Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
The starter pistol cracked and we took off in a jostling pack, thirty-one girls spread across three teams. Danielle and I were the best runners on ours so we stayed in front while the rest of the team ran interference to our rear. The race was a tortuous five miles of rolling, uneven pasture with obstacles: two streams that were two and a half miles apart and a narrow rocky ridge up a ten-percent grade a quarter mile before the finish. No roads.
The first half was against a brutal wind, a steady gale so strong it was like running in place. The ground was hard and as unforgiving as concrete. Every step sent shock waves shivering up my legs. After five minutes, I felt the pounding in my teeth, and my head rang as my spikes shattered glassy ice rimming frozen puddles left from sleet and rain two days before.
Danielle‘s ponytail bounced back and forth in front of me. She was doing her pogo-stick routine again, and going too slow, already in trouble. Her right arm was tight against her side and her left was moving too much to compensate. But she wouldn‘t pick up the pace and—stupid me—I stuck to the plan.
Four runners passed us. Five. Seven. We hit the first stream in a herd. I eyed the five girls dead ahead. They were bunched way too close together, a disaster waiting to happen—and then it did when one girl stumbled on a submerged rock. Yelping, she pitched forward, dragging down another girl only a step behind. That slowed down the others, and everyone broke ranks, splashing around the girls still wallowing in the stream. The water was very cold, so icy it burned, but then I was through and running up the other side.
Nearly two miles gone, about three to go, another mile to the turn where the wind would be with me. Now was the time to start breaking away in a sudden burst of speed, when the others least expected it. But Danielle was still lumbering. If anything, she was slower than before.
I pulled up behind her left shoulder. ―Go,‖ I hissed, ―go, go!‖
―Shut up,‖ she panted back. Muddy water beaded on her neck. Her jersey was soaked. ―It‘s too early, I‘ll go when . . . when I‘m ready . . .‖
Two more girls passed us and then, finally, one of our teammates got tired of waiting and put on some speed and kicked out ahead of us. That seemed to be a signal because then the entire team went for broke.
So did I. Screw Danielle. I cranked it up, stretching my stride, my shoes pounding, thighs pumping, legs scissoring. The faces of the refs stationed along the way blurred to a smear. I imagined that I was running with Mitch and we were flying over the ground, skimming the earth, and his voice was in my head:
Go go go go fast go fast go faster go go
.
I blew past Danielle in two seconds and then I was kicking it higher, blazing, a rocket streaking over the dead grass, shush shush shush shush. I bulleted past my teammates and through a mile, up a hill, legs pistoning, quads bunching and clenching. The wind whooshed past my ears and tore at my hair. I kept focusing on the girl ahead and then when I passed her, the next and then the next, and then I saw that it was just me and one other girl, her legs flashing, her spikes stabbing the trail. Stream ahead: I watched her hit the water, take a step then another and then both arms flew up and she was stumbling, arms windmilling wildly just as I crashed into the water. I tried veering left, away from whatever had grabbed the other girl, but slipped and staggered and almost fell. But then my spikes snagged the streambed, and I was through, plowing up the opposite bank.
My lungs screamed; my throat was on fire.
One more mile, one more, one more
mile, go go go go go. Push off from the hip, punish the ground, punish it, punish it, punish
it.
My heart was a fist, bruising my ribs; every step was a solid
bang
that shuddered up my spine. I remembered that first run with Mitch, how badly I‘d done and I would not let that happen now, I wouldn‘t. He was waiting for me at the finish. He would see me crest the rise and then hurtle down the final stretch, pulling a phalanx of runners in my wake like the streaming tail of a comet all the way to the finish line. He would be there; I would make him proud; I would be
his
girl and we would—
―
Bitch
.‖ Somehow, Danielle was right there, at my left elbow. ―No, you don‘t,‖ she hissed, ―no
way
.‖
I didn‘t answer. I don‘t know if I could‘ve. That she had the breath was a bad sign because that meant she still had more to give, and I was already digging deep.
We hit the ridge together, stride for stride, the trail only wide enough for three. The drop-off on either side wasn‘t precipitous or a killer. But that didn‘t mean you could recover from a misstep. The trail was rutted and uneven, a hard-bed scramble with rocky scrub flanking either side, as well as referees and screaming parents and friends spaced like beads on a string. Ahead, the ridge dropped then leveled out to a grassy fan, but a fall here and you could kiss the race good-bye.
Which was precisely what Danielle was trying to force on me. Running flat-out, she pushed in on my right, trying to bully her way into the lead. I shot a quick glance, saw how the muscles of her neck stood out like ropes. Her teeth were bared in a grimace. No more talk or taunts now. We were dead even and both running as fast as we could.
Faces flashed by. Below, I could see the crowd at the finish line; I picked out David and there was Mitch waving us in and I could hear his voice above the others: ―
Come on,
come on, pour it on bring it on go go go!
‖ I focused on that, on his voice, running to him, for him, only him. I blistered along that trail as the wind whipped my hair and sweat ran in rivers down my neck and over my back and belly. My muscles were fraying, unraveling, tearing themselves from my bones. But I was winning; I would win this for him, for him, for him. A fraction of an inch and then another, and then I was moving ahead of Danielle and still I went faster, faster, faster, the kettle drum of my heart pounding, pounding, faster run faster go faster go go—
Then I felt a quick blow just below my ribs, something swift and sure and sharp, and yet so fleeting I almost didn‘t register that anything had happened. In the next instant, Danielle‘s feet tangled with mine and then I felt a sudden laser-bright burn as her spikes sliced my right ankle.
I lost it: my balance, my speed, everything. We caromed off one another like bumper cars. Her elbow smacked my temple. My left ankle rolled, and then it was like I‘d spiked a bare knuckle of bone into solid rock. A shout of red pain grabbed my calf and then I screamed along with it as the world swirled in a drunken spiral.
Danielle and I tumbled off the ridge in a sweaty snarl of arms and legs. The ground rushed for my face, and I twisted, but I‘m no gymnast. My shoulder banged against rock, and then the back of my head smacked icy ground. My vision flickered like a faulty lightbulb and then I was somersaulting down the hill.
You know that old riddle, Bob, the one about what‘s black and white and black and white and black and white? (Answer: a nun falling down stairs. Or a zebra.) That was like this, only it was gray rock and brown earth and dead grass and slack open mouths and faces, lots of faces. There was shouting, there had to be, but I didn‘t hear. I‘d lost track of where Danielle was. I don‘t know how many rolls it took for me to finally stop, but the next thing I knew I was sprawled flat on my back, my feet still above me on the incline, my aching head dragging below. My mouth filled with a taste of wet metal. There was a confused, muddled sense of people rushing forward, pushing in, dropping on their knees, shouting, the words all running together like broken egg yolks:
heyheyareyouallrightsomeonegettheemtsjennahowstheotherjennajenna
. . .
Leave me alone
. My head was swoony. Everything hurt.
Too bright, too noisy, go
away—
Then someone shouted in my ear: ―Jenna!‖
That voice, so frantic and frightened and one I knew so well by then, called me back. I pried open my eyes. There were gray clouds. It was beginning to snow; I could feel the ice pecking my cheeks. Two EMTs with blue latex gloves swam into view. Their lips moved, but I didn‘t hear them. Didn‘t care. For me, all that mattered was Mitch‘s stricken face.
―I‘m so sorry,‖ I said, and passed out.
38: a
So they said I had a mild concussion. My left ankle was sprained. The ER doctor stitched a bad rip just above my right ankle, finishing off with a train track of staples. The doctor was nice and pretty professional. He asked about my skin grafts but not my other scars. Although he checked them pretty carefully, his gloved hands probing my stomach and hips and pulling at the skin, probably to see if any were fresh because then he‘d have to call the shrinks.
Mitch came in once. His skin was drawn down tight on his skull. He asked if I remembered what had happened and I said I didn‘t know, which was mostly true. He said the way I staggered, it looked like I‘d gotten shoved, only we were going so fast and were so close together, the refs couldn‘t be sure and said it was an accident. I told him that was probably right.
―You‘re sure?‖ If he blinked, his skin would rip. ―You‘re absolutely positive.
Nothing else happened.‖
―Nothing. We got tangled up. We were crowding each other.‖ That was true. ―We should‘ve known better. It was an accident. I messed up.‖
―No,‖ he said. His lips thinned. ―
No
. I won‘t let her hurt you again. She can‘t keep doing this, she—‖ Then he was turning on his heel, wrenching the curtain out of his way so hard the metal rings chattered. Danielle and David were two bays down. I heard Mitch‘s angry rap and then her muffled reply, something else from David, but I couldn‘t make sense of the words. But I do remember her voice going watery as she began to cry, Mitch‘s low murmurs after that, and a whole lot of nothing from David. Then Mitch left them alone.
They‘d called my parents and Danielle‘s and told them we weren‘t dead or anything. Since we‘d come up in a bus, the doctors didn‘t see much harm in letting us go back that way. I don‘t know about Danielle‘s father, but Psycho-Dad went all doctorly on the phone with the ER people. I think he‘d decided I needed exploratory brain surgery or something. As things shook out, I got an MRI, which the ER doc told me was completely bogus but did anyway, probably to avoid more headaches with my dad. So that delayed us leaving for another couple of hours. If we hadn‘t been in Wausau, I think a bunch of parents would‘ve shown up to take their kids home. By the time our hobbit-sized bus pulled into the hospital breezeway and they wheeled me and Danielle out, it was dark, cold, snowy, and windy.
No one said much during the long ride back. Danielle sat up front on the left, with her right leg propped in David‘s lap and an ice pack draped over the knee which they‘d Ace-wrapped. She even had crutches. (Me, they let gimp onto the bus, and I was the one who‘d, you know, actually
bled
.) Mitch sat in the very back. I had a seat to myself and dozed off a couple times, but the girl across the aisle kept waking me up because she‘d heard it was bad to sleep when you had a concussion.
Even though David had driven her to school, Danielle‘s father and brother were waiting when the bus finally chugged into the school lot at ten. Her dad was this hulking guy with stubby fingers. As soon as the bus rolled to a stop, he was hammering on the doors and then bullying his way on board, ignoring everybody: Danielle, when she said she could walk; David, who was trying to explain; Mitch, who‘d started down the aisle.
―We‘re fine; we‘re fine,‖ Mr. Connolly barked. He scooped up Danielle like she weighed nothing, which was just about true. David followed with her crutches, and then Mitch was blowing past my seat, right on their heels. I watched through fogged glass as Mr.
Connolly handed Danielle off to her brother and then snatched the crutches from David like he was a servant. David was talking, but Mr. Connolly hacked at the air with the side of his hand to shut David up and was turning aside just as Mitch got there.
It might have ended right there, if Mitch had stayed out of it. But Mitch just couldn‘t let it go—not before, not then, or later—so we all saw the same thing.
Mitch put his hand on Mr. Connolly‘s shoulder and said something. What, I couldn‘t hear. You could tell from the sudden set of Mr. Connolly‘s back that it was some zinger that really stung. Because, all of a sudden, Mr. Connolly spun around, planted his hands on Mitch‘s chest and shoved.
Mitch
. I gasped. My heart lurched into my throat.
Mitch, no
.
―Holy shit,‖ someone on the bus said.
Mitch staggered. He would‘ve fallen if he hadn‘t grabbed onto the car door and then Mr. Connolly was right there, in his face, screaming, jabbing his stubby fingers into Mitch‘s chest, bunching a fist just inches from Mitch‘s nose. Mitch was tall, but Mr.
Connolly was a very big man and I didn‘t know if Mitch could take him.
No one tried to help. Danielle‘s brother stood to one side, wiping his mouth over and over again with the back of his hand, like there was a taste that wouldn‘t go away. I saw a bunch of other parents pop out of their cars like jack-in-the-boxes, but no one made a move, not even Mitch. He stood there and let Mr. Connolly scream. Call me crazy, Bob, but for just a second, I thought that, maybe, Mitch wanted him to take that swing. Like Mitch somehow thought better
him
than someone else, like Danielle or David.
The only time Mitch made any move at all was when David finally tried get in the middle. Mr. Connolly pivoted, elbow cocked, ready to let go with a backhanded swat, but Mitch got his hands up, fast, and snagged Mr. Connolly‘s wrist. Mr. Connolly‘s bull-face twisted; for a second, I thought he‘d take that swing.
That was when Danielle leaned out of the car and screamed at her father. Whatever she said made all the fight drain from Mr. Connolly. He seemed to deflate, like a spent balloon, and then he jerked free of Mitch before whirling on his heel and shouting something at Danielle‘s brother, who followed Mr. Connolly to their car. And then they just drove away.