The next morning I’m up early, which is unusual, but I’m on a mission. I have a shower before putting on my running gear, as I do not intend getting sweaty, then I get stuck into some serious styling, perfecting all hair angles, forward and back. Then I brush my teeth, steal some of the Monster’s moisturiser, and put on a different-coloured Elwood T-shirt from yesterday, as I don’t want Electra, if I see her, to think I’m a dirty pig.
Then I do push-ups, bicep curls, and a few leg stretches, as it would be embarrassing to tear a hammy when I am whizzing around the park impersonating a charming and handsome potential Olympic athlete. And now for the acid test: the Early Morning Mirror.
I take a look, under bright lights.
Not so bad!
M. E. Jarvis, 24, is ready to rock!
I peer cautiously down the footpath, in case she’s ahead of the schedule that hopefully she’s on. Then, seeing the coast is clear, I head for the park, aiming to look something like a cross between a leopard and a male model/rock star/rodeo rider/genuinely cool guy.
Once on the gravel path I start the first of hopefully not too many six-hundred-metre laps. As I slowly run, I concentrate on breathing smoothly in and out of my nose like a world-class sprinter, which will hopefully persuade Electra that I am a freakin’ human Ferrari, and obviously worth talking to.
That’s the plan, anyway.
Jogging, jogging, jogging. Boring, boring, boring. Marc, Marc, Marc. What’s goin’ on? I don’t know. But I’m not happy.
I’ve run three laps and I’m beginning to sweat, which isn’t good, because I’ve got that much deodorant on it’s starting to steam up and sting my eyes. And there’s no way I can keep up the nose-breathing thing. Plus I’ll have to abandon the whole operation pretty soon, or I’ll be late for work. One more lap. Two, max. That’s all I can give it.
I’ve hit a rhythm now as I’m pretty fit from a good footy pre-season. And because I feel good, and since it’s obvious that Electra’s a no-show, I decide to put in one final power shot to show some old guys that they were kidding themselves when they passed me halfway around before.
I lift my rate. And go.
I stretch out, running the bends in between the trees so fast that I have to lean in like a Japanese bullet train on the scenic route around Mount Fuji. Then, what the hell – I sprint the last bit absolutely flat-out, the legendary winged wingman, Marc E. Jarvis, 24, leaving for dead the poor pooper-scooping clowns wearing Country Road caps and carrying tennis balls covered in dog spit.
Man, I’m flyin’ now, and I keep on flying until not only am I out of energy, I’m out of track, and I have to hit the anchors or have a head-on with Thomas the Tank Engine in the playground.
Then, of course, when I’m absolutely shattered, resting hands-on-knees, sucking air like a seal through a hole in the ice, I see her.
Electra’s running towards me like only an ultra-fit, ultra-fast girl can. Her shoes, two sky-blue pinpoints, prick the ground as if she’s sewing an invisible seam, her gaze level and unswerving. It’s obvious she was born to fly. Her style is stopwatch perfect, her legs like golden pistons, her pace I estimate close to world record time for this track.
There’s no time for me to recover, start running, or hide. All I can do is look up into a face that is settled and calm, existing in the specialised zone available to only a few athletically evolved people, and say the only thing that I can say in one split second.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ she says, and is gone, her shoes tick, tick, ticking.
Then, possibly brought on by severe oxygen deprivation, I kind of lose my mind.
‘See you at GateWay car yard!’ I shout at her fast-disappearing back. ‘I’m doing Work Experience there! I’ll buy you a coffee! Belinda says to say hello!’ I feel as if I’ve started a boulder rolling down a hill, possibly towards a great big glasshouse full of rare orchids and critically endangered butterflies. ‘Welcome to Melbourne!’
The running girl slows and eventually stops. She turns, standing hands on hips, thinking, I’d guess, some not very positive thoughts.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Yes!’ I yell back, and start to run after her. ‘Of course I am! Belinda told me about your sprinting, and that you come from Broome – ’ I’ve nearly caught up to her so I ease off, not wanting her to run away, because I’ll never catch her then. ‘Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be?’ I can feel sweat trickling down my face.
‘Because you’re a maniac.’ She looks at me, arms crossed, her breathing deep and even. ‘My mother warned me about people like you.’
‘Well, yeah,’ I say, and smile what I hope is an award-winning and straight version of the Mikey model-boy smile. ‘She has a point. But truly, come on, we’ll do coffee. And I’ll tell you all about Melbourne and whatever. You know, since you’re new here. And I’m not.’
‘I’ve gotta go.’ She begins to move off backwards. ‘But maybe,’ she adds. ‘And that is only a maybe. And don’t follow me. Or I’ll call the police.’
‘Of course I won’t follow you,’ I say. ‘What d’you think I am? A stalker? Anyway, I’ll look out for you after school. You walk down Glenferrie road, don’t you?’
‘Not if I don’t want to.’ She smiles for one nano second, and is gone, in five strides regaining her rhythm, running so beautifully through the trees that someone should put her on a Nike poster. Or in a movie. Man, what a girl.
So, hot and sweaty, I head for home. And, strangely enough, I don’t even feel too bad. After all, she smiled, didn’t she? And gave me a ‘maybe’.