Running Loose (12 page)

Becky may have been laughing, but Anthony Jasper, Superintendent/Principal, Trout High School 1982, sure as hell wasn’t. He was hacked. I’ve never seen him so hacked. Monday morning he didn’t leave the customary notice on the bulletin board stating his desire for an audience with me. He met me at the front entrance.

He said, “Into my office!” as I walked by.

“Yes, sir.” I hustled up the stairs, through the outer office, and into the inner sanctum.

The door slammed, and Jasper stalked around behind his desk. “Sit down!” he said.

I sat. He didn’t.

“By God, Banks,” he said, and the look in his eye was almost murderous, “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but before this day is over, if I have
my way, you’ll be out of this school for good!”

I dug down deep for my best surprised look and said, “Why? What’s going on?”

“You know damn good and well what’s going on,” he said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I looked him in the eye and said, “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a liar!” he said. “On top of everything else, you’re a liar. I feel sorry for your parents, Louie. I really do. Parents have an obligation to protect their kids, but you must push that to the very edge.”

I put my hands up. “Look,” I said, “I’d be more than happy to have you call Norm and Brenda and get them up here—”

He waved me off. “Where were you last night?”

“Home.”

“All night?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, no. I went out for a drive about ten-thirty or eleven.” Just in case he checked with the folks. They didn’t know anything about it.

“Where to?”

“Around the lake a ways. Why? What happened? Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.”

“Somebody vandalized the plaque we dedicated to
Becky Sanders. I know it was you. I mean, who else would do a thing like that?”

My voice rose. “Are you crazy?” I settled back. “Excuse me, but why would I do something like that? I thought it was a neat idea. Really.”

His eyes narrowed. “If you thought it was a ‘neat’ idea, as you put it, why didn’t you attend the ceremony? You think I’m stupid? I notice things like that.”

I didn’t address whether or not I thought he was stupid. I just looked at the floor in front of my feet and said, “I didn’t go to the ceremony because it still hurts too much and I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself.”

He just stared.

“What did they do to it?” I asked. “Mark it up or something? Can’t it be fixed?”

“No. They broke it out of the concrete.”

“Geez,” I said. “With what?”

“I don’t know what you did it with. Probably a sledgehammer. Don’t play games with me, Banks; you’re in a lot of trouble. I’ll get the law in on this if I have to.”

“I didn’t do it,” I said, my voice rising slightly again. “Really. I’ve done a lot of stupid things this year, but that wasn’t one of them.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You’ve done a
lot
of stupid things. There’s no one else who would have any motive.”

Motive. I was determined to stay cool. There wasn’t a shred of evidence. I even washed off the hammer when I took it back. “What motive? I mean, why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

“Why would you make a shambles out of her funeral? Why would you make that ridiculous scene on the football field and then lie to back it up? You’re a sick boy, Louie. If I were Norm, I’d have you tested.”

“I was out of my head at the funeral,” I said. “I’d never do anything like that in my right mind.”

Jasper’s eyes narrowed again. His voice went low, and he pointed his famous index finger right at my heart. “Banks, I know I’m right, and I’m going to prove it.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, “but there isn’t any proof because
I didn’t do it
.”

“Until I do, you’re suspended.”

“I’ll take
that
to the school board,” I said. “I haven’t learned an awful lot from government class this year—believe me I haven’t—but I have learned that I’m innocent until proved guilty. Even you are bound by that. You can’t just accuse me of something and make it stand.” I sat forward. “Really, Mr. Jasper. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn’t do it.”

He just erupted. “A stack of Bibles doesn’t mean a damn thing to you!” he screamed. I had him on the run. “I heard you at the funeral! God knows what is sacred to you!”

“Then I’ll swear on the Koran! Or the Bhagavad-Gita! Or a yearbook! I didn’t do it!”

“Go to your class,” he said. “Get out of my sight.”

I stood up to leave. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, “but did you say it was knocked completely out of its concrete base?”

He glared.

I shook my head. “Whoever did it must be an animal. That thing looked like it was really in there. Maybe you should ask Boomer—”

“Get out of here!”

I hustled off to class. My suspension was obviously a bluff.

I wasn’t that comfortable around school that day. A lot of people must have shared Jasper’s opinion that I’d busted up the plaque because not many spoke to me and I could feel them looking. Carter stopped me after English and said if I did, he didn’t want to know about it, so I told him the same thing I’d told Jasper. I said I knew it looked like I did it, but I didn’t, that I’d like to find the guy, too.

Madison never said a word about it. He was bound and determined to coach me in track and leave the rest of my life to me. I was in the training room dressing down after school when he came in to change.

“Heard a rumor,” he said.

“You, too?”

He shook his head. “This rumor’s about track. I heard Washington has been training for a week to run the two-mile.”

“Oh, God!” I said. “Where’d you hear that?”

“John Lamaar, his coach. Says he needs the challenge.”

“When?”

“Lamaar says he thinks he’ll run it at district, as his fourth event. He’s going to stay out of the relay.”

I thought for a second. “He can’t be in that good shape,” I said. “Not with only three weeks’ training at the outside.”

“Maybe not,” Madison said, “but he’s a tremendous athlete, and he’s obviously not afraid of a challenge.” He laced his shoes. “You know, we haven’t had a distance man qualify for regionals since 1968, when Dave Orwell qualified in the mile. That’s fourteen years.” He winked. “Just a thought,” he said, and walked out.

I trained the rest of the week like a man possessed,
as Mrs. Kjack is fond of saying about the way Mark Robeson plays the accordion. The first-place finisher at district goes to regionals, no matter what the time, and I didn’t even know what the qualifying time was. I wanted to go as the number one man from our district.

The weather was with me, the ground was dry almost everywhere, and the days were getting longer, so I had more time to work out. Running hills got to be my forte. I figured if I could really stride out and keep the pressure on going up a long, steep hill, a flat, oval track would be a cinch. I’d start on the short course up by the lake, take off into the hills at the old cemetery, and run ridge after ridge until I thought I couldn’t take it. Then I’d run back. The thing that ran through my mind most was the mile at the beginning of football season. At the end, when I’d given it everything I had, Boomer just spurted past me. I could just see Washington striding out the last fifteen yards after following me for seven and seven-eighths laps, to pass me like I was a traffic cop.

Friday. The district meet was being held at Salmon River because they have a rubberized asphalt track, fastest in the league. That gave Washington the advantage of a home crowd, which was bad because he’s a showman all the way.

I got to the meet ahead of the team because the bus had a flat tire. We passed them about thirty miles out of Salmon River, waving and blasting our horn. I was in a hurry to get there, so I’d have plenty of time to warm up. Several of the other teams were there when we pulled in, and I went over and found an empty spot in the infield and plopped down my gear. I already wore my sweats and uniform because I couldn’t shower with the team after the meet, so there was no use in bringing clothes. I sat down to put short spikes in my shoes—you can’t use long ones on asphalt—and as I was finishing the second one, I noticed a shadow. Looking up behind me, I saw Washington, standing with his hands on his hips, grinning.

“Comin’ after you today, my man,” he said.

I smiled. “That’s what I hear. Gonna have to come hard,” I said. “Hey, how come you’re tryin’ to steal my show?”

“Just wanna see what you got,” he said, “besides guts. I been watchin’ you run; you’re my hero. Got to take you on.”

I nodded, squinting into the sun. That wasn’t logic I was familiar with. “I’m glad, I guess. Maybe we should meet on a neutral track, though, for your sake. You hear that hometown crowd you might get too
excited. Too much adrenaline.” I pounded my chest. “Gotta watch out for your heart.”

Washington looked around at the maybe fifty diehard track fans—mostly parents and a relatively small part of the Salmon River student body—and laughed. “Doubt I’ll be hearin’ much more than the blood poundin’ in my ears,” he said. “Two miles’s a long ways.”

I got up and we started jogging.

“So what’s it really like around here for you?”

“You mean, ’cause I’m black?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

“Well,” he said, “I didn’t have a date for the prom, if you know what I mean, but folks treat me pretty good, I’d say.”

I nodded. “You in shape for this?” I asked. “Eight laps’s a long ways, like you said.” So much for my feeble attempt to psyche him out.

“I’ll get by,” he said. “Listen, Louis, my man. Got to tell you somethin’. Lots of guys who run against me give up. Think I’m too fast and just give up. I don’t want you doin’ that.”

I started to say I wouldn’t.

“This ain’t my distance,” he said, and broke into a grin. “This
ain’t
my distance. But I’m gonna give it what
I got. What I’m tellin’ you is you give it what you got, you might take me.”

I said I’d give it what I got.

“Listen”—he stopped me—“I came over to tell you two things. Don’t let me psyche you, and”—he paused—“however it turns out, you got my respect, and not a lot of dudes can say that. I know what happened when young Mr. Boomer tried to make a dead nigger out of me. Okay?”

I said okay.

He smiled. “Don’t want to burn myself out with this warmin’ up,” he said. “Catch you later.” He slapped my hand and headed to the infield.

I’d never competed against anyone before who didn’t just want to beat my butt and go home. It’s funny; besides really wanting to win, I felt like I owed him a good race.

I jogged another easy mile and a half and went over to let Floyd massage my legs, wondering how this all was going to turn out. Floyd was sort of getting to be my personal trainer. All the time we rode to meets he never said a word about any of the crap I pulled all year long. We just talked track and a little about my future. He was pretty sure there were some small colleges around that would give me a partial scholarship to run
cross-country and track. He wished he’d done that. It’s a little late, but I’m looking into it.

Washington won the hundred and the two-twenty going away, and Carter just slapped him on the butt after each race and shook his head. Boomer sneered. When the first call was given for the two-mile, I trotted over to Madison and said, “Earn your pay. Coach me.”

“Run
your
race,” he said. “Run loose like always. You’ll have to run a fast first mile to wear him down. Your best bet is to be far enough ahead on the last lap that he can’t even make a run at you. He’s fast. Ask Sampson.” He rubbed my legs. “I don’t think he can go out ahead of you. He hasn’t run it enough to know what he can handle. If he does, you still run your race; he may be trying to psyche you. Just don’t panic, no matter what. You have the advantage of knowing your limit.”

The gun sounded. Washington was smart. He wasn’t about to kill himself off by taking the lead. He figured if he could stay within a reasonable distance for seven laps, he could outdo me with sheer speed on the last one. I knew he’d do exactly that unless I broke him, so I set a good pace. Madison hollered out my times at the end of each quarter, and they were well under my usual; the first mile was my best ever, and I still had a
lot left. Never once was Washington far enough back that I couldn’t hear his spikes pounding the track.

I opened up a little on the fifth lap, hoping to catch him in a midway slump and break him, but he hung in. The thought that he could stay with me no matter what pace I set crept into my mind, but I banished it and picked up.

So did he.

Since I couldn’t shake him, I decided I had to burn him out on laps six and seven so he wouldn’t have a final sprint. I mean, he
had
to have a limit. The old familiar burning deep in my bowels, a constant companion during most of my hard workouts, made its presence felt, and I welcomed it, knowing he had to be feeling it, too. I coped with it, as usual, by telling myself it didn’t hurt half as much as when Leo Frazier accidentally fouled me off with that baseball bat. I picked up more, concentrating on relaxing my upper body—especially my arms.

Starting into the eighth lap, I had about half a stride on him and poured it on. The first two-twenty we went stride for stride. Going into the final turn, I had the inside, so he stayed close right at my shoulder. I could almost see him out of the corner of my eye but refused to look, to break my concentration. I knew he was hurting.
He’d have taken me by now if he wasn’t.

My legs ached. My lungs wanted to explode. He reached for his kick, but it wasn’t quite there. I strode out and counted to myself, increasing the speed of the cadence to fight him off. I couldn’t shake him, but he couldn’t kick it in. I saw the tape, and out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand. Blackness closed in from the sides as I lunged for the tape and felt its casual pressure across my chest. I stumbled to the track, vaguely aware of the asphalt scraping my hands, knees, and shoulders as I tumbled over and over.