the timer, Tony heard numbers being called out that he hadn’t heard since
his freshman year when he’d run a race with a sprained ankle. By then, however, the
clock was not necessary to tell him that he was out of it. The entire pack was in
front and pulling away with what seemed like magical ease. Kelly Shield would romp.
It struck Tony then with complete clarity, just when his mind started a headlong dive
into a fuzzy gray well, that the Caretaker had gotten to him. If he’d had double pneumonia,
he wouldn’t have felt as he did now: trapped in slow motion, his chest filling with
suffocating lactic acid, hopelessly out of control. He had probably been poisoned,
maybe even hexed.

I won’t quit
, he swore. His last place was assured but what
was left of his fading mind and will wanted a morsel of satisfaction. He would lose
but he wouldn’t be beaten.

But it was not to be. He was a hundred yards from the finish line, weaving over the
brittle reddish clay, wandering in and out of lanes, when his right knee buckled and
he hit the ground. The last thing he saw was a crowd of anxious people running toward
him. One of them was probably the Caretaker.

O
pening nights always made Alison nervous. There were so many things that could go
wrong. She could miss an entrance, forget a line, trip on the carpet, or burp when
speaking. And tonight, on top of everything else, she had to worry about getting shot.
The Caretaker’s ad had been clear.

A.P. Flub Lines Opening Night

No way. Famous last words.

“I’m so scared,” Fran whispered. They were standing in the backstage shadows. On the
other side of the living room wall, they could hear the audience settling. Curtain
was soon. “What if they don’t like my walls?”

“In the entire history of the theater,” Alison said, “I’ve
never heard of a set being booed. By the way, it was nice of you to finally decide
to bring them in. Rehearsing without them was uninspiring.”

“Two minutes,” Mr. Hoglan whispered, moving like a ghost in the dark. He had replaced
Brenda the day he had dumped her. The new Essie was standing in the corner with a
penlight, frantically studying the script. Alison felt sorry for her.

“Mr. Hoglan, did you find your keys?” Alison asked. He had complained about having
misplaced them earlier in the week. In her opinion; that was a bad omen.

“This afternoon,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “They must have been on my desk all
along. I don’t know how I could have missed them.” He patted her arm affectionately.
“I know you’ll be wonderful tonight.”

“Thank you.” What if the Caretaker had simply duplicated the keys or had already planted
his bomb? She wished her parents had not insisted on coming tonight. But her dad would
soon be going to New York on a business trip, and her mom would be accompanying him.
They felt they had to see the play now or else possibly miss it altogether.

Mr. Hoglan went off to encourage the new Essie and she and Fran were left alone again.
“Is the gang all here?” Alison asked. “Come to watch the latest sacrifice?”

“I haven’t seen Brenda, Kipp, or Joan. But Tony and Neil are here.” Fran’s eyes lit
up. “Neil’s sitting in the front row!”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No! I can’t do that.”

“How do you expect to seduce him if you won’t talk to him?”

Fran surprised her. “Can’t talk and kiss at the same time.”

“Touché. Now get out of here. I have to psych myself up.”

Fran was used to working with temperamental actresses—this one in particular—and was
not offended at the brush-off. But when Fran was gone and Alison was left alone in
the dark corner—the bulk of the cast was already in place next to the entrances and
she did not wish to disturb them—she almost went searching for her. Around other people,
her chances of getting hurt were small.

Of course, Tony had been in front of two thousand people.

Alison was still furious with herself for having allowed him to run the second race.
She had known he was ill, he had told her as much. She would have gone to Coach Sager
and insisted he be withdrawn. She had hesitated because, if she knew nothing else
about him, he was a determined fellow and would not have wanted anyone to stand in
his way. No one else she had ever met could have pushed himself as he had over that
last lap. His willpower almost frightened her.