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Coach Lopez greeted me with a thumbs-up on Monday afternoon. “Glad you decided to do it. You’re a fine runner.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I’d worried all weekend about what would happen if I got caught lying to my parents again. They’d make me stop running, for sure, and I wasn’t certain what else. It wouldn’t be good—I knew that. Running in the race would be a huge risk. Or maybe it wasn’t so huge. They rarely left the farm, so how would they find out? I definitely wasn’t going to tell them.
After going back and forth a dozen times, in the end, I had decided I’d have to take risks if I wanted to change my life. I would run the race, and I’d do what I could to keep Mom and Dad from finding out. Mainly, that would involve not mentioning running at home, and praying that one of their rare trips to town didn’t coincide with the track meet. Coach gave me a permission slip for my parents to sign. I’d forge their signatures, of course, just as I’d use the last of my lunch money to buy a uniform and a new pair of shoes.
Francie and I usually warmed up together at a slow pace for the first couple of laps. After that, we were supposed to run intervals—one minute of sprinting followed by three minutes of running slowly and steadily. Because she liked to run slowly, Francie enjoyed intervals, but I hated them. Usually, I did them for a couple of laps and then ran as fast as I could until I got tired. But I enjoyed running at Francie’s pace for a while so we could talk.
“Nice party,” I said after our third lap.
She grunted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around much. But you seemed to have a good time.”
“I did. It was great.”
“My brother thinks you’re pretty,” she said. We were on our fifth lap, and both of us were starting to pant.
My whole body tingled for a second until I remembered the reality of the situation. “But he’s got a girlfriend.”
“I know, but watch out for him. He’s got some good points, but mostly, he’s a jerk.”
He hadn’t seemed like a jerk to me. “I wish I had a brother. Or a sister. I hate being an only child.”
“Huh. I think I’d like it.” We ran without talking for a while. Then she asked, “How come you’ve got red hair and your parents don’t?”
“Oh, my mom’s hair has some red in it. Maybe you didn’t notice. And my grandma had really red hair, like mine. She died before I was born, but that’s what my mom says.”
She laughed. “I wish I had your hair. It’s gorgeous.”
Warmth spread through my chest, and it didn’t have anything to do with the Florida sun.
After nine laps, we stopped and collapsed in the shade of a magnolia tree, where we drank water from bottles we’d brought from home. The slight breeze felt heavenly on my sweaty skin.
Staring up at the magnolia blossoms, Francie said in a quiet voice, “I know it’s a crazy dream to want to run the Boston Marathon. But I really do want to do it. And I’d like for us to train together. Have you decided yet?”
I sighed. “Why does it mean so much to you?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. The main reason is that I really like to run, and it’s not fair that girls aren’t allowed into the marathon. But also, I want to do it for my dad. He was a runner in high school, but he hurt his leg in the war. Now he can’t run. He can barely walk.” She frowned. “It’s complicated.”
We drank some water and watched the cheerleaders wave their pom-poms.
“Well, what do you think?” She sounded slightly irritated.
“I don’t know. I’ve got other things on my mind. The way I see it, if I win the mile race, some college coach might notice me. I’m sorry, but getting into college is more important to me than running a marathon.”
“I get that, but don’t you think college coaches will notice you if you can run 26.2 miles?”
“Yeah, I guess. But honestly, it’s not the running part that worries me. We have five months to train, and that should be enough with Coach Lopez helping us.” I laughed, embarrassed to admit the truth. “The big problem is that even if my parents would let me go, which I doubt, they wouldn’t pay for it, and I don’t have any money.”
She rolled onto her side and stared at me, eyes glittering. “That’s a different problem. I think it’s solvable. From what I can tell, we’d each need about two hundred fifty dollars for expenses. I get an allowance and have half of that saved up for a car, but I’d rather use it for the race.” She was quiet for a while then asked, “Do you get an allowance?”
“Sometimes.” The answer really was no. My parents gave me lunch money, and mostly I didn’t use it except to buy a package of cheese crackers and a Coke, so I managed to save enough for a record album every now and then. Money was tight at our house, and I didn’t like to ask for more than I absolutely needed. But the thought of admitting that to Francie made me want to hide in a corner and cry. From what I could tell, her family might as well have been the Rockefellers compared to mine.
“But don’t you work for the Barretts sometimes?”
“Sure, but I don’t get paid for it.”
“They ought to pay you for your work. They’ve got the money. I’ll have my mom talk to Mr. Barrett. Would fifty cents an hour work for you? It’s what girls make babysitting, so that sounds about right.” She paused. “Could you put in five hundred hours before next April?”
Five hundred hours divided by about five months. That would be one hundred hours a month, or twenty-five hours a week, in addition to the work I already did. “No, I’m too busy with chores. But I could maybe do half that.”
“Well, it’s a start. I’ll try to think of some other ways for you to make money. What do you think? If we can get the money, do you want to do it?”
I wiped sweat off my face with my forearm. “I know you want me to say yes, but I need to get past the mile race before I can think about anything else.”
Francie looked away and took a breath. After a couple of minutes, she said, “Okay. We’ll talk about it again after the race.”
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, I WAS more tired than usual when I got home from school. We’d upped our distance to three miles. Also, my period had started, and I had a bad headache. Actually, everything ached, from my head all the way down to my feet. All I wanted to do was take a nap.
But when I walked up to the house, my dad and Mr. Barrett were standing in the driveway with a boy about my age. He was kind of overweight but strong looking, as if he worked out before eating three or four hamburgers and a bucket of fries. My stomach turned over at the thought of food, and I made a face. The boy saw it and pointed at me, saying something I couldn’t make out.
My dad laughed. “Come here, Faye. I want you to meet somebody.”
I trudged over to them, holding my books in front of me like a shield. Dad introduced me to Benny Maxwell, Mr. Barrett’s grandson. “He’s the heir to this property, so be nice to him.” They chuckled when I rolled my eyes. “Benny’s going to be here some afternoons, helping out. I expect you to do your best to make his experience fun.”
The boy had a sour expression on his face, like this wasn’t his idea of fun. Well, I wasn’t crazy about it, either.
“I’m going to let the two of you weed the garden today. Faye, show him what to do.”
I nodded, holding back a groan. Dad had told me more than once to weed the garden, and I hadn’t gotten very far. The weeds were almost up to my knees. Weeding was the last thing I wanted to do right then. But since I was hoping Mr. Barrett would start paying me when Francie’s mom talked to him, I needed to show him I was worth the money.
We worked for two hours in the afternoon sun as cucumber plants gradually appeared through the weeds. At first, Benny worked close to me. He was so slow that I wondered if he’d ever weeded before.
As he poked along, he said, “Man, this is hard. Almost as hard as playing football. I’m a running back on the JV football team. Probably make varsity next year.” He looked at me as if he expected me to be impressed.
I wasn’t. Football was a stupid game as far as I was concerned. I said, “Huh,” and beat my hoe into the earth as hard as I could.
A couple of minutes later, he tried again. “My girlfriend is a cheerleader. You ever thought about trying out for the squad?”
“Not a chance,” I said, standing up and stretching my back. “I’d rather weed cucumbers than jump up and down when some football player makes a goal.”
He gave me a disgusted look. “Touchdown, not goal.” He moved farther down the row. Other than muttering, “Bitch,” which I was sure he wanted me to hear, he didn’t speak to me again.
I was kind of sorry that I’d taken out my bad mood on him, and thanked him for helping me when we were done. He didn’t answer, just turned his back, stomped over to his old Cadillac, and peeled out. As I watched him leave, a voice inside told me that I really should have been nicer to him.