The Running Dream (12 page)

A
FTER SCHOOL
F
IONA’S ROLLING ME
across campus in the direction of the courtyard when she says, “I just realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“Guess who wasn’t at your party today?”

“Uh … who?”

“Merryl.”

I shift my backpack in my lap. “Did I miss her? No!” I twist to glance at Fiona. “Forget about her, would you?”

Fiona grunts. “Hard to do.”

“Look, I know you hate her, but I’m starting to think you’re obsessing about her because you like
him
.”

She stops wheeling and comes around to look me right in the eyes. “What kind of friend do you think I am?
You’re
the one who likes him. The whole thing bugs me because he should be with someone like you, not her!”

“Fiona, please. Stop this.”

But she doesn’t. “I—
we
—thought he was smart. You know,
principled
. Remember his speech when he was running
for class president? You said it was the most amazing thing you’d ever heard. And it was!” She starts pushing me again. “How could he let himself be snowed by Merryl?”

“Uh … she’s gorgeous?”

She grunts again. “Guys are so shallow.”

“Look. It goes both ways. Most girls don’t like Gavin because of some speech, or because of his op-ed pieces in the school paper, or because he started a townwide warmth drive. They like him because he’s cute.”

“Well, see? You’re different. And I’m sorry. I know I’ve been kind of annoying about him. It just makes me mad to see
her
with him when she’s such a princess and you’ve gone through so much.”

I twist around again. “Well, keep your cool, because here they come.”

Gavin and Merryl are quite a distance across the courtyard, but they’re on the same walkway we’re on, and they’re definitely closing in. Merryl is linked to Gavin in her classic way: both of her arms hugging one of his as she looks up adoringly at him.

It’s strange, but it doesn’t really bother me.

I guess I’ve got bigger issues now than clinging to an old crush.

Still, what I really want to do is steer clear of them. Go in a different direction. Go four-wheelin’ across the grass. I just don’t want to have to deal with him
or
her.

But as I’m suggesting this to Fiona, Gavin notices us. He stops for an instant, then hurries toward us, leaving Merryl clinging to air.

“Jessica!” he calls.

“I
hate
being a charity case,” I grumble.

He smiles as he approaches. “I’ve been watching for you all day! I thought you’d be in the courtyard at lunch.”

Fiona’s right about his chin scruff. It gives him an edge.

A very attractive edge.

As if he needed it.

Merryl’s already scurried over, and the first thing she does is latch on to Gavin again. “Hi, Jessie!” she says. “
Soooo
good to see you!”

I can feel myself bristle.

Like I need her phony friendliness?

Fiona moves up beside me and keeps her focus on Gavin. “The track team had a party for her in Kyro’s room. The whole team was there.” She eyes Merryl. “Well,
almost
the whole team.”

Gavin looks at Merryl, who releases him with one hand so she can hold back a gasp of regret. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I completely forgot!!”

“Easy to do, I suppose,” Fiona says, turning a sarcastic eye toward the big, bold
WELCOME BACK
banner in the Greek theater. She sweeps around behind me and says, “Well, we’ve got to get moving. Places to go, things to do.”

“Wow,” I gasp when we’re out of earshot. “You were kinda brutal.”

“I have never known anyone so phony and self-absorbed,” she mutters. “Guys can be so dumb.”

We get to the car and I’m suddenly tired.

“You made it,” she says when we’re both belted in. “How are you feeling?”

I laugh. “I’m feeling sorry for you that you have to go to track practice! You were up all night putting together this amazing day for me, and now you have to go do what? Wind sprints?”

She cranks the motor. “It’s actually just a team meeting. And Kyro knows I’m going to be late.”

“Just a team meeting?” But then I realize why. “Are the Glenwood Relays tomorrow?”

She nods.

As we drive along, I think about Gavin being with Merryl, and I’m surprised that it really
doesn’t
bother me. Maybe it’s the contrast between subjects. Gavin versus the Glenwood Relays—right after the last invitational meet, someone died.

Someone else lost her leg.

Besides, if Merryl’s the kind of girl Gavin likes, then maybe I gave him too much credit.

These thoughts swirl inside me for a little while, and I let them stew. But in the end the conclusion doesn’t change. I’m not just consoling myself, or fooling myself into believing I don’t want him because my chances of having him have gone from slim to none.

It’s really just simple.

I’m over Gavin Vance.

M
OM’S WATCHING FOR ME
when I get home.

I knew she would be.

She has SunChips and cheese waiting for me in the kitchen—my favorite after-school snack.

We sit and talk, and it makes me feel good that she’s so interested in knowing all about my day, but honestly, how can I explain it? I tell her the basics—that my homework load is greatly reduced, that Fiona was amazing, that there was a big party for me in Kyro’s room, and that people were nice to me—but I don’t mention the stares or averted eyes. I don’t tell her about Gavin, or Merryl, or Mr. Vedder’s question, or Ms. Rucker’s cool demeanor, or sitting with Rosa. I’m too tired to revisit any of the tough stuff.

But tired or not, there is one thing I have to know about.

“Mom …?” I ask as she’s refilling my juice glass.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Kyro mentioned there’s a problem with insurance. What’s going on? And why does Dad think it’s Kyro’s fault?”

The juice slows to a dribble as she looks directly at me. It
runs down the pitcher, then drips onto the table. “He said that?”

“Yes.”

The pitcher wobbles a bit as she puts it down. “He shouldn’t have mentioned a thing.” She shakes her head a little. “Your father will be furious.”

“Why? I don’t get that. I don’t get it at all.”

“Because you, of all people, shouldn’t be worried or even
thinking
about insurance. He had no business telling you that there’s a problem.”

“He only told me because I asked.”

“About insurance?”

“No. About why Dad’s mad at him.”

“Your father’s not mad at
him
, really. He’s mad at the situation, and I think that in the beginning Kyro got the brunt of that.”

“Well, Dad made me think he was mad at Kyro, so I asked, okay?”

Mom sighs. “Well, now he will be.”

“He’ll be mad at Kyro? Look, none of this,
none
of it, is his fault. He’s aged ten years since the wreck. He wears a Lucy bracelet, okay?”

Mom heaves another sigh.

“So tell me what’s going on with insurance! I don’t understand what the big problem is.”

I stare at her as she considers this for what seems like an eternity. Finally she takes a deep breath and says, “It’s nothing that time won’t take care of. Everything will be okay. It’s just that payment is clogged because the different insurance
companies are dragging their feet, each pointing the finger at the other.”

I frown at her. “What does that mean?”

She closes her eyes, takes another deep breath, holds it for another eternity, and finally says, “Jack Lowe didn’t have insurance.”

“The guy in the truck that hit us?”

“Right. See, normally, since the accident was his fault, his insurance company would pay your medical bills. But he didn’t have insurance. His truck wasn’t even legally registered. He had current tags, but the police think he peeled them off another vehicle to avoid getting stopped.”

I let this sink in. “But … who does he work for? Don’t
they
have insurance?”

She sighs. “He worked for himself. He was a freelance junk hauler and got paid by the job.”

“So that’s it? There’s no insurance, no money?”

“Well, he’s still liable, or his estate is now. And he did own property—a sizeable chunk of it up near Penn Lake, where his widow lives.”

“So … what, then? Will she have to sell it to pay for the hospital bills?”

My mother nods. “Yes, but of course she doesn’t want to, so she’s hired a lawyer to fight it. Meanwhile, the school district and the bus company are both claiming no fault and so far haven’t picked up any of the expenses.”

“Wait. The busses aren’t owned by the school?”

“That’s right. Apparently they’re owned by a subcontractor with separate insurance. It’s all very complicated,
with lots of people in lots of offices claiming it’s not their liability.”

A question hovers in my mind.

“But … don’t
we
have insurance?”

My voice is small because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

“We do on your dad—health, life, disability.… We’ve got the works on him.” She shakes her head and wipes the juice up with a napkin. “We
used
to have it for the rest of us, but the cost was so high that we let it go … and we never imagined this.”

I let this all sink in, then ask, “So who’s been paying the bills?”

Her lips pinch together as she breathes in through her nose. “As I said, it’s going to take some time to sort this out.”

“But meanwhile? And how much money are we talking about?”

“Meanwhile, it is
not
your job to worry about this. It will all work itself out, okay? Your sole focus should be getting back into life.” She smiles at me. “Which it sounds like you did a great job of today.”

I’m quiet. Thinking.

She gets that way too.

Then she stands and clears our paper plates. “If you don’t mind,” she says softly, “let’s keep this conversation between the two of us. I don’t know who your dad would be madder at—your coach or me.”

Keeping it between us is not hard to do. Dad works late
and then is gone early. He hasn’t been around much since I came home from the hospital, and now I understand why.

I still have to see doctors.

I still need to get a leg.

Someone has to pay the bills.

S
ATURDAY
I
SUBMERGE MYSELF
in homework. I actually like it, which feels odd. Homework has always been something to dread.

Now it’s something I can
do
.

I try hard not to think about the team running at the Glenwood Relays.

I try to block out memories of the fun we had there last year.

I try to block out how the last invitational ended.

Dad and Mom and Kaylee move me back into my bedroom on Sunday because I insist on it. I’m good at scooting up the stairs now. I hop around everywhere, or use the crutches. I can actually pinch a crutch with my armpit and carry something while I move.

And I discover crawling.

Rediscover, I suppose. I don’t know what took me so long to try it. It’s quicker than hopping, but I only do it on rugs or carpets—and only when I’m alone, because seeing me crawl really bothers my mom.

Sunday night I take a shower. It’s gotten easier, especially now that Dad’s bought a real shower seat and installed a step on either side of the tub curb so I don’t have to land on the door guide.

I do my usual routine, then shut off the water and treat my stump the way I’m supposed to. I massage it, rough it up with the hand towel, beat it with the towel folded.… It can take a lot more pressure than it used to, and I push the towel therapy until I can really feel it.

Even with the rough treatment, there is no shooting pain. And the scar’s red, but it’s no longer tender or swollen. I still get phantom pains, but not as often, and they’re not as severe. It’s like my stump is giving up being angry. Giving up fighting back. Like it’s ready for a truce.

I maneuver out of the shower, and as I’m dressing, I think about my leg.