The Running Dream (20 page)

“Her idea,” I say, hitching a thumb at Fiona.

“Well, it’s a good one.”

I zip down my pant leg and say, “It’s not pretty, I know, but it’s nice to be able to walk again.”

“I’ll bet it is,” he says with a laugh. “And it
is
the first step to running again.” He looks around. “Good turnout, huh?”

I nod.

Even Merryl is there, working the bake sale table.

But after a while it becomes clear that the turnout is really mostly people from the track team and their parents.

I help out at the different tables and talk to people, but after being there almost an hour, I’m getting the picture that there’s not enough work to go around. Then I hear “Hey, Jessica!” from across the lot.

“Yeah?” I call back.

“Get over here!”

It’s Graham DeBlau and Mario Reed. Graham’s a vaulter, Mario’s a sprinter. Right now they’re both wavers, flagging me out to the sidewalk.

So Fiona and I make our way over to them.

“You’re wearing shorts, right?” Graham asks.

I nod.

“So take off those sweats and stand here with us.”

Mario adds, “A
lot
more people will stop.”

I blink at them. “No way! I’d be like … a
freak
show!”

“Look,” Graham says. “How are people supposed to understand what we’re doing? How are they supposed to know who Jessica is?”

“Yeah,” Mario chimes in. “Maybe the bus wreck was in the news, but people forget.”

I look at Fiona for help, but she just shrugs and says,
“I totally get why you wouldn’t want to, but it would explain more than any sign, that’s for sure.”

Two other runners have been listening in—Colin Johnson and Melanie Matta. Colin says, “You should also hold a sign that says
I’M JESSICA
.”

“No!” I snap.

“How about one that says
HELP ME RUN
,” Melanie suggests.

I cringe. “I would feel like a beggar.”

“Look,” Graham says. “You need to help us out here.”

What they’re saying is true.

I know it is.

But standing on the street with my pipe leg and a sign?

It would be so embarrassing.

So … icky.

Still. They’re all doing this for me. Shouldn’t I be helping out the best way I can?

“How about a sign that says
I WANT TO RUN AGAIN
,” Fiona asks quietly. “That’s not begging. That’s just stating a simple fact.”

I look around at their expectant faces.

I do want to run again.

I do want to help.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Somebody make me a sign!”

H
AVING ME OUT ON THE SIDEWALK WORKS
.

It also almost causes a couple of fender benders. I guess carrying a sign gives people license to stare, double-take, and rubberneck.

There are no actual accidents, though, just a steady stream of customers. A lot of them aren’t so much interested in getting their car washed as they are in writing a check. I see them talking to Kyro. I see them glancing at me. I see them shaking their heads and pulling out their wallets. Some of them even come up to me and tell me stories about their uncle, or their dad, or their army buddy who served in Iraq. They treat me like they’ve known me my whole life. I guess they’re trying to make me feel better.

Or not alone?

But it’s kind of bizarre to have people I don’t even know telling me these personal stories. Especially the gruesome ones about Iraq. I’m not up for hearing all those details, but what am I supposed to do?

I just smile and nod and take it.

Then Gavin Vance arrives.

I’m suddenly and completely re-embarrassed.

I want to pull on my sweats.

Hide.

I try to get back to simply holding my sign, but I can’t help sneaking looks at him.

He hugs Merryl, who is ecstatic to see him.

They laugh.

Hold hands.

She feeds him a brownie.

I force myself to stop looking, but I can’t seem to quit wondering if any guy—Gavin or otherwise—will ever look at me.

Will ever want me.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought this, but seeing Gavin and Merryl together makes the thought feel so … raw.

I glance over my shoulder again and see that Gavin’s now talking to Kyro.

A minute later he’s still talking to Kyro.

Fiona’s been observing all this too, and when Gavin starts to leave, she mutters, “He couldn’t even come over and say hi?”

But Gavin doesn’t go back to his car. He dashes across the street while traffic is held back by the red light.

“What is he doing?” Fiona asks.

“Running?” I say with a twinge of sarcasm.

When he gets to the center divider, he turns and faces us, then produces a camera and motions for us to hold our signs higher.

“Oh,” Fiona says. “Newspaper.”

I’m
really
upset now. “I don’t want to be seen like this in the school newspaper!”

“It’ll get donations,” Fiona says, and nudges my arm up. “Just hold up your sign.”

Before I can even think to yell, Hey! You need my permission to do that! Gavin has already taken some shots and is running back across the street. And in a flash he’s inside his car and driving away.

I don’t say anything, but I’m kind of mad at Fiona.

And I’m
really
mad at Gavin.

He should have at least asked!

So I decide—Monday morning, I’m going to find him and put a stop to him using those pictures.

T
HE CAR WASH EVENT
brings in a whopping $876.50. I’m amazed, Kyro’s pleased, the team’s excited, and Dad is
very
impressed. “Eight hundred and seventy-six dollars?” he asks on the way home.

“And fifty cents,” I add. “Someone baked that extra brownie, you know. It counts.”

He smiles and nods. “Let’s not forget the fifty cents.”

But after I’m home for a little while, I start feeling deflated. And
sore
. I can’t walk evenly, my body is tender all over, my stump is throbbing.… I need to take my leg off and rest. By bedtime I realize that I way overdid it.

I fall asleep easily, but I don’t sleep well. It hurts to roll over. I’m too hot, then too cold. And then I have the running dream again.

Only this time I’m not really running.

I’m clomping.

Sherlock is barking at me to hurry up. He runs ahead, turns, barks; runs ahead, turns, barks. I know what he’s saying:
C’mon, let’s go. Let’s GO
.

But I can’t. No matter how hard I try, all I can do is clomp along.

Clomp, clomp, clomp
.

I look down and see my leg.

It’s just a big steel pipe.

No foot, no shoe.

Clomp, clomp, clomp
.

Bark, bark, bark!

Clomp, clomp, clomp
.

Bark, bark, bark!

Clomp, clomp
—I wake up with a jolt to find my mother on the edge of my bed. She’s holding the phone and the Sunday paper, which is still in its dew-proof bag. “Sorry to wake you,” she whispers.

“That’s okay,” I murmur, glad to be out of the dream.

She hands over the phone. “It’s Fiona. She says it’s important, and that I should give you this.” She puts the newspaper next to me.

“Hello?” I say into the phone.

“Have you opened the paper?” she asks.

“No,” I mumble. “I’m still asleep.” I eye the clock. It’s not even seven.

“Well, wake up! You are on the front page of the Community section!”

“I am?” I ask, still groggy. “How?”

“Gavin wrote an article. It’s amazing!”

Now I’m awake. “Gavin did?”

“Yes! And there’s a huge picture of
you
. Open … the … paper!”

Mom’s giving me a questioning look, so I tell her, “Can you open the paper? Go to the Community section.”

“Section C,” Fiona says in my ear.

But Mom finds the section without any extra help. She pulls it out, unfolds it, and we both gasp.

There’s an enormous picture of me—just me—holding up my sign.

I WANT TO RUN AGAIN

So much for my stopping him from using the picture.

But strangely, I’m not mad.

I’m more in shock.

Fiona can tell we’ve found the article. “Call me back when you’ve read it,” she says with a laugh, then hangs up.

The headline is “Getting Back on Track.”

The byline is “Gavin R. Vance.”

Mom’s hands are shaking, so I snatch the paper from her and hold it steady so we both can read.

“Even if I didn’t know you,” my mom whispers, “I’d read this article. It pulls you right in!”

“Shhh,” I tell her, and together we continue to read all about the accident and the track team’s quest to buy me a running leg. There’s a nice, smaller picture of the track team working the car wash, and a sidebar that has the heading “Help Jessica Run Again” and gives the school’s contact information for anyone who wants to donate money. The whole page is put together very well, but it’s the closing part of the article that really gets me.

“This is a wonderful piece,” my mother sniffs, brushing away a tear. She points to the byline. “Do you know the writer?”

I hesitate.

Do I
know
him?

He gives amazing speeches, writes fantastic op-eds and now newspaper features, spearheads community warmth drives … and he dates a manipulative ditz.

My mother prompts, “You said, ‘Gavin did?’ to Fiona.”

I concede with a little nod. “He’s in our class, but I don’t really
know
him.”

“Well,” she says, easing the paper away from me, “I’m sure Kyro has his number. You should call him. This definitely deserves a thank-you.”

She leaves—no doubt to show Dad the article. And I know I should be calling Fiona back, but I just sit there for the longest time trying to sort through the collision of feelings I have about Gavin Vance.

I
DO TRY TO REACH
G
AVIN
, but the message machine seems to be the only one home. I hang up the first couple of times, but on my third try I leave a message. It’s a pretty lame one. Incoherent, really. And right before I hang up, I rattle off my phone number, then immediately wish I hadn’t.