I went running. Every day began with running now. So today, like every day, I ran as hard as I could, and as fast as I could, and the sweat that soaked my shirt threatened to freeze in the stiff, Wyoming wind. I’d started running when I moved here, only two months ago, because running was the next best thing to running away. For two months, I’d run alone. I always ran alone. Alone, I was pretty sure, was the natural state of everything in the universe.
“Pick up the pace, Eliot,” Coach Zirkle screamed.
I tried to pick up the pace. I really did. I pounded along the scuffed track, dodging bare concrete where the padding had peeled away. But the last week had been hard: tracking down my murderous half-brother, facing the ghost of Mr. Big Empty, and trying to wrangle my conflicted emotions for the two hottest boys in Vehpese. Sleep hadn’t been high on my list. Right now, I was paying the price.
“Faster,” Coach Z screamed. He was a thin, short man, and even bundled against the cold in a bright red Vehpese High School jacket, he looked about as bright and lively as an old stick. Scabs showed on his scalp where he had cut himself shaving his head; during my two months in Vehpese, I’d never seen him with so much as a bristle, and every day there were fresh scabs. “Faster.” He clapped the clipboard against his knee, and the big, red Vehpese High School pen, chained to the board, whipped up and down. “God damn it, run!”
I ran, but I ran about as fast and as well as if I’d been loaded down with a truckload of cement. As I crossed the finish line, I cut my pace, staggering into a gasping, sweating, heaving halt. Hands braced against my back, I made small circles, trying to convince myself I wasn’t dead. It was the end of tryouts, and I wasn’t the only one struggling to catch my breath. Becca, one of my only friends in town, looked different without her silver eyeshadow and lipstick. She was doing a funny little trot, as though she were practicing the cha-cha, and her cheeks were blown and red. I hadn’t known she liked running. I definitely hadn’t known she’d show up to try-outs.
And then there was Kaden Decosse. Kaden somehow managed to look tousled and bushy-tailed, even at seven o’clock in the morning and in the freezing cold. He was the only one not panting for breath; instead, he made an easy lap of the rest of us, hopping up and down as though ready to run another mile or ten. Normally, I only wanted to punch his teeth out when he smiled and tried to be my best friend. At the moment, though, I was considering making an exception.
I knew most of the other guys and girls by sight, even if I didn’t know their names. As they caught their breath, they watched me: some of them out of the corner of their eye, some of them straight on. In the last few weeks, I had been involved in three murders. Most people just stared out of curiosity. Some of it, though, was fear. I shrugged it off and, still making my little circles and trying to keep my heart inside my ribcage, I moved towards Becca.
“Eliot,” Coach Z roared. He shot across the track like an arrow, clipboard waving, pen flying along its chain. “Are you always this lazy?”
“I—”
“Don’t interrupt me, boy. Don’t speak a word on your goddamn life, not if you want to live to tell your kids about it. Are you lazy, or are you stupid? Because if you’re lazy, you’re off this team, and if I catch you near my track again I’ll personally whip you until you think you see Jesus in the stars. And if you’re stupid, you’re off this team, because God knows I can’t have an idiot who doesn’t recognize a finish line on my team.” Coach Z’s bony chest rose and fell, and a moment ticked by. “Well, boy? Open that mouth, or are you dumb as well as stupid?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
He blew a frantic blast on his whistle, sharp enough that my ears rang, and grabbed me by the collar of the shirt. It was a new shirt. Sara, my foster mom, had bought it for me special for the try-outs, and I twisted, trying to save the shirt and free myself from Coach Z’s grip. He ignored me, dragging me towards the finish line. Becca met my eyes and shrugged. Kaden, damn him, was smiling. Yeah, I thought, losing sight of him as Coach kept hauling me, I’d like to pop out every one of those pearly whites. One by one, maybe.
“You want to be smart?” Coach Z shouted over his shoulder. “You think you’re a genius, because any boy that talks back like that must think he’s Albert Einstein.”
“I didn’t—”
“What in Jesus’ name did you not understand when I said don’t speak a word? What?”
It seemed like silence was the better part of valor.
“What’s this?” Coach Z said, loosing my collar and putting the toe of his battered Keds, once-white, now the color of old underwear, to the finish line.
“The finish line.”
“He is a genius. He’s going to win himself a Nobel Prize. And what, Mr. Nobel Prize-winner, is the point of a finish line?”
“It’s the end of the race.”
“Wrong.” He grabbed my collar, turning me around so I had to face the rest of the kids. My face had turned to fire. Coach Z scanned the crowd until his gaze settled on Kaden. “Decosse, what’s the point of the finish line?”
“It’s where you finish strong, Coach,” Kaden barked.
With a shove, Coach Z sent me stumbling towards the cluster of teenagers. “You,” he said, “Eliot, you stopped at the finish line. You finished. I saw you putter out. And that’s how a loser runs.” Raising his voice, he added, “We’re done here. List will be posted Monday.” The hum of conversation broke out as the other kids started to gather water bottles and shrug on jackets. “Not you,” Coach said, fixing me with a glare. I waited as the rest of the kids trickled away. Becca and Kaden lingered a few yards behind Coach Z, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Eliot, you see that?”
I shrugged. Every time I opened my mouth, I got it wrong. I was a slow learner, but not that slow.
“That, my boy,” Coach Z said, pointing at the pitted rubber track. “That is a beautiful five miles you’re going to run me. Right now, or I’ll put a line through your name this minute. And Eliot, anything over five minutes and you’re going to wish Jesus had a longer reach and a lot more love.” I hesitated, waiting to see if there were more threats or instructions, but he just screwed up his tiny, wrinkled face and screamed, “Now!”
I took off like a jet. Well, a sagging, concrete-laden jet without much fuel. Five minutes average wasn’t that hard, at least, not if I were rested and fresh. But now . . . I wanted to groan, but I couldn’t spare the breath.
To my surprise, footsteps sounded behind me. Perfect. Coach Z was going to pace me. I wondered if he carried a riding crop or a lash. Maybe he really was going to whip me all the way through the finish line.
But instead, Kaden pulled up next to me at an easy lope and—of course—smiled.
“Why,” I puffed. “Are. You. Here.”
“Buddy, that’s what cross-country’s all about,” he said, as easily as if we were sitting on a porch swing. “You never run alone.”
That, I thought as I set my focus forward, was going to take a hell of a lot of getting used to.