Seconds (3 page)
Jake plunked himself down on the curb beside Simon. “What happened?” he asked.
Simon had a wicked scratch across his cheek and a purple goose egg on his forehead.
“Caught a branch in the face. Stupid. I should have known. There are always low branches there.”
“Hurt?”
“Some. My pride, mostly. My glasses got knocked off in the close encounter with the tree, and when I went off the trail to get them I slipped in the mud and smacked my head on a rock. Little bit of rock and roll.”
Jake smiled. “Rock and roll, huh? You should come jam with Luke sometime.”
Simon laughed. “How'd you do?”
Jake scowled. “Second,” he muttered. “Aargh,” he groaned, flopping back on the grass.
“You must have had a great run then,” said Simon.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn't see you ahead of me when we took off, so I turned around to see if I could find you in the crowd. When I looked behind me, everyone was coming at me like a freight train. Better keep moving, I thought. When I turned around again, boom! I hit the branch head on. Stopped me right in my tracks.”
“You were looking for me?” Jake sat up again. He studied the angry mark on Simon's cheek. “Look, I would have stopped, but I had to take my chance to get through that crowd. It was a false start, you know. That's what set me back in the first place.”
“False start? What is this, the Olympics?”
Jake shook his head and laughed. “You sound like my mom.”
Simon gave him a lopsided grin. “Anyway, that's okay. Max Chen helped me out. He found my glasses for me and then found a course monitor.”
Max? He was usually in the top ten.
“Sure you're okay?”
“Yep.”
“See you next week?”
“Yep.”
On the way to his bike, Jake glanced at the results board taped on the wall of the picnic shelter. He looked for Max Chen's name: #33. Ouch. Max could have let someone else look after Simon. The monitors would have gotten there without him. All they had to do was help Simon off the course. Then Jake saw something that surprised him. At #96, Simon Patterson. Simon had finished the race, goose egg and all, and #96 was not the last runner in.
“Jake, dinner!”
“Coming.” Jake left the running magazine on his desk and headed downstairs. There was an article in it on mental toughness that he wanted to finish. Toughness. That was what he needed to focus on. His back ached a little and the muscles in his legs felt tight going down the steps. He'd added a second run to his daily routine, and his body wasn't used to that yet. A lot of the articles talked about gradual training, alternating easier workouts and rest days, but Jake couldn't see how that made any sense. Rest days? How was he going to win if he took it easy? No, he was going to be the toughest one out there. That's how he would win.
He entered the kitchen. “Come on, Jake.” His mom smiled. “Dad made his world-famous tacos. We want to eat them while they're hot.”
“Oh, no worries there, gang,” called his dad, wearing the Taco-won-do Master apron he'd gotten for his last birthday. It had a picture of a cartoon guy with a black belt juggling tomatoes while snap-kicking a head of lettuce. “They're HOT, all right.”
“Tacos?” Jake looked over at his mother, who was pouring glasses of water. “Mom, I told you last week I can't eat spicy food. I need pasta. Lots of pasta. And rice.”
“Jake.” His mom laughed. “We've had spaghetti three times in the last week. It'll be good to have something different. And Dad's tacos are the best! Come on. Sit down.”
Jake sat. But he didn't fill up his taco shell. His brother, Luke, was waving a bowl of shredded cheese in front of his face, but Jake didn't take it. “Serious runners don't eat spicy food.”
“Uh-huh. So what's stopping
you
from eating it?” Luke grinned. Jake glared at him. “Okay, okay, more for me.” Luke shrugged, setting the bowl down in front of himself. “I like tacos.”
Me too, thought Jake. Butâ¦he sighed. “Is it okay if I just have peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches?” He looked at his mom.
She looked at his dad. “Ask Dad. He's the chef today.”
“Dad?”
“Sure, sport, but you don't know what you're missing.” He winked.
Jake went to the cupboard. “Mom, we need more peanut butter.”
“Put it on the list.”
“And more bread. The whole-grain stuff.”
“Right.”
“And chocolate milk. Chocolate milk is key for post-race recovery. So lots of chocolate milk.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Oh, and Mom,” cut in Luke in a commanding voice, “we need more pretzels. Pretzels are perfect for post-practice recovery.”
“And ice cream,” Jake's dad added. “Ice cream is ideal for post-taco recovery.” He wiped his forehead. “Whew. These are hot, all right! Bring on the butterscotch ripple.”
Jake looked around. They were laughing! He knew he was going to have to work on being mentally tough, but he didn't realize he'd need it to deal with his own family.
“What's so funny?” he asked.
“Oh, we're not laughing at you, Jake-O. We're laughing with you,” said Luke, grinning.
“Sure, except I'm not laughing.”
“Well, then, maybe we're laughing for you, Jakey. I think you may have forgotten how,” said his dad with a smile.
Jake suddenly felt frustrated. They just didn't get it. “Look,” he said. “I need food for fuel. Good food. The right food. What's the problem with that?”
“Nothing, Jake. Nothing at all.”
“I eat to run. I take running seriously. Running is good for you.”
“Yes,” said his mother softly. There was a hint of worry in her eyes. “It's supposed to be.”
Jake was grumpy. He had managed to push himself for another fifteen minutes in his evening run, but it hadn't come easy. He felt like a fish out of water, gasping for air. His mom was sitting at the table, reading the paper, when he came in. “Hey, Jake. Did you see the construction at the corner?”
“No. What corner?”
“They're putting up a new restaurant. On the corner of our street and Swift. It's going to be called Sl-ice.”
“Why are you saying Sl-ice?”
“That's the way it's written. See?”
Jake looked at the ad she held in her hand.
Opening soon. Sl'ice. Your Pizza and Ice Cream Perfectorium
.
“S-ounds g-ood, don't you think? I doubt they'll offer as many pizza toppings as Dad does, but as long as they have butterscotch ripple, we should be okay in the ice-cream department.”
So that's what Simon had been talking about. He had called just before Jake went out, mentioning a new pizza place, but Jake had cut him off. He'd been in a hurry.
“Wanna go when it opens up?” Simon had asked.
“Umm, I'm pretty busy these days,” Jake had answered. “And I'm pretty careful about what I eat too.”
“Oh, okay.”
Jake would explain to Simon next time he saw him. He sure didn't feel like pizza or ice cream now. He had a headache, and his knees hurt. “Ah, Mom, I'm going to take a shower and then go to bed, okay?” Jake made his way to the stairs but stopped with his foot on the bottom step. He heard music coming from Luke's room. “Ugh. He plays that guitar all the time,” grumbled Jake. “Who can get any sleep around here?”
His mother looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “What's the matter, Jake?”
“Nothing. I'm just tired, that's all.”
Jake plodded upstairs. His mother followed, but when she got to the top, she went the other way down the hallway to Luke's room. Soon it was quiet. Thanks, Mom, Jake thought. He dropped his jacket on his bed. It made a crinkling noise. He pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket. Last week's spelling test. Thirteen out of twenty-five. Oh yeah. Yikes. He'd been so busy, he'd forgotten to review for it. He didn't think Mrs. Bradley could keep him out of city-league running because of his grades, but his mother just might. He knew he'd better be ready for this week's test. He practiced the words as he stood under the warm spray of the shower.
Flight, f-l-i-g-h-t. Journey, j-o-u-r-n-e-y. Accident, a-c-c-i-d-e-n-t. Friendship, f-r-e-i-n-d-s-h-i-p
. Or was it
f-r-i-e-n-d-s-h-i-p
? He was tired. Did it really matter?
Okay, if some guys wanted to jump the start today, Jake was going with them. This was it. He was ready. He was focused. He didn't even bother looking to see where Spencer was in the lineup. He moved right at the gun and got out front early. No one would pass him today. No one. This was his race. He had to give it his all. He ignored the ache in his gut. He ignored the fire in his chest. Be tough, he told himself. Be tough. So far he didn't hear any footsteps behind him, but his heart was pounding so hard he wasn't sure he'd hear them anyway. He wiped the sweat from his face and kept putting one foot in front of the other.
Don't let up. Don't let up
. Up the hill. Through the trees.
Watch out for low branches
.
One foot in front of the other
. Down the hill. Along the creek. His stomach clenched. His leg muscles strained and stretched.
Never mind! Be tough. One foot in front of the other
.
Push. Harder. Push. Harder
. His fingers tingled. His feet were numb. It hurt to breathe. He pounded across the flat stretches. He forced himself up the hills.
Don't let up. Don't slow down
.
Up. Down. Steady. Steady. Focus. Keep running. Look ahead. Keep running. Look ahead. Don't think about anything else but putting one foot in front of the other
. Finally, Jake could see the bridge. His vision started to swim and things began to float around. There were little stars dancing in front of him.
Dig. Dig
.
Up the hill. One foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other untilâ¦until he stepped right over the finish line.
