even though I don’t know her from Adam, I can tell that I just kissed my guaranteed spot away.
“I’m good.” I’m not. “What was my time?”
That sweet smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Ten seconds off.”
Something curls in my belly, making me taste acid on the back of my tongue. Ten seconds is a lifetime. Silver Medalist Ginger Silverman doesn’t make the cross country team: I’ll give you two big reasons why. It’s the lead story on the Crest Hills Facebook page.
“Don’t worry,” Coach says as she and Hadley help me to my feet, “you have all week.”
I nod like she totally made me feel better. But when I glance down to get a good look at the track and can’t see it because two giant chest balloons are in my way, I think I’ll need more than a week to beat my time with these things.
9
Cheers to the Inventor of Post-Its
Water . Why did I forget to bring water?
I slump over, my nose touching my knees, my fingers dragging across the dewy grass at the cemetery. I pushed it today. Woke up an hour earlier to get more time in. Stretched. Jogged. Sprinted. Practiced on the track, on the grass, on the concrete… and now I’m dead. So I suppose the cemetery is the appropriate place for me right now.
When I ran past The Rolling Scones, it was too early for Marcel, so I don’t have anything for Cayenne.
“Sorry… Sis…” I tell her through labored breathing, slowly lowering into the grassy spot. Cemetery Guy isn’t here, and I’m more relieved than I am disappointed—obviously… I mean, I don’t know the dude—but I am surprised that I’m a teensy tiny itty witty bit disappointed. I could use a distraction, and honestly, I’ve gotten used to the morning company. We’ve yet to say anything to each other—seems like we’re both content in the quiet.
Since I’m alone, I pause my music and start talking to my sister. There’s a roly poly crawling across Cayenne’s name so I pluck him up and set him in the grass.
“My time was awful yesterday,” I tell her. “Well, not awful. I still outran a few people who are on the team now because they beat their own original tryout times, which is completely unfair, but whatever. Coach finally explained that this helps us cheer on each other instead of wishing that someone ends up with a slower time than what we did. So the only person we can be mad at, or superior over, is ourselves. Something about building us up as a team and not so much individually.” I snort and shake my head at the roly poly, who is determined to get back to Cayenne’s stone. “She was definitely a dance teacher before. ‘Teamwork! Unity! Rah Rah Rah!’”
Running has been such an individual sport for Crest Hills, unless we do the relay. We’ve always been competitive against each other, always wanting the top spot, always fighting not just other schools, but everyone so we could make it to State. Coach is determined it seems, to make us lean on each other.
I lie flat on my back and look at a cloud that resembles a burger with teeth. “It was cool when Annie ran her lap though,” I continue. “She was so close… and we could all tell she was slowing down near the end. She made the mistake of running with all she had right at the beginning. So she was coming down after the final turn. Coach said she had ten seconds left, and Ronnie took off down the track, met up with her, and said, ‘Push! Push! You can do this!’ And Annie pushed. She made it with a second to spare.”
It was the first time our team had been, well, a team . We all clapped and whooped for her when she collapsed on the track, tears and sweat mating on her cheeks. Even though I completely crapped out on my run, I felt genuine joy for her. Also, I had no real opinion of Ronnie before, other than he was the quiet guy who was an average runner—never first, never last. Now I want to be his friend. Invite him to hang with Drake and Jamal and Tiff and Rodney. I chuckle a little bit
“I’m good.” I’m not. “What was my time?”
That sweet smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Ten seconds off.”
Something curls in my belly, making me taste acid on the back of my tongue. Ten seconds is a lifetime. Silver Medalist Ginger Silverman doesn’t make the cross country team: I’ll give you two big reasons why. It’s the lead story on the Crest Hills Facebook page.
“Don’t worry,” Coach says as she and Hadley help me to my feet, “you have all week.”
I nod like she totally made me feel better. But when I glance down to get a good look at the track and can’t see it because two giant chest balloons are in my way, I think I’ll need more than a week to beat my time with these things.
9
Cheers to the Inventor of Post-Its
Water . Why did I forget to bring water?
I slump over, my nose touching my knees, my fingers dragging across the dewy grass at the cemetery. I pushed it today. Woke up an hour earlier to get more time in. Stretched. Jogged. Sprinted. Practiced on the track, on the grass, on the concrete… and now I’m dead. So I suppose the cemetery is the appropriate place for me right now.
When I ran past The Rolling Scones, it was too early for Marcel, so I don’t have anything for Cayenne.
“Sorry… Sis…” I tell her through labored breathing, slowly lowering into the grassy spot. Cemetery Guy isn’t here, and I’m more relieved than I am disappointed—obviously… I mean, I don’t know the dude—but I am surprised that I’m a teensy tiny itty witty bit disappointed. I could use a distraction, and honestly, I’ve gotten used to the morning company. We’ve yet to say anything to each other—seems like we’re both content in the quiet.
Since I’m alone, I pause my music and start talking to my sister. There’s a roly poly crawling across Cayenne’s name so I pluck him up and set him in the grass.
“My time was awful yesterday,” I tell her. “Well, not awful. I still outran a few people who are on the team now because they beat their own original tryout times, which is completely unfair, but whatever. Coach finally explained that this helps us cheer on each other instead of wishing that someone ends up with a slower time than what we did. So the only person we can be mad at, or superior over, is ourselves. Something about building us up as a team and not so much individually.” I snort and shake my head at the roly poly, who is determined to get back to Cayenne’s stone. “She was definitely a dance teacher before. ‘Teamwork! Unity! Rah Rah Rah!’”
Running has been such an individual sport for Crest Hills, unless we do the relay. We’ve always been competitive against each other, always wanting the top spot, always fighting not just other schools, but everyone so we could make it to State. Coach is determined it seems, to make us lean on each other.
I lie flat on my back and look at a cloud that resembles a burger with teeth. “It was cool when Annie ran her lap though,” I continue. “She was so close… and we could all tell she was slowing down near the end. She made the mistake of running with all she had right at the beginning. So she was coming down after the final turn. Coach said she had ten seconds left, and Ronnie took off down the track, met up with her, and said, ‘Push! Push! You can do this!’ And Annie pushed. She made it with a second to spare.”
It was the first time our team had been, well, a team . We all clapped and whooped for her when she collapsed on the track, tears and sweat mating on her cheeks. Even though I completely crapped out on my run, I felt genuine joy for her. Also, I had no real opinion of Ronnie before, other than he was the quiet guy who was an average runner—never first, never last. Now I want to be his friend. Invite him to hang with Drake and Jamal and Tiff and Rodney. I chuckle a little bit
Similar Books
