The next morning, I made a simulated run.
My eventual goal would be to run all the way to school and then run around the track a few times. I’d have to work up to it over two or three days. But I wanted to get the feel for it, run partway—three, four blocks. Then jog back and take the bus like any other morning. By next week, I’d be ready to do the run and start to work on speed.
I set my clock for an hour earlier, for five-thirty. There is no way to simulate a five-thirty rising in winter. It’s still dark at five-thirty, and it is cold.
It took me half an hour to do the warm-ups, but I reasoned that when I ran all the way to school, that would count toward the overall run.
Right from the start, my jeans kept making this sound like a nail file. Half a block on, the bottoms of my pants felt like they got caught on my ankles or wrapped around them. I had to walk part of the next block to catch my breath anyway. I started to run again, but this time I couldn’t go as far before I had to walk. I was wheezing.
On the third block, I developed a stitch in my right side.
It was a good thing I called this a simulated run. I turned around to go home, walking. I managed to avoid a face-to-face with Mr. B without actually hiding from him, which was a relief to me. I lay down for ten minutes, then took a hot shower and practiced breathing. It hurt.
Mr. B had gone by the time I got downstairs, and Mom was on her way out. She was dressed for the office, wearing those stubby running shoes. She carried her chunky heels in a shopping bag. “Headed for work?” I asked her in a chatty way.
“Of course. I’m still bringing in a paycheck,” she said. “Even if I’m not the only one.”
Something had wound up her clock. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t want to find out. We left together. Mom went one way, heading for the train. I went the other.
The day had a bright side. I got an A plus on my book report. Also, that was the last of the makeup homework having to do with changing schools in November.
At first it just felt like my mood was lighter. But I soon saw the girls were all atwitter, making plans for the dance.
That night I asked Mr. B about running clothes.
“For the time being, you won’t need anything but a good pair of running shoes. Those sneakers you’re wearing won’t do. And we’ll get you a sweat suit. I don’t guess you’ve got one.”
“No, I guess not,” I said, to be agreeable.
“Vinnie, you have a sweat suit,” Mom said irritably. She was right, but it was still in my closet, in a box I hadn’t unpacked since the move. I’d forgotten about it.
Then, roused like a bear from hibernation, she turned on Mr. B. “Why wouldn’t he have a sweat suit?”
Dad and I know enough never to answer Mom’s questions when they follow an indication that her fur’s been mussed. Mr. B didn’t understand this yet.
“It’s only that he’s never been athletically inclined, Donna. I just assumed—”
“The way you’re assuming he’s ‘never’ been athletically inclined?”
“I’m talking about his interests—”
“Not all athletics revolve around football, Dominic.” Ooh, Mom catches on fast.
“Just what athletics are you talking about, Donna?” Mr. B was sounding a little testy himself.
“He did okay in gymnastics last year, didn’t he?”
In all fairness, that’s how I did. Okay. And that good only when I hoped it would discourage further meetings between Mom and Mr. B. Not that it was a good time to point that out.
Mom wouldn’t quit while she was ahead. “When he was eight years old, he could run back and forth along the seesaw to keep it level. You know, keeping it moving without letting it touch the ground,” Mom said, finishing on an uncertain note. “That was athletic.”
Mom was right. That’s why I fell and broke my nose at the tender age of eight.
“And he can dance,” she added.
Mr. B sized up the situation and set his face to a carefully neutral expression. He told my mother what she wanted to hear. “Vinnie and I haven’t talked much about his interests, Donna. I’m happy he’s going out for track, really I am.” Mr. B seemed to have developed a British accent.
“Did you hear that, Vinnie?”
She didn’t want much from him. Just total capitulation.
“Sure, Mom.” Chalk one up on the down side for the stepdad.
Patsy said, “You weren’t so nice to me last night, Dominic.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Actually, she gave me something of a turn, coming up with Mr. B’s name. I drew in a slow, deep breath.
“I’m not sure I like you when you get into that mood.”
“I didn’t know you liked me at all.”
“What a strange thing to say.” She tapped the receiver while she thought it over, a rapid heartbeat. I slid deeper into my bed, embarrassed somehow. Excruciatingly embarrassed.
“I’ve been thinking, you must really need to talk to someone. Anonymously, you know? Otherwise, why the handkerchief?”
“What’s with you and the handkerchief? You need one?”
“You’re pretty funny, Domino.”
“Go ahead! Make fun. Every time you waste the chance to guess my name, the likelier it is we’ll have to go around again.”
“Sounds like you’re counting on a lot of calls.”
There was a soft click. At first I wasn’t sure she’d hung up. “Patsy?” Nothing. Then the dial tone.
Go figure.
The next morning I unpacked the running suit my mom was talking about. Bright blue in a fabric as slippery as gym shorts. I wouldn’t be keeping a low profile. I’d run a little, then walk to school. Maybe sprint two or three times.
At the back door, I met the next obstacle to my running career. Something that had not occurred to me during my simulated run. How was I going to carry my books? I could hardly run while holding them against my chest. I left them, along with my folded jeans, in Mr. B’s place at the table, he’d bring them to school this time.
It was about a twelve-block run to the school. Just about a mile, Mr. B told me. It was cold out, but he’d also said I’d warm up quick. Strangely enough, the first block wasn’t bad.
If only I hadn’t talked myself into running longer. By the time I made five blocks, I was finished. I turned around and walked back home. My head ached. I had worked up just enough of a sweat to feel a chill coming on. It made a person think. If modern man can’t run five blocks, how’s he going to make it as far as the next millennium?
About halfway home, I decided to run the last block so I wouldn’t look like such a loser. As I gathered strength for the burst of energy needed to run that last block, I thought, I’ll have to get up earlier in the morning. Much earlier.
Mom and Mr. B were just finishing breakfast as I got back. Which meant she was having coffee. And he was having coffee and Ritz crackers with strawberry jelly. Yum.
“So. How was it?” Mr. B wanted to know. He poured himself another cup of coffee. No doubt he had made the coffee if he wanted seconds.
“Good,” I said, trying not to sound like I was choking to death. Hard to do when my throat was clogged with ropy saliva. I reached for the orange juice and drank straight from the carton.
“Vinnie,” Mom complained as she folded a sheet of newspaper. An auspicious horoscope, no doubt.
“It’s hard in the beginning,” Mr. B said. He knew how it was going, how it was really going.
I didn’t volunteer anything but to share my scrambled eggs. Mr. B hovered around the stove while I stirred the eggs with shaking hands. He rescued the toast in the nick of time and sat down for a second meal.