The Running Dream (28 page)

So I
know
what it’s going to look like, but that’s not what I see when I open the box.

The J-shaped part is there, but there’s nothing flame-like about the socket.

It’s blue.

With some strange yellowish gold pattern.

My first reaction is,
This is the wrong leg
. But then I see that the strange yellow pattern is writing.

Signatures.

Comments.

Things my teammates have written.

I can’t read any more, because I’m sobbing. Fiona hands me a napkin, and I wipe my eyes and choke out, “I love you guys. What did I ever do to deserve you? Thank you so,
so
much.”

I lay the leg back inside the box and hug everybody. Ev-ery-body. And while I’m hugging, I notice something that makes me feel even better.

My dad and Kyro are shaking hands, smiling.

A few minutes later Hank and Kyro make a date to meet me at the track the next day so we can figure out and fine-tune the leg, and then Greta turns on some music and we party. We eat too much popcorn, we drink too much soda, and we dance.

On two joyous feet, I dance.

M
Y FIRST DAY WITH THE RUNNING LEG
I definitely do not go out and charge over Aggery Bridge.

I can barely even walk in the thing.

It’s a strange contraption. Stilty, and almost scary. It’s also taller than my good leg, which Hank says it’s supposed to be, but I feel off-kilter.

Completely unbalanced.

Kyro and Hank work with me on the Liberty track, but I’m afraid of the leg. It makes me feel like I’m going to fall, or trip, or crash and burn.

Plus Mom and Kaylee and Fiona and some of the track team are there, and I feel like people have really high expectations.

Expectations that I’m not even coming close to meeting.

Everyone tells me not to worry about it, but I do worry about it. People paid a lot of money to buy me this leg, and it frustrates me that I can’t work it right.

Hank makes adjustments for me, but no matter what he does to it, it just doesn’t feel right. My legs are so different
from each other—like strangers that will never really work well together. It seems that they should either both be running legs or both be regular legs. One of each is a mismatch—one I can’t get the rhythm for.

It’s not until three sessions later that things start going better. This isn’t a walking leg, or even a jogging leg. It’s a
running
leg. And when I finally really
push
for the first time, something inside me clicks.

And bursts free.

It’s like I’m a little kid again, wobbling along on my bicycle.

I’m exhilarated.

Terrified.

Gaining speed.

Sure to crash.

It’s a wild, electrifying feeling, and once I get a taste of it, I’m hooked. I go out to the track every day. At first I switch legs in the car, but it’s cramped and cumbersome, and I finally get the guts to walk out to the infield on my “flex foot” leg and then, in front of God and athletes and middle-aged joggers, switch to my running leg.

I’m getting good at the switch. It only takes me about ten seconds now. And I’m more comfortable with the leg; more comfortable with people’s curiosity.

“That is amazing,” people tell me as we share the track.

I always agree. “Yes, it is!”

I also discover something painful.

I’m out of shape!

But as every athlete knows—no pain, no gain. So I push
myself. Sometimes I run with Fiona, sometimes by myself. And sometimes I have sessions with Kyro. He has me visualize smooth running, which in some mysterious way seems to help. I haven’t graduated from the track yet because even though I’ve been running every day for over two weeks now, Mom’s not allowing me to run streets for a while. She’s still worried about me tripping or slipping, and the track just seems safer to her.

So I am getting used to it, and I am gaining confidence, but I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever race again.

It almost doesn’t matter, though.

I can
run
.

I
HAVE THE RUNNING DREAM AGAIN
.

It’s early morning.

Sherlock’s whole body is wagging as he dances in a circle by the front door.

We ease out, turn right when we hit the street, and head toward the river. The world is quiet. No cars. No people. No hustle and bustle. Just the rhythmic sound of our feet against pavement.

Sherlock is happy beside me. “
Aaarooo!
” he says, for no apparent reason. “
Aaarooooooo!
”

We reach the river, and the air is heavenly. Cool and moist. It sparkles my face, washes my lungs, cools the building heat of my body. I soar beneath the trees, transform into wind.

We come upon Aggery Bridge and I begin the long sprint across it. My legs and lungs burn, but I welcome this pain.

It forges me with strength.

Determination.

Triumph.

I drop back the pace now and glide along the streets, back past familiar houses, back home. The sun is brighter now, the air warmer. Sweat pours from me. Cool, salty, cleansing sweat.

On the porch again, Sherlock kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears. “Good boy!” I tell him. “You are such a good boy!”

Our sleepy neighborhood is stirring, waking up, and this time I stay on the porch with Sherlock and enjoy it.

This time there is no shock for me.

No jolt awake.

No tears.

This time, the running dream is real.

N
OW THAT
M
OM’S CUT ME LOOSE
and I’m in good enough shape, Sherlock and I run the whole five-mile loop over Aggery Bridge every morning. When I wake up tired, I remind myself how long I’ve waited to be able to run again, and it gets me up. Gets me moving into that plane between dreaming and reality where only running seems to take me.

Some mornings I see Rosa on her porch, and when I do, I finish my run, then trot back to visit with her. It’s a nice cool-down for Sherlock and for me.

We talk about her online friends, and the summer courses she’s been taking online, and the places she’s seen online that she dreams about going to someday.

I start to see that the Internet is the way she travels; the way she socializes; the way she feels like part of things.

It’s the place where people see her, not her condition.

Often on my walk home, I try to think of ways to help her live some of the things she dreams about, but I have no idea what to do.

I feel bad, too, that she wasn’t at my surprise party, and
that she wasn’t asked to sign my socket. If I had known about the party, I would have made sure she was there, but even Fiona—who is the kindest, most thoughtful person on earth—didn’t think about inviting her.

Rosa is … invisible.

She finds out about parties after they’re over.

This time from a TV newscast.

She didn’t pout or try to make me feel bad about the party—she was just congratulatory and happy for me. But I
did
feel bad. I
still
feel bad. She’s the one who got me through Ms. Rucker’s class. She helped me feel hope. She cheered me on and made me see things in ways I hadn’t before. She should have been there.

And now … now I’m running again. I know I’ll never be able to run a fifty-five flat in the 400 again. Kyro timed me at the track the other day, and I ran a seventy-one five. But that’s okay. I’m happy just to be running, and I
will
work up to competing. Maybe in a longer race, like the 1600. Kyro says he’ll help me find the race that’s right for me, and I’m looking forward to that.

Rosa, though, is still the same. And I can see momentum pulling me out of her life. We have different interests, we’re in different years in school.… It wouldn’t be hard for her to fade into my past.

But I don’t want that to happen.

I don’t want Rosa to be left behind.

I
GET THE IDEA
right before I fall asleep.

And then I
can’t
sleep.

I’m up half the night thinking about it, adding to it, visualizing it, wondering if it’s even possible.

In all the thinking I do, I never for a minute think it’s crazy, but I’m afraid my parents will. So early the next morning I put on my running leg, sneak downstairs, and find my wheelchair in the garage.

“Come on, boy,” I whisper to Sherlock, and make a sly exit out the side door of the garage.

The wheelchair is small, light, easy to push. I make it to the end of the block and back no problem.

So I put a big sack of potting soil in the seat and try again.

It’s already harder.