“I’ll get it!” I call when the doorbell rings. I’ve switched into my new warm-up pants, so when Fiona takes me in, all she sees is me in my Nikes.
Exactly how I used to look.
I step back and say, “Come on in.”
I try hard to make my gait even as we walk down the hallway. Hank said it’s the one thing that gives you away, but that by paying close attention and watching yourself in the mirror, you can master an even gait.
There are no mirrors, so I can’t see how I’m doing, but Fiona has a definite opinion. “That’s amazing,” she says, following me into the kitchen.
“She’s showing off,” my mom scolds. “She’s supposed to be carrying a cane.”
“Wow!” Fiona says, watching me. “Wow, wow, wow!”
Then I sit down and unzip my pant leg, and her face falls. “It’s just a pipe? Aren’t they going to, you know, make it look like a leg?”
I shrug. “This one’s temporary, and I have to go in every week for adjustments, so it’s just a lot more practical to have it like this.”
“So when do you get your permanent leg?”
“It depends. Hank thinks I’ll be ready in two or three months. They want to make sure my leg is all done changing.” I zip down my pant leg and smile at her. “In the meantime, it’s good to be walking around.”
“Hey!” she says, getting all excited. “You have got to show up at the car wash tomorrow, walking! Kyro will be floored! And the car wash is going to be great. Kyro had this huge blue-and-gold banner made. It says HELP JESSICA RUN! And the car wash committee voted to wear track uniforms, so we’ll be color-coordinated with the sign!”
I laugh. “You want to be color-coordinated with a sign?”
She scowls at me. “It’ll make us more visible and show that we’re a team, working toward something.”
“Wait. I thought you were on the bake sale committee.”
She grins. “Come on. I’m on all the committees!”
I laugh. “Figures.”
“So you’ll come?”
How could I not?
I hug her and tell her I’ll be there.
IT’S AMAZING HOW TWO THIN PIECES of clothing can hold such deep memories. Laughter, pain, victory, defeat, friendship, fatigue, elation … they’re all there, but only to the person who’s worn the uniform. To the rest of the world it’s simply shorts and a tank top.
Fiona told me to wear them to the car wash, but holding the gold shorts and Liberty singlet now makes me feel like an impostor.
Still, I finally take a deep breath and pull them on.
The fabric is cool and smooth against my skin.
Memories tingle through me.
I sit on the edge of my bed for a long time, fighting back tears. Why am I wearing a track uniform? What am I thinking? Each of yesterday’s steps was careful, calculated, conscious. I can’t see them ever being anything but.
And that’s just walking.
Then I remember Chloe.
And the YouTube athletes.
They make movement, running, look so natural.
So easy.
How do they do that?
I finally put on my leg and pull on my new blue-and-gold side-zip sweats. I feel better covered up. Like less of an impostor.
Going downstairs, I navigate the steps carefully. I feel clunky and clumsy and slow, and I’m glad for the handrail. I actually think about sitting and scooting, but I do make it down without cheating.
I find my parents in the kitchen. “So who wants to drive me to the car wash?” I ask, putting on a brave face. “Or can I just drive myself?”
I’m joking, but Dad takes me seriously. “I’ll drive you,” he says quickly, and before long we’re on our way to the gas station on the corner of Grand and Highland.
The first thing I see is the banner.
HELP JESSICA RUN!
The colors are bright and it’s way bigger than I’d imagined. And it’s strange to see my name up there.
Like it must be another Jessica, not me.
There are blue and yellow balloons punching around in the wind, and two bake sale tables set up with blue and yellow tablecloths, and about twenty-five or thirty people in blue-and-gold track uniforms. Some of the runners are washing cars, some are working the bake sale tables, and some are holding poster-board signs and shouting at cars from the corner.
“Wow,” my dad says when he sees the setup.
“How lucky am I, huh?”
He gives me a curious look but then nods as he turns into the parking lot. “Luckier than I knew.”
He pulls to a stop and asks, “Is this good?”
“Great!”
“You need help?”
I open the van door and carefully step down. “Nope!” I say from the ground. Then I grab my cane, blow him a kiss, and close the door.
I GET MOBBED BY MY TEAMMATES, and of course they all want to see the leg.
Until they do.
The girls try not to show it, but they are horrified.
“Oh my God, it’s just a pipe.”
“Aren’t they going to make it look, you know, real?”
The guys, though, think it’s wicked cool.
“That is tight, man!”
“Yaz! Dude! Come here! Check out Jessica’s leg!”
“Wow, that is crazy.… That’s, like, Terminator tough!”
I tell myself that the guys being wowed and the girls being revolted is better than the other way around, but both extremes are a little much.
Kyro intervenes. “Hey, people. Get back to your posts! We’re trying to make some money here!” Everyone but Fiona scatters, and he smiles at me and says, “It’s great to see you out here. And it’s great to see you in uniform.”
“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!”
HAVING 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.
THE 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.
Jessica Carlisle was a world-class runner. Or, according to her track coach, Leonard “Kyro” Kyrokowski, well on her way to becoming one. “She set a new league record in the 400-meter race just hours before the accident. She had the discipline, the determination. She had incredible potential.”
The accident to which Kyrokowski refers involved a school bus transporting the Liberty High School track teams and an uninsured junkyard hauler named Jack Lowe.…
“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.
Jessica Carlisle may have lost a leg, but she has not lost her spirit. Last Thursday she was back at the track, cheering from the sidelines as her teammates battled Langston High in a dual league meet.
Next year she’d like to be back on the track.
Running.
“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 GAVIN, 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.
What’s he supposed to call back for?
To tell me to learn to leave a message?
I don’t even want him to call back. I already said thank you—what’s left to say?
Still, every time the phone rings, I jump a little. Every time it turns out to be someone else on the line, I scold myself.
But Monday morning when he sees me from across the courtyard and leaves Merryl’s side to come talk to me, I feel my cheeks flush. I try to be cool and blithely witty as we talk, but me making him laugh makes me laugh, and when he finally goes back to Merryl, I realize that my eyes are shining and my cheeks ache from smiling so much.
Suddenly I feel like crying.
What an idiot I am!
I escape the courtyard, and for the rest of the week I avoid him. I stay away from the main hangouts, I hide out in Kyro’s classroom or drag Fiona into Room 402 at lunch, and I focus on important things like schoolwork and walking.
Especially walking.
I work really hard on my gait.