Addy's Race (11 page)
When we got to the starting line, Miss Fielding lined us up, as she had the first day. But this time she put me in front with Stephanie and Emma. After Miss Fielding left, I moved away from Stem. Some girls from the second row came forward and filled the space.
I bent over and stretched, then jogged in place like the girls on either side of me. They were all talking to each other. I switched off my hearing aids. I didn’t want to listen to anyone. I saw the Adidas man raise his gun, so even if I didn’t hear it, I would see him pull the trigger and know to run.
The gun was so loud I had no trouble hearing it. The entire first row of girls surged forward together across the grassy field. I remembered what Miss Fielding had said at practice: “Keep some girls in front of you. Let them set the pace. You’re strong enough to overtake them if you keep them within fifteen meters.”
Within seconds, nearly thirty girls were ahead of me. I sped up and passed the ones blocking my view of Stem. We were separated by a group from Barton Elementary. I liked their purple T-shirts, but not how slowly they were running. I passed them too, careful to stay far enough behind Stem so they wouldn’t see me.
I felt like I was playing a spy game, not running in a race. It was fun. Or maybe it was the running that was fun. I didn’t have a cramp. I wasn’t out of breath. The field had narrowed slightly into more of a path. Everything felt good. Everything was working. Except it was so quiet. It was a little weird, so I reached up and turned on my hearing aids. I could hear feet pounding on the grass. I knew there were girls behind me. I kept waiting for the sound of someone about to pass me. That made me nervous, so I turned my hearing aids off. Now it was peaceful again.
I was halfway through the course. I could tell because we were passing the path to the boat launch. Last summer one of my dad’s co-workers took us out on the river from here. We had never been on a boat, and my mother wanted me to take off my hearing aids in case we tipped over.
My father said that was ridiculous. “Cruise ships would go out of business if you couldn’t wear hearing aids on a boat!” he said. That didn’t make me feel better, but at least my mother stopped nagging me. I wore my hearing aids, and everything was fine.
The path narrowed to about the width of a sidewalk. I could still see all the girls in front of me. The one who had been leading since the beginning—a tall, thin girl with a school shirt I couldn’t read from this far back—was about to be passed by a curly-haired girl in a green and yellow shirt.
I sped up. That’s when I realized I was right behind Stem. I started to pass them, but when they saw me, they sped up. I tried to pass them again, and they sped up again. Then they spread out so I couldn’t go around or between them.
I knew I could run faster, but it didn’t make a difference if they wouldn’t let me pass. Then I felt something behind me. When I looked back, I saw a bunch of girls. I switched on my hearing aids in time to hear them yell at Stem to get out of the way. When Stem finally moved over, we all ran past them.
“What idiots,” a short girl said.
“What school are they from?” another asked.
“Mackenzie, like her,” the short girl said, looking at me.
“I don’t like them either,” I said and switched my hearing aids back off. I didn’t want to hear more, and I didn’t want to talk. Actually, I kind of wanted to yell,
I passed you! How do you like that, Stem!?
But more than that, I wanted to run as fast as I could. Maybe I wouldn’t finish in the top ten, but if I could stay ahead of Stem until I crossed the finish line, that would be as good as winning.
The rest of the race went by quickly. I was sweating harder than I had in the other three races combined. As we neared the finish line, I turned my hearing aids back on.
I had never seen my mother so excited. “Addy! Addy! You finished sixth!” she yelled.
I had done it! I’d finished in the top ten! And beaten Stem!
My mother held out my water bottle. I handed my hearing aids to Lucy. After I emptied the bottle over my head, I dried my ears with the bottom of my shirt and put my hearing aids back in.
I was so happy I almost hugged the lady at the official’s table as she handed me a purple ribbon and a blue form. I was reading the form—a running club application—when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see my mother, but it was the short girl who had called Stem idiots. She was holding an orange ribbon that said seventh place.
“I’m Catherine,” she said. “Was this your first race?”
“My fourth.” I showed her my ribbon. “I’m Addy.”
“That’s great,” she said. “Especially after what those girls did. They go to your school, right?”
I nodded. “They didn’t want me to beat them.”
“So they blocked everyone?” She shook her head, then looked at the form. “Are you going to join?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Are you?”
“I’m already in it. It’s a great club.”
“The Tornadoes?”
“No—the Road Runners. The Tornadoes stink.”
I thought about telling Catherine that Stem ran with the Tornadoes, but she was still talking. “The best runners are Road Runners. Like Nina.” She pointed to a curly-haired girl with a medal around her neck. It was the girl with the green and yellow T-shirt. “She wins every week. And Kristine and Maddison— they’re always in the top five.”
Lucy came running over, breathless. “They did worse than last week! Fifty-fourth and fifty-fifth!”
“Who?” Catherine asked.
“The girls who blocked the path,” I explained.
“They blocked the path?” Lucy’s eyes widened.
Catherine and I nodded. While we were telling Lucy what happened, Catherine’s mother and mine found us. They introduced themselves to each other. I heard my mother saying, “Yes, those are hearing aids. She’s worn them since she was three.”
She started telling Catherine’s mother “The Story.” I wondered if Sierra’s mother had a story she told everyone about Sierra’s cochlear implant. But Sierra probably wouldn’t mind. She talked about her implant all the time. It made her feel important, like she was the star of her own hearing-loss story.
I wanted to be the star of a different kind of story.
On the way home, Mom and Lucy couldn’t stop talking about the race and my superstar future as a cross-country runner. All I could think about was Mrs. Shewchuk saying, “Everyone has something important to say.” Sierra thought she was the only one who had something important to say. She was wrong. I pictured Lucy, standing up for herself and telling her mother, “I quit,” in front of everyone.
If Lucy could do it, so could I—although not in front of everyone. I waited until after my mom dropped Lucy off. As we drove toward home, I said, “Please stop talking to people about my hearing aids.”
She looked confused. “When did I do that?”
“All the time. And just now, with Catherine’s mother.”
I expected her to argue, but instead she said, “She asked,” in a hurt kind of voice.
“So just tell her I wear them. You don’t have to tell the whole story. If you want to talk about me, say I’m a good student. Or a good runner.”
My mother didn’t answer. She looked as if she was trying to remember something. When she finally spoke, she sounded a little sad. “I’m so used to speaking up for you, I forget you have your own voice.” She smiled, a small smile. “You’re growing up.”
I was still holding the Road Runners form. “I think I’ll join,” I said. “It might be fun.”
After dinner I filled out the application form.
There was a space for medical conditions, such as asthma or allergies. I checked “none.” Then I handed it to my mother so she could sign the parent or guardian line.
She studied the application carefully. I was sure she would write
hard of hearing
on the medical conditions line. I got ready to say, “My hearing has nothing to do with running.” But she left the line blank.
“I am going to tell everyone you’re my champion Road Runner,” she said.
Then she signed her name and handed me back the form.
Whenever I read a story, I wonder how much is true and how much the writer made up. In case you’re that kind of reader, here’s the scoop. Most of this story is made up. The significant true details are that my daughter Elizabeth joined her school running club when she was in elementary school (but not to keep anyone company), she has worn hearing aids since she was three (but nobody teased her about them), and Jim Ryun is a champion distance runner who lost his hearing when he was four years old and gained a lot of confidence when he discovered he had a gift for running.
Addy is no expert on cochlear implants, so her statement that Sierra had to get her head cut open isn’t exactly accurate. If you’re interested in learning more about implants, there’s lots of information on the Internet.
A lot of people helped bring Addy to life, and I hope my memory isn’t failing as I attempt to remember them all.
For the initial encouragement that gave me the confidence to move the story out of my head and onto paper, I am grateful to Maggie de Vries. For prodding, cheerleading and astute feedback, I thank Caterina Edwards, Mar’ce Merrell, June Smith-Jeffries, Lorie White, Lorna Schultz-Nicholson, Holly Robinson, Stewart O’Nan, Therese Gaetz and Dawn Ius. For feedback on hearing loss, I thank Candy Carrier and Emily Bennett. For providing me with young readers’ perspectives, I thank Sarah Bacon, Odessa Bauer and Jaren Wiley Voigt.
Tony Abbott’s novel,
Firegirl
, inspired me. Tony himself was very helpful when I turned to him for advice about trimming the final version of Addy. I am also grateful to Jim and Anne Ryun, for sharing stories of what it was like for Jim to grow up with hearing loss and how it indirectly led to his running career.
The folks at Orca have been wonderful to me, especially Sarah Harvey, whose enthusiasm pulled me out of my malaise, and Christi Howes, the best editor I’ve never met.
I am particularly grateful to the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, whose funding gave me the freedom to devote the time I needed to revise and polish
Addy’s Race.
Finally, I want to thank my family: Elizabeth, for turning off her hearing aids during an elementary school race; Noah, who kept asking when I was going to finish the story already; and David, who encourages me in so many ways, not the least of which is by insisting it’s okay if we have take-out or frozen food for dinner every night.
Debby Waldman is the co-author of
Your Child’s
Hearing Loss: A Guide for Parents
(Plural Publishing)
,
which she began writing after learning that her then three-year-old daughter would need to wear hearing aids for the rest of her life.
Addy’s Race
is inspired by her daughter and the many children she learned about while working on the book. Debby is also the author of the Orca picturebooks
A Sack Full of Feathers,
Clever Rachel
and, with Rita Feutl,
Room Enough
for Daisy.
She lives in Edmonton, Alberta, with her husband, daughter and son.
