Chapter 10

The next morning, I’m standing on the basketball court, wishing I could still be in bed instead of out here, waiting for directions. It’s only second period and I already forgot my lunch and dropped my science assignment in the hallway—I had to turn it in covered in footprints. I could use a Monday do-over.

Of all the classes I wish I didn’t have to take, PE tops the list. Theoretically it should be easy-peasy. Just change into baggy maroon pants and a gray T-shirt and stand around with the other sixth-grade PE class, waiting for stuff to happen. After changing in the locker room, doing the roll call, and getting things explained to us, we usually end up with maybe twenty minutes of actual sport time, if we’re lucky.

But sometimes we actually have to do work. Like today.

The morning sky is still overcast and cool. The smell of the grassy lower field combined with the dirt smell of the baseball diamond makes me a little nauseous, like it always does, because it means something I don’t want to do is about to happen. In the dirt surrounding the blacktop, squirrels run around, not even caring that a bunch of middle schoolers are right in front of them. If any of us move, they just jump into one of the many burrows.

I wish I could follow them.

Ty’s in this class, too. So far I’ve been able to avoid talking to him or looking at him, but I don’t know if that will last forever.

The two teachers set up orange lines of cones on opposite ends of the basketball court. There are two sixth-grade PE classes, so the teachers usually like to team up in one lesson. My teacher is Mrs. Balding, who says she’s been here for a hundred years, though she went to school with Dad. She moves slowly, like an injured sloth, sighing as though putting out the orange cones is the hardest thing she ever did.

Ms. Evans, the other sixth-grade teacher, puts down her cones, then scurries toward us like a squirrel who’s had too much coffee, stopping right as she gets to the front row. Some of the kids shriek-laugh. “You ready for this?” Ms. Evans shouts and claps, like we’re in some kind of nightclub instead of standing on a field. This is her first teaching job and she’s a little too enthusiastic, if you ask me.

“Yeah,” we mutter.

She puts a hand over her ear. “That was weak! Let me hear some energy!”

“YEAH!” the other kids shout. I pretend to shout, but I don’t make a sound.

Mrs. Balding turns over a big orange bucket and lowers herself onto it. “Let’s just get on with it.” She takes a sip of coffee out of a giant 7-Eleven mug.

“You know what today is?” Ms. Evans points at the cones. “PACER test. PACER stands for Progressive Aerobic Cardiovascular Endurance Run.”

Cardiovascular? I swallow. That can’t be okay for me, can it? Then again, my doctor didn’t excuse me from anything. He says as long as I don’t do a marathon I’ll be okay. I do the mile and stuff. I just do it slowly.

Mrs. Balding says, “This is just a test to see how your personal cardio is. It is not a race. There is no winner.”

The kids murmur. A kind of discomfort ripples through my abdomen. It’s not a race but it feels like a competition. And I’m not good at competition.

Ms. Evans counts off ten of us. Including me. “Stand on this line.”

Great. I should have hidden in the back. I go put my toes on the white painted stripe on the asphalt.

“What you’re going to do is just run to the other cones, where we’ve drawn the line.” She takes a small wireless speaker out of her pocket. “When you hear a beep, the lap is over. When you hear the triple beat, that’s the signal that it’s going to get faster.” She holds up a hand. “Now, if you don’t get back to the line before the beep, it won’t count. If it happens twice, you’re out. Okay?” Ms. Evans touches a button on her phone.

“The PACER test will begin in thirty seconds,” a voice says through the speaker.

The other kids get in a ready stance. I imitate them, though I feel as if my feet have grown roots through the asphalt. I put my palm over my chest. I mean, the doctor would excuse me from PE if I couldn’t do this, right? He said not to get my pulse up too high. The pacemaker won’t do anything unless my pulse gets really, really fast and then stays that high, or goes into an irregular rhythm.

What if my heart stops right here in front of everyone?

I almost raise my hand to get Mrs. Balding’s attention, when I hear a voice I recognize muttering. “She’ll get out of it. Watch.”

Ty.

If this were the old days when Alexander Hamilton was alive, this would be like challenging me to a duel. Like slapping gloves across my face or whatever they did. I grit my teeth. Now if I don’t do it, I’ll be proving Ty’s point.

I push my worries aside and clench my teeth. I’ll show him.

The voice intones, “Start.”

The other kids start jogging slowly to the other line. Okay, this isn’t so bad. I get there only a little bit behind the others. We wait.

BEEP.

We run back to the other side. The world jiggles as my feet pound the earth, making me feel dizzy. Crud. I slow down. The kids on the sideline stare at me. Ty smirks. My chest burns. But I’m not sure if that’s because of my heart or the smirk. They’re thinking, Really? On the first lap?

BEEP.

The sound goes off before I reach the line.

“That’s one missed,” Mrs. Balding says from her upside-down bucket.

I get to the line, my skin hot, as if the stares are coals burning me.

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

“It’s a little faster now,” Ms. Evans calls. “You can do it, Ava!”

My heart’s beating so fast. Dr. White always tells me not to worry about my heart because the device will do its job. “It’s there so you can do more things, not fewer,” he always says. “You just live your life.” But I can’t help worrying. My fingers go up to my neck, for my pulse. Steady. Fast, but steady. That’s good.

My feet slow even more. I concentrate on the asphalt, how my scuffed white shoes look against the darkness of it. I hear the kids snickering. They don’t know about my heart. Why would they? I look perfectly normal from the outside. You can’t see my scar most of the time.

Still, it’s not okay for them to laugh. If I were braver, I’d tell them so. If Zelia were here, I wouldn’t even be doing this. She would have roared at the teachers for even making me try.

BEEP.

I’m not even close to the line.

“You’re out, Ava,” Mrs. Balding says. She knows about my heart, but she hasn’t let me get out of stuff. I don’t know if it’s because she thinks I can secretly do everything or if she’s trying to be encouraging.

I slink away, my head down.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ms. Evans calls after me. “It’s only a personal time. It doesn’t count against you.” She doesn’t know about my heart because she’s not my teacher. I feel like I’ve disappointed her. I want to explain why I couldn’t do it, but I’d rather poke myself with a cactus spike. She’ll look at me sympathetically and tell me it’s okay, and everyone will watch, and I’ll feel a million times worse.

Mrs. Balding gestures Ms. Evans over. I watch them whisper. They glance over at me. This makes all the other kids glance over at me, too.

If the world were going to end, now would be a great time.

I pass Ty, who’s standing with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed into a glare. Faker, I hear him think, and I turn my sweaty face away. I’m not a faker.

Am I?

Dr. White says it’s okay to do PE, and he says not to worry. Maybe I could have tried harder. Pushed a little more. I probably gave up too soon.

Ms. Evans comes back, a slight frown furrowing her brow. “Great job, Ava.” She gives me a fist bump. “Tell you what. Hang out by the locker room and catch your breath. Then you can walk some slow laps around the basketball court if you want. Okay?”

I glance at Ty and catch his eye again. He glares and I look away. It’s not like I’m happy about any of this. It just feels like I’m not good enough. Again.

“Okay.” I go over to the building and slump down on the concrete, the pink stucco wall sticking into my back, and watch the other kids for the rest of the hour.