Seconds
Seconds
Seconds
S
YLVIA
T
AEKEMA
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Text copyright © 2013 Sylvia Taekema
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be
invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Taekema, Sylvia, 1964-
Seconds [electronic resource] / Sylvia Taekema.
(Orca young readers)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0404-3 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0405-0 (
EPUB
)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca young readers (Online)
PS
8639.
A
25
S
43 2013Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
jC
813'.6Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
C
2013-901905-7
First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2013935377
Summary
: Jake is a dedicated young runner who is fed up with always getting second place.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs
provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the
Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of
British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover artwork by René Milot
Author photo by Denise Blommestyn
| ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS Â Â Â Â Â | ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS |
| PO Box 5626, Stn. BÂ Â Â Â Â | PO Box 468 |
| Victoria, BC Canada     | Custer, WA USA |
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16   15   14   13   â¢Â   4   3   2   1
For Mark
Contents
Jake hated every minute of it. The tension of those few seconds before the gun went off. The elbows that jabbed into his ribs as he jockeyed for a good position. The way the long grass pulled at him, branches grabbed at him, mud sucked at his shoes and sprayed up around him. The way his chest hurt and his head pounded. The way the muscles in his legs screamed at him to quit. The agony of the hills, the monotony of the long straight stretches, the pain of stubbing his toes or rolling an ankle on stones or stumps. The icy water of the swollen creek that was too wide to jump over cleanly, which seeped into his socks and pooled in the bottom of his shoes, making them squish with every step. He hated running, but he wasn't going to quit. He was going to beat Spencer Solomon today no matter what. Spencer had won the first city race last time out, but only because Jake hadn't been ready. He had been new to the course and the league and hadn't known what to expect. Not this time.
His breathing grew more ragged as he pushed harder, and spit clung to his chin. He was closing the gap, but Spencer still had five meters on him. Three. Now two. And only three hundred meters to the finish.
Time. To. Go.
Jake willed himself to maintain the brutal pace for just a little longer. He knew he could catch Spencer as they tackled the last hill. Stay with him, he thought. Just stayâbut Spencer took off in a sprint. How did he do that? Jake gritted his teeth through the mud kicked up by Spencer's spikes.
Run. Run.
He battled up the hill and pushed across the line. Sucking in great gulps of air, he ripped his racing number away from the pins, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the ground. He lifted his shirt and wiped the mud from his face. Second. Again.
Jake walked around for a bit, until his breathing had slowed and he'd calmed down. Next time. He'd get past Spencer next time. He went over the course in his head. He could probably shave a few seconds off his time on the flat stretches, but what he really needed to do was find a way to get up the hills more quickly. He made his way back toward the bike racks to grab the water bottle and the sweatshirt he'd left in a backpack slung over his bike handle. He almost tripped over some kid sitting on the curb changing his shoes.
“Hey, Jake.”
Jake regained his balance, straightened up and turned. “Simon?”
Simon Patterson. They used to be neighbors. He and Simon had done all kinds of stuff together, from Lego to video games. Simon had had a great tree house. They'd spent hours thereâeven tried spending the night in it once but were scared out by an owl. They had built massive Tinkertoy robots in Simon's basement and had some great movie nights at Jake's. They'd throw new pizza ideas at Jake's dad, and he'd cook up a masterpiece every time. Some were great, like the triple-cheese-goo experiment. Some were weird, like the one with the marshmallows.
Then Jake had moved across town, about two and a half years ago now. His dad had wanted a house with a workshop. Simon came over to the new place a couple of times. This was at the height of Jake's hockey craze. Jake watched all the games, knew all the teams and most of the players, and bought all the cards. He wanted to play, but the equipment was expensive and the practice schedule was too hard to fit in. Running was easier that way. Simon hadn't loved hockey the way Jake had. Although Jake still liked to watch the games on TV with his dad, he wasn't a hockey nut anymore. He probably hadn't seen Simon in over a year. He remembered him as kind of tubby and klutzy. Always ready with a funny line. Wore glasses and Spiderman shirts. He'd loved Spiderman.
“Simon! Long time no see! What are you doing here?”
Simon looked up. Same curly blond hair. Glasses. Red T-shirt. “Running.”
“Yeah? I didn't take you for a runner. No offense.”
Simon laughed. “That's okay. I didn't either. I started because my mom made me.
It's not a complicated sport
, she said. I think she meant you don't have to be coordinated to do this sport.” He laughed again. “But now, I like it.”
“Yeah? What place did you get?”
“Thirty-sixth.”
Thirty-sixth? Yikes. What was there to like about being thirty-sixth? thought Jake.
“Last week I was fortieth. So thirty-sixth is okay. I felt good today.”
Well, there's your problem, thought Jake. If you're running hard, hard enough to be up front and not back at thirty-sixth, you don't feel good. You feel like garbage. Like I do now.
“How did you do?” asked Simon.
Jake scowled. “Second.”
“Second? That's amazing. You always were good at running.”
Not good enough, thought Jake, feeling the anger return. “Yeah, well, it's only because the guy in first cut me off.”
“That stinks,” said Simon.
“Look at me,” said Jake. “Thanks to Spencer Solomon, I'm covered in mud.”
“The course sure is muddy today. Pigs could wallow in some parts. Spencer won? Are you sure he cut you off?”
“Yep.”
“I've never seen him do anything like that.”
How would you know? thought Jake. You probably couldn't see much of anything from back where you were. “That's how it looked to me,” he said.
The next Tuesday afternoon, another hundred or so runners, including Jake and Spencer, were back on the course. It was the third race of six scheduled runs before the championship, and Spencer was well in front. The previous year, when Jake had run for his school team, he had won every race easily. His coach had told him he should run in the city-league races. Said he had a good chance of winning.
Right
.
Jake was angry. His chest was burning. His legs felt like lead. What was he doing wrong? He was eating right, drinking lots. He was running every morning at six, almost twice the distance of the course, and it wasn't helping him at all. He watched Spencer's bright-green shoes disappear over a ridge. Dig deep, Jake told himself. Dig deep. But it wasn't enough. The bridge, the hill, the finish. He crossed the line in second place. He saw Spencer off to the left, walking in slow circles with his hands on his hips. A strange feeling began to bubble up inside Jake's chest.
“Good run,” said the official at the line.
Jake nodded. Then he blurted out, “That guy with the green shoes? He pushed me. Almost knocked me right off the course. Cost me a lot of time.”
Jake was almost as surprised by his words as the official was. “The first-place guy? Pushing?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“That's a serious charge, son.” He looked Jake straight in the eye. Jake met his gaze for a few seconds, then put his head down, hands on his knees, and tried to slow his breathing. He was winded.
“I'll look into it. Whereabouts on the course?”
“Ah, not sure,” Jake said. “About three quarters of the way maybe?” He looked up again. “Never mind. The race is done. It doesn't matter anymore.”
