Running Loose (13 page)

I heard myself screaming and moaning as my legs cramped into a million bizarre knots, and then, “Relax, man. Relax,” as Carter slowly straightened them and worked at the knots while talking me down. Madison was there, too, and Floyd was coming with his car and a stretcher. I looked over and saw Washington lying back flat on the grass just off the track. His coach was telling him to jog it off, but he just smiled and waved him away.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I just need to walk around a little.”

Blood oozed from the abrasions on my knees and left shoulder. My hands felt like I’d grabbed a fistful of bumblebees. I tried to stand, but my legs knotted immediately with the first movement.

“Relax, man,” Washington said, looking over at me from his spot on the infield. “They comin’ to get you.”

I started to laugh. “What the hell are you doing alive?” I said.

“I didn’t have it, man. If I could’ve pushed myself like you, I’da beat your butt by six blocks.” He got up, came over, and put his palm out flat, and I slapped it. Instant pain filled mine.

“Incredible,” Carter said from behind me as he helped lift me onto the stretcher.

When I was secure on it, Madison said, “We just want to take you over to the hospital and let a doctor have a look. Floyd’ll drive you over, and I’ll get someone to ride in back with you.”

“Let me go, man,” Washington said. “I got no relay today.” He shook his head. “Ain’t got nothin’ after that.”

Both my time and place qualified me for regionals, and I trained like a madman for the next two weeks after the doctor found nothing wrong that a weekend’s rest wouldn’t heal. The first week I increased my distances by half and pressured myself to the brink of exhaustion. The second week I tapered off until, on Friday, I felt like I could beat the world. Unfortunately there were three
other guys who could also beat the world—and me. I finished fourth; the world, fifth. Only the top three places go on to state, so that wrapped up my high school track career. Washington went on to finish first in state in the hundred and long jump and second in the two-twenty. He hadn’t even bothered to compete in the two-mile at regionals, though his time qualified him. That guy’s a star.

The week after regionals Jasper called me into his office again. He was actually pretty friendly at first, said maybe he had jumped to conclusions about me being the mad hammer man, and told me he was planning to replace the plaque, and maybe I could help him. He said even though I didn’t do it, was there some reason that I could think of that someone else might have?

I said maybe they were offended by what it said or maybe that he signed it. Maybe it should be from everybody. Or maybe the plaque should say “In Memoriam” with Becky’s name on it. You know, let the tree do the talking.

He nodded and said he understood. I think probably he did.

We had commencement tonight, so I guess it’s almost over. I hope so, it’s about time. Something happened up there that will probably stand out in my memory almost
as much as Becky’s death. It’s hard to believe the highs and lows you go through. After the prayers were all said and Senator Hansen gave his speech and Carter gave the salutatory address and we had a minute’s silence for Becky, Jasper and the senator and Norm, as chairman of the school board, lined up to give out the diplomas. I was third, because I’m third in the alphabet, thanks to Jen and Dick Aardvarrsen, and when Jasper called my name, I stood up, walked over and shook his hand and Senator Hansen’s hand, and then moved in front of Norm. He handed me my diploma, and I moved my tassel from one side to the other. Then he put out his hand and said in a real quiet voice, “Son, I wish there were some way I could tell you how proud I am.”

I started to shake his hand, and then I just lost it. I threw my arms around his neck and burst into tears. I don’t know whether he was embarrassed or not, but I just couldn’t help it. Behind us the gym was dead quiet. I took a deep breath and turned around to see Carter, standing, giving me thumbs-up.

I learned a lot this year, in spite of the fact that I was going to school. I learned some about friendship and a whole lot about love and that there’s no use being honorable with dishonorable men. There’s nothing they can
do to you when you don’t care anymore. I learned to accept myself even though I’m not Clint Eastwood or Joe Montana or Carter Sampson, and that you can get through almost anything if you have people around you who care about you. And I learned that when all is said and done, you’re responsible for every damn thing you do. Most important, I learned how jacked up you can get just being alive, and what a vicious, miserable, ugly thing death is. I’m going to stay away from it if I can.

A few things I didn’t learn. I didn’t learn to like people who don’t like me, and I didn’t learn not to push my luck. About a week and a half ago they set a new plaque in concrete beside Becky’s tree. Jasper didn’t take my advice; it was a duplicate of the other one. What Jasper did do was camp out overnight in his office for about a week with a .22 loaded with birdshot, waiting for me to show. But I’ve learned patience. He’s tucked away at home in his own bed tonight, visions of beating me to death with a blunt instrument dancing in his head. In about five minutes I’m going down to the station to get the hammer.

Cover photograph © 2003 by Ali Smith

Cover design by Hilary Zarycky

Cover © 2003 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.