Chapter 1
“I’m sorry I can’t stay, Josie,” Mom said as we pulled up next to the chain-link fence.
“I get it,” I lied. The cheering echoed as the runners cruised around the royal-blue track, as if they were trying to finish before the June heat hit. The East Division Track Meet was always at one of the city high schools, and from the sound of the crowd, you’d think it was the Olympics.
“Make sure you stay hydrated.”
“I know, Mom.” My irritation was as subtle as her sparkly nails.
“Can’t forget the lucky Mommy kiss,” she said and kissed me.
“So you’ll be lucky?” I smirked.
“So we’ll both be. Ha! Oh, I have one from Lucas, too. Now give me your other cheek.” Mom held my chin and did her wide-eyed thing that she does to look serious. “You’ll do great. Be fierce!”
“You mean fearless,” I said as my stomach flipped. I grabbed my bag and got out of the car.
“Same thing!” Mom giggled as I closed the door. Only it wasn’t. It only highlighted that Dad wasn’t going to be here. No pep talk. No thumbs-up from the stands. Mom tried, but she really didn’t have a clue about running, unless she had to get out of the rain. Then she and her glittery nails would plough through anyone in her way.
As usual, my school team was in the stands by the 100-metre start line. Mr. B., our coach, went early to every track meet, just to stake out the front row, because he thought it was the prime cheering spot. He’d spread a few grubby blankets and hang our JF Penguins school banner on the railing.
“Morning, Tomaselli! You feeling speedy?” Mr. B. asked. The penguin on his black and white T-shirt looked as if it was hiding a basketball.
“You know it,” I smiled, taking in the rest of his school-spirited outfit: long black shorts with a white stripe, white tube socks pulled up to his knees, black and white running shoes, and his bald head covered with a bucket hat, with penguin patches sewn all over it.
“That’s the attitude that’ll take you to the City Finals, kid!” he said, as he gave me my number and some pins. Mr. B. was super encouraging and probably knew, like I did, that I needed more than attitude.
After I pinned my number to my shirt, I brought my spikes and water bottle to the field outside the fence to warm up. I clicked on “Dog Days Are Over” from my playlist to help shake off the bubbling nerves. The clamour from the crowd was faint as I jogged, skipped, lunged, and stretched to the music. I’d raced the 400-metre since fourth grade, and now in eighth grade, I really didn’t want this to be my last. I had to make the top four to move on to the City Finals, so Dad could come to that race. The only teensy-weensy problem was, I’d never made it past the East Division meet before. Minor hiccup.
The battle of the butterflies was in full swing when we were marshalled and fanned onto the track in our staggered start positions. I wiped my sweaty palms on my T-shirt, up and down along my hips, but it was the kind of wet that wouldn’t dry. I was afraid I would be crap without Dad being there—like, coming last kind of crap. The doubt was doing laps in my head as I walked to lane 8. You’d think being way up front in lane 8 was a good thing, but it sucked. The girls in every other lane could see how fast I was going, but I’d have no clue about anyone else until it was too late. “Run your own race,” Dad would say. His words had to be enough.
I set my starting blocks at the line and did a short practice sprint. I walked back to the blocks, and smoothed my fingers along the bumps of my French braids, my “fast hair.” I took one last look at my competition. A few girls were familiar, and I figured I had a chance with them, but the ones in lanes 4 and 5 would be tough. Any runners put in 4 and 5 had the best “seed times,” which meant they were the fastest. Plus, I could just tell by looking at them. One seemed calm and was lean like a whippet. I figured her stride would be so long, she’d barely touch the ground. The other girl had the strongest legs I’d ever seen—like prosciutto hanging in the deli. If we were going by legs alone, I was in a pile of trouble. Mine were like grissini—you know, those twiggy Italian breadsticks.
I did some tuck jumps to clear my head, like in “Autumnsong.” I was replaying the chorus and shaking out my legs, when Ms. Starter walked across the field. Everyone knew her. She was at all our meets, and she always wore all neon, even her sunglasses and the headband that held her grey dreadlocks. The announcer’s microphone crackled over the loudspeaker. “Time now . . . for the Grade 8 girls . . . 400-metre runners. Ms. Starter, are we ready?”
I did another quick tuck jump, before I crouched down and backed into the blocks. I put my right heel on the back pedal of the blocks and left heel on the front. I propped my thumbs and index fingers just behind the white line. The crowd quieted as Ms. Starter stepped onto the platform. I focused on the track, and imagined Ms. Starter’s arm raised as she called, “Ready . . . Set . . . ” I raised my hips. The horn blew.
It was all reflex. Butterflies blasted to feet. Legs powered. Hands sliced the air. Lane 7 girl drifted up on my left. I pushed harder and she fell back. Spikes beat the track. Settle in. On my left, a panting current rose around the 200-metre curve. I cranked my arms and legs. On the final curve, I felt three, or maybe four girls coming up alongside me. Sound boomed from the stands. “Be fearless,” Dad’s text had said. The last hundred metres. The final kick. Cheers pulsed through me. Colours blurred. Someone beside me. Prosciutto girl. Grunting, trying to take me. No freakin’ way! I pumped my arms. Where were the others? Couldn’t risk a look. Had to make City Finals. Get there first!
Twenty metres. Breath blasting. Chest tightening. Legs aching. Can I do it? I pushed my legs. Pushed the doubt. Drove harder. Prosciutto girl dropped back. I leaned hard across the finish line and—and—almost ran over the official in my lane. I staggered to a stop.
Did I win? I think I won! I actually won!
First time ever, and my parents missed it.