The Running Dream (16 page)

A dark cloud called reality.

I
HAVE A SOCKET FITTING
scheduled at Hank’s after school.

A socket fitting.

I don’t really even know what that means.

I’m quiet on the drive over, and so is Mom. I wonder what’s going on with her and Dad and the whole money issue, but I don’t ask.

I just watch the road ahead.

So does she.

The exterior of Quality Orthotics and Prosthetics does nothing to lift my mood, but the instant we go inside, Chloe certainly does.

“Jessica!” she says from behind the counter. “Are you excited?”

I can’t help but smile, because
she
sure seems to be. “I guess,” I tell her.

“Well, come on back—he’s ready for you.”

My mom and I exchange looks as we follow Chloe—no Mr. Benson holding us up this time.

Chloe leads us to the same room we were in before, and
Hank comes in holding a clear plastic version of the cast he took on Tuesday. My name and the date are written right on it in black marker, and along the back are two screws holding the plastic together.

He greets us, then has me roll up my pant leg and take off my shrinker sock while he gets a stockingette out of a cupboard. After the stockingette is on, he holds up the plastic cast and says, “So this is your test socket. What we’ll do today is check for pressure points, distribution of weight bearing, and fit. If there’s anywhere that hurts, be sure to tell me. It should feel snug, and there’ll be pressure, but after you get used to that, it shouldn’t hurt.” He smiles at me. “Ready?”

I nod, and he gets down on his knees and slips the socket over my stump.

I feel like a freak-show Cinderella, getting a strange glass slipper put on, but that image vanishes when I realize that the socket feels … good.

“How is that?” he asks.

“Surprisingly comfortable,” I tell him.

He pushes up on it from the bottom. “How’s that?”

“Okay,” I tell him.

He pushes harder. “No pain?”

I shake my head.

“The clearance here,” he says, pointing to the base of the socket, “should be enough so that you don’t feel it when the leg is complete and you’re standing on it, but not so much that it creates an area where your residual limb can pool with fluids.” He nods. “I think we’ve got a good fit here.”

Next he has me bend my knee, and he checks all around
it, especially in back. The kneecap is exposed, and the socket is cut away so I can flex, but it does pinch a little behind the knee.

“Does this need to come down some?” he asks.

“I think so.”

He goes on to check the socket from all angles, making small marks on the plastic as we go over the pressure points. Then he has me stand and lean my short leg on a big block of wood.

It’s the first time I’ve stood on both legs since the accident.

“How is that?”

“Very strange,” I tell him.

“But is there pain? Excessive pressure? Close your eyes and feel it.”

“Maybe a little right here,” I tell him, pointing to a spot on the inside of my knee.

He marks it, and when he’s sure there are no other spots, he has me sit down again and slips off the socket.

“I think we’re set. I should have your leg ready a week from today. It will be a temporary prosthesis, Jessica, because your leg is still changing. But after you’re trained on the temporary and your residual limb has had a few months to stabilize, we’ll do this again, only with parts that are more suited for your lifestyle.”

“Meaning?”

He looks at me. “You’re an active young lady. We want to get you a leg that can keep up with you. But first things first, and that is to get you walking.”

I’m about to ask him what he knows about running legs, but before I can, my mom says, “Could I have a word with you about … administrative matters?”

He glances from her to me and catches her drift. “Sure. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

So they leave while I pull my shrinker sock back on and pin my pant leg up.

I try not to think about what “administrative matters” might be, because it’s clearly about money.

I try to block the thought of running from my mind.

I try to focus on walking.

In one week I’ll have a leg.

In one week I’ll learn to walk again.

In one week.

I
T TURNS OUT TO BE A LONG WEEK
.

Not because I can’t wait to get my leg. I am looking forward to that, but it also scares me a little. What if it’s awful? What if I can’t figure it out? What if it falls off during school?

No, it’s a long week because the track team officially invites me to the meet on Thursday, and I’m terrified of going.

But how can I not?

Already the bake sales and the raffle ticket sales have started. Saturday will be the first Help Jessica Run car wash.

On the outside I’m grateful and happy, but inside I know it’s an impossible goal.

They will never raise twenty thousand dollars.

People tell me all the time that I’m still part of the team. They’re all excited to be buying me a leg. They’re so nice. So positive.

They seem to have no idea what a pipe dream this is.

When Thursday arrives, I’m still not ready. But it’s Liberty versus Langston—our main rival—and it’s on our turf.
No busses to get on or traveling to do. All I have to do is hobble over to the track.

So easy.

And yet so hard.

I haven’t even seen the track since I’ve been back at school. Not that it’s been difficult to avoid. It’s out past the gym and the locker rooms, past the basketball courts and the tennis courts and the baseball diamonds. It’s the last school structure before empty fields, and it sits on a small rise of land unprotected from the afternoon winds.

Jocks snicker at runners. They think it doesn’t take much skill to put one foot in front of the other; that anyone can run track. And I guess people like Merryl Abrams contribute to that, but those of us who are serious about it grin and bear a lot more than players in some “real” sports.

Basketball players wouldn’t dream of doing wind sprints in the rain.

Tennis players call off practice if the courts are even a little wet.

Volleyball players won’t have anything to do with the cold.

And football players? They chalk talk or pump iron when the weather gets wicked.

It’s the soccer players and the track teams that show all-weather grit. And at Liberty High the track teams are the only ones of
any
of the sports to ever win league. And the varsity girls are contenders almost every year.

People don’t understand why we run. It seems so mindless to them. All you do is go around and around the track.

That’s the funny thing about running. The deceptive thing about it. It may seem mindless, but it’s really largely mental. If the mind’s not strong, the body acts weak, even if it’s not. If the mind says it’s too cold or too rainy or too windy to run, the body will be more than happy to agree. If the mind says it would be better to rest or recover or cut practice, the body will be glad to oblige.

My mother says I was born a runner; that I entered this world wanting to get up and go. Kaylee, on the other hand, has always hated running. Not because I love it, but simply because she hates it. She tried it a couple of summers ago, but after a week of easy jogs with me, she asked, “When do you stop counting your steps?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I’d never counted steps in my life.

So maybe it’s something you’re born with. Or maybe it’s something you adopt. I just know that for me, running was like eating and breathing—it was something I had always done, and without it I felt miserable.

Suffocated.

Losing a leg was like having to learn to suck in air through the pores of my skin.

Somehow I survived, but each breath was painful.

And then Kyro showed me the footage of amputees running.

And running
fast
.

Air seemed to fill my lungs again. I was heady and happy and I could feel myself—a future me—running.

I want to hold on to that.

I want to believe.

But twenty thousand dollars of reality has sunk in, and my lungs have shut down again. I feel like I’m trapped under a layer of ice, holding on to what little air I have, drowning under a cold, hard ceiling that’s keeping me from something that can save me.

A
FTER SCHOOL
, Shandall Norwood catches me teetering with uncertainty near the tennis courts. “Hey, girl!” she calls, and zips over. “Why you standing out here?”

I shrug. “I was going to go to the meet to cheer you guys on, but …”

My voice trails off, so she finishes for me. “But you’re not sure you can handle it?” Her words come out gentle. Like she totally gets it.

My throat closes down and my eyes fill up.

“Aw, girl,” she says, putting her arm around me. “We’re gonna get you running again, you know that.”

I shrug.

“Look, if you can’t handle going to the meet, don’t come. Everyone’ll understand.”

“But it’s
Langston.
”

She understands this too. Langston’s got state-of-the-art everything. From their starting blocks to their jumping standards to their landing systems and cages and hurdles and
bleachers
, their equipment totally puts Liberty High to shame.

It’s their track, though, that has us all green with envy.

Ours is dirt.

Theirs is a Tartan track.

It’s the most amazing track I’ve ever run on. It’s clean, smooth, and
fast
, and it’s a beautiful royal blue. Whenever I race at Langston, I imagine that I’m running across water. It’s an incredible feeling.

So Langston is our big league rival, and even though they have everything our team would love to have, we have the one thing a team can’t buy.

Spirit.

Maybe it’s a bond formed from years of running into the wind. Maybe it’s because Kyro calls us his family and expects us to treat one another that way. Maybe it’s just the fight of the underdog. Whatever it is, we have it, and Langston doesn’t. Oh, they
act
like they do, but you can feel it—it’s just a show.

Shandall studies me, and very slyly she says, “Yeah, that Vanessa Steele’s gonna be prancin’ all over the place like she’s unbeatable or somethin’. Like you never even existed.”

Blood prickles through my body.

Vanessa Steele.

She refused to shake my hand after I beat her at the Westfield Invitational.

She’s probably relieved that I’ve been knocked out of the competition.

I clench my crutches and start in the direction of the track. “Let’s go,” I tell Shandall.

“Thatta girl,” she says, and falls into step beside me.

We talk about her events, and I kid her a little about her discus release. Then, when we’re near the track, I stop for a moment and soak in the view. The starter’s already there and easy to spot in his red hat and coat, and the Langston teams are trudging through a warm-up lap. Our teams are scattered, warming up in groups, helping Kyro deliver things to the various officials and field judges. There’s JV girls, JV boys, varsity girls, varsity boys—four teams from each school is a lot to coordinate.