Chapter 3
“Josieeee!!” Bird was leaning over the railing as I reached the stands. I jogged up the stairs, waving my ribbon as she slammed herself around me.
“You showed them those lady balls!!” Bird shook my shoulders and I soaked up her glee. She had a blue JF on one cheek, and a penguin drawn on the other. Her curly ponytail shimmied on top of her head.
“You saw me?”
“Yerp! I’d just landed my long jump, and saw the world’s fastest penguin flash right by me! I was on my knees, screaming!” Bird laughed.
“Oh my God!” I shook my head, picturing her in the sand. I should’ve known my best friend would’ve been cheering for me.
“Yeah, it was only a little embarrassing.”
“So, how’d you do?” I asked.
“Fifth,” she said, holding up her hand.
“That’s good!”
“I should’ve done a leap—and worn a tutu! Oh, and maybe landed in a split!” Bird said, arms in the air like the ballerina she was. Bird was super flexible, and had been doing ballet for about as long as I’d been running. When Mr. B. saw how springy she was, he suggested she get into jumping. Bird was reluctant at first, but she got more enthusiastic when she realized she’d get to miss school. It was also a reason to wear face paint.
“Oh, hey! I got those two twins to record your race,” she said, linking her arm in mine, as we walked through the fired-up crowd watching the next race.
“Two twins?” I laughed.
“Oh, shut up! Twins. Okay? Way to thank me.”
“Thank you! You’re the best!!”
“That’s more like it,” Bird said.
“I’ve gotta send that video to my dad.”
“Oh, so does that mean Mama Lisa is here?”
“Nope. She had some big presentation.”
“So . . . you’re sending it to your dad, but not your mom?”
“Yeah. She can wait.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Bird said in one of her many accents.
“Yes, it is. She wants me to text her after the race, so I will . . . but she can wait for the visual.”
“At least Mama Lisa is good at doing hair!” Bird said, tugging on my braid.
“I get she has to work, but I’d never forgive her if she didn’t do my fast hair!”
“And it’s working for you! Although, you could still learn to do your own fast hair,” Bird teased.
*
Our team was scattered in the stands when we got back: kids and parents watching races, laughing, eating, drinking, and huddling around cell phones, and Mr. B. smack in the middle of it all.
“Hey, Tomaselli! Awesome race, kid! You eat one of these before you ran?” Mr. B. asked, holding up a hot dog.
“Eeew, no,” I said, scrunching my face at both the thought, and the relish dripping off his goatee.
“Hey, don’t knock it. Makes you run on natural gas! Ha, ha!”
“Gross!” Bird and I said in unison.
“Best line of the morning. How was your jump, Viejo?”
“Not good. I came fifth.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You still have the triple jump. I suggest one of these for lunch,” he said, as he took a massive bite.
“You know that’s not even real food,” Bird said. Mr. B. just chewed and rubbed his belly.
“I don’t really think he cares,” I said.
Kudos came my way from schoolmates, and I thanked the guys who recorded my race. They were in my grade, but I didn’t know them well, except that one did hurdles and the other threw shot put. Bird and I watched the race video, and then I sent it to Dad, with the words, “Hope you’re sitting down.” I felt pretty witty, and when I thought about how floored he was going to be, my disappointment at him missing my event was almost gone.
Bird and I took our lunches to a shady area under some pine trees, and away from the track. Some schools had tents set up nearby, and there was a constant hum of cheering. No one else ever sat here, because of all the pine needles on the ground, but it was our spot at every track meet. I had a special red picnic blanket—waterproof on one side—and the plastic kept the needles from poking us. At cross-country meets, when it was chilly, Dad would bundle me like a cannoli, or sometimes Mom wrapped it around herself like a skirt. She could be funny at times.
Mr. B.’s disgusting hot dog didn’t stop us from diving into our lunches. The food I had on race days was also part of the ritual: pasta, carrots, cucumbers, hummus, cut-up apple, and chewy granola bars. I popped a mini carrot into my mouth before opening my thermos. Fusilli with pesto and chicken.
“Can you believe you’re going to Citys next week?” Bird asked, as she bit into her sandwich and bumped me with her shoulder.
“Not at all,” I said, stabbing a piece of chicken with my fork.
“I don’t mean it like it’s unbelievable, but it’s unbelievable!” she laughed. “And just so cool, because it’s our last year of middle school before the big move to high school.”
“I know,” I said. The pasta was suddenly hard to swallow. “Makes me freaking nervous, though.”
“You say it, but you never seem nervous.”
“I am, though. I get so sick!” I took a sip of water. “At least it goes away once I start running.”
“I get it. When I have a show, I’m afraid I’m going to forget the steps.”
“But you never, ever do.”
“Not yet. But the night before my show, you always get that call and have to talk me down! So, cheers to having each other’s backs!” Bird held up her water bottle and I grabbed mine. As we clanked bottles, we leaned forward, and did our exaggerated stare into each other’s eyes. “Cheers!” we said together.
“Speaking of cheers, we’re still going to the fair this Saturday, right?” Bird asked.
“Obviously.”
“Okay. Um. So . . . ?” Bird said, in a cartoon voice.
“So? So what?” I asked.
“Well . . . should I ask my brother to get us some booze?” Bird tipped her head, and smiled the way she always did when she already knew my answer.
“You think he will? He’s not old enough.”
“Yeah, but he has ways.” Bird smiled. Bird’s brother made fun of us the few times we snuck booze from their parents’ liquor cabinet. Some tasted like warm candy, others smelled so awful, we never tried them. We were so sure that Bird’s parents marked the level of each bottle, that we only took tiny capful tasters and replaced each one with a capful of water. We lived on the edge.
“Hey! We can celebrate your big win!” Bird decided.
“Okay, now you have to make it for the triple jump!” I said.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up. It’s such an awkward jump.” Bird popped a grape in her mouth as my phone rang, with a picture of Dad’s goofy face on the screen.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Hey! Congratulations, sweetheart!”
“Thank you.” I beamed at Bird.
“What a race!”
“Can you believe it?”
“Course I can! Am I going to see you later?”
“Uh-huh. Bird’s doing triple jump soon,” I smiled.
“Hi!!!” Bird leaned into my phone, then pecked her cantaloupe with a toothpick.
“Wish the jumping Bird good luck. Love you. Ciao.”
“Okay. Bye, Dad.” I smiled and dove back into my lunch.