Eleven Things I Promised by Catherine Clark Page B

over on the side of the road. When we were riding in large groups I never worried, but now that I was almost all by myself out here, I had to check.
    It wasn’t a car. Well, it was, but it had a sign on the front: Official Support Vehicle For CCCR.
    The so-called sag wagon was following me. That could only mean one thing. I was the last rider out here. If I slowed down any more, they’d sweep me up and toss me into the Subaru, no questions asked.
    That did it. I was
not
showing up for lunch in the sag wagon. If I did, I’d never hear the end of it from Margo—and probably everyone else on the team. They’d long since abandoned me and left me to do this morning’s ride on my own. As much as it hurt to ride, I was going to finish on the bike.
    I got back on and forced myself to pedal the last quartermile. When I rode up to the finish line, there wasn’t a cheer, or an announcement, or anything. There was one woman sitting at a table with a checklist. “Frances Marlotte?” she asked as I climbed off my bike.
    â€œThat’s me.”
    â€œNice going.” She smiled at me. “It’s not always easy, but it’s always important. Now go on over and get yourself some lunch.”
    My mouth was already watering as I walked toward the large pavilion, where there were large pans of barbecued chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh watermelon, and carrot sticks. Everything was a little ransacked, but there was still plenty for me.
    I was filling my plate when Cameron jogged up. “Where’ve you been? I was worried about you.”
    â€œI wasn’t really into the rolling hills concept,” I said. “It’s more like steep hills with steep drops and then more hills.”
    â€œDon’t worry, not every day will be like this,” said Cameron.
    â€œNah, just
most
of ’em,” said the woman who was dishing out cornbread. “Take my advice, hon. Go slow, enjoy the views, and eat lots of cornbread.” She put another piece on my plate.
    â€œYou’ve done this ride?” I asked her.
    â€œOh, sure,” she said. “With my bike club.” Then she burst out laughing. “What are you, crazy? I couldn’t finish this ride if my life depended on it.”
    Was she trying to make me feel better, or worse? It was hard to tell. I walked over toward a circle of rocks to sit down. I was halfway there when my right leg tightened. Then it seized. It felt like someone was squeezing on my calf muscle, or like it was caught in some sort of cruel industrial machine. I wanted to scream, and I couldn’t walk.
    I crouched down on one knee, wincing in pain, and some of my lunch fell onto the ground.
    â€œWhat’s up?” asked Cameron, taking my arm and helping me sit down.
    â€œLeg . . . cramp,” I gasped.
    â€œTry to stretch it out,” he said. He took my plate and picked up the food from the ground, shaking off the pine needles and dirt. “Three-second rule. You can eat this in a moment. First, extend your toes, then pull them back.”
    I tried pushing my toes forward, but they seemed stuck. “It’s not working.” I grimaced.
    â€œLie on your stomach for a sec. I’ll rub it,” he said.
    I wanted more than anything to just eat my lunch, but it was kind of hard to do anything with my leg seizing up. When Cameron touched my calf, I nearly exploded from thesharpness of the sensation. He gently pushed on the muscle, forcing it to relax.
    â€œSo I’ve been thinking about our team,” he said. “It’s kind of like a microcosm of school.”
    I was too busy gritting my teeth to say anything. Or ask exactly what a microcosm was. It wasn’t a word I actually used all that often.
    â€œSo there’s the jock, Alex,” he said, “and the jock’s girlfriend, Autumn, who’s an overachiever. We have the foreign transfer student, my pal Oxo. There’s Elsa, the silent type,