Hurricane Power (4 page)

“He hasn't called the cops,” I said, cutting her short. Like I needed to be reminded once more of what I had accidentally landed in. “That's what's strange. And he wouldn't give me a chance to apologize.”

Jennifer looked at the clock on the wall of the classroom.

I took the hint and started walking her toward the door.

“Anyway,” I said, “I'm hoping you can help me find him.”

“Me? I didn't even get a good look at his face,” she said. She crinkled her forehead. “How can I help you find him?”

“Actually,” I answered, “I need your dad's help. You see, I know the kid's first name is Carlos, and he went into room 225 at eleven o'clock. Maybe, with that information, your dad could get me his class schedule. It'd be even better if I could get his full name and address. That way I can track him down and give his money back. I know the teachers here are all hooked up on computers and—”

“Ancient computers,” Jennifer said, “donated by a company that was going to throw them out. And Dad's not too good with computers. He relies on Jason to help him.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe your dad can figure out how to get into the system.”

She kept frowning as we walked into the busy hallway.

“Why not just wait for him after class?” she asked.

“His class is way across the school. I'll never get there in time to catch him coming out. Watching him go in made me late to class today. Besides,” I added, “he's got these friends. More like bodyguards. It doesn't seem like they're going to let me get close to him at school. And he keeps running away. If I can talk to him at his home...”

“Boy,” she said, “these days people are pretty strict about privacy things. I'm not sure my dad would even give you information about another student.”

I should have thought of that. After all, the school had a metal detector and security guards.

Jennifer stopped. She smiled suddenly, erasing the crinkle of her forehead. “I have an idea,” she said. “The perfect reason for Dad to try to find out more about Carlos.”

I didn't have an idea, so I just waited for her to tell me hers.

“You didn't catch him, right?” she asked. “That means he's really fast.”

“I was getting close,” I said, unable to stifle my pride. “If the cops hadn't shown up—”

“Sure,” she said. “Sure.” She giggled while I sulked.

“Someone that fast could help our track team,” she said. “With you and Carlos running with Jason, we'd have a serious shot at winning. Once I tell Dad about Carlos, I'm sure Dad will look up his last name and address.”

“That's a great idea,” I said.

I dug into my back pocket for the slip of paper that had Carlos's room number on it. Folding the paper, I handed it to Jennifer. She put it into the front pocket of her jeans.

That's when someone pushed me so hard from behind that I almost fell into the lockers.

I turned around.

Jason glared at me. He held up his fists, ready to take a punch at me.

“Leave my girl alone,” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“I saw you give her a note.” He stepped toward me. I didn't back away. Jennifer stepped between us.

“Jason,” she said, “don't. He didn't give me that kind of note. And I've been telling you for a long time that I'm not your girl.”

Jennifer turned to me. “Leave,” she said. “I'll handle this.”

I didn't want to leave. I wasn't a chicken. Nobody was going to scare me away.

“Just leave,” she said. “Please? If you guys fight, you'll both get kicked off the track team. And you guys are the one-two runners. The team needs you. My dad needs you.”

“Sure,” I finally said.

I left them there, arguing.

Why did life have to be so complicated?

After school, I realized I was not looking forward to track practice. Instead of being a place to make friends, it seemed like it was going to be just the opposite.

Jason was the team ringleader. After I beat him, he made it obvious that he thought I was a jerk. So everyone else treated me like I was one too. Except for Jennifer, no one else had talked to me during practice yesterday.

After five minutes in the locker room, things didn't seem any different. I said hello
to a few of the guys as we all began to change into gym clothes. I didn't get much more back other than grunts.

I thought about my hockey buddies up in Canada. There, sitting around before practices and games had been half the fun. Playing the game was the other half of the fun. And sitting around after the game was the other half. I know a math teacher would say three halves of fun add up to more than they should—but that math teacher had never belonged to our team.

Here, I was ignored as I pulled my gear out of my locker. Coach Lewis had assigned it to me at my first practice, and I'd dropped off my gear before classes. I was ignored as I dressed. And I was ignored as I walked to the gym with the rest of the team.

Fine, I told myself, I can live without them. I'd stay on the team only because I had made a promise. And I'd show all of them who was the fastest runner. Today. Tomorrow. And every day after that.

* * *

“Split up and go to your areas!” Coach Lewis barked.

We had finished stretching and warming up in the gym. Coach had then sent us outside to the field. The breeze was humid and smelled a little of salt; it was coming from the ocean. I wished for a moment that I was out on the beach instead of feeling so lonely among all these people.

I began to walk toward the track. Others headed for the high-jump area. The long-jump pit. The shot-put area.

Jennifer caught up to me.

“I've asked Dad to look up Carlos's address,” she said. “He sounded pretty excited about finding another sprinter. With the address, you can talk to Carlos anytime you want. If you're lucky, he won't have those big guys with him.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Gotta go!” She jogged past me, heading to the high-jump bar.

Someone hit me with his shoulder.

Jason. He jogged by, acting like it was an accident.

I took a deep breath to keep from getting angry. Maybe later Jennifer could tell me what this was all about. Although I had a pretty good idea.

Jason was waiting for me on the track at the starting blocks. He gave me a big grin that I didn't believe was for real.

“Hey, turtle,” he said. “Anyone tell you yet that I let you beat me yesterday in the gym?”

I ignored him.

“Anyway,” he said, “I've got twenty bucks that says you lose our next sprint.”

All the other guys in the sprint gathered around.

I didn't say anything.

“Chicken?” Jason asked.

The others were smirking, just like Jason. Five of them, all skinny like racing dogs. All wearing track shorts and T-shirts.

“Keep your twenty,” I said. “It'll hurt you bad enough when I win.”

“Win? You'll finish last. I guarantee it.”

He laughed. So did the others.

“Tell you what,” I said. “If I win, you quit bothering Jennifer.”

That shut him up for a second.

“If you lose to me,” he snarled, “you quit the track team.”

“Fine,” I said. What was it about this guy that made me get mad so easily? And why did I lose all common sense when he made me mad?

Jason high-fived a few of the guys around him. I guess that's when I should have started worrying.

Coach Lewis walked up to us.

“All right, men,” he said. “I can only take five sprinters to Saturday's meet. There are seven of you. What we'll do is simple. Each week we'll have a sprint. The top five go to the meet; the slowest two don't. That way, if you miss one week, you'll have a chance the following one. And none of you in the top five will get lazy about keeping your spot. Any questions?”

None.

“Good,” Coach Lewis said. “This will be a practice run. It will give each of you a good idea where you stand and how much work you need to do. Tomorrow you'll race to see who competes in the meet.”

He lined us up in the blocks. I fingered the small silver cross that hung around my neck and concentrated on what I'd learned the day before. Crouch, rise, push off. A lot of our training time had been spent on form. Shaving a tenth of a second off at the blocks might mean the difference between first and last.

As Coach Lewis jogged to the finish line, Jason spoke to me out of the side of his mouth.

“Hey, loser,” he said. “Remember our little deal. I don't expect to see you here tomorrow.”

What he didn't know was that he couldn't say or do anything to make me afraid of him. Not after what I'd gone through with my dad the year before.

“Keep talking,” I said. “You'll just make me run faster.”

He laughed. So did the others. Again, I should have wondered why.

Coach Lewis was now a hundred yards away. He had his stopwatch in one hand and a starter pistol in the other.

“Take your mark...,” he called out.

We moved into a ready position in the blocks.

“Set...”

We got set.

Bang!

I was up and running!

I didn't look to either side. I pumped my arms. My whole world became a tunnel of motion, a tunnel that sucked me forward as I seemed to fly.

I'd never really known how fast I could run until yesterday, testing myself against the others. It had seemed so easy and natural to pull away from them. That had amazed me.

This time was no different.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw no motion. No other flying arms or pushing legs that signaled I was losing ground. I easily held my spot in the lead.

Twenty-five yards. A heartbeat later, thirty.

Then...

PAIN. Shooting pain in the balls of my feet.

I stumbled, not understanding what had happened.

But I wanted to win so badly, my legs kept pumping. They seemed to be working apart from the message of pain in my brain.

Fifty yards. Sixty...

It felt like someone was jabbing knives into my feet. The harder my feet hit the ground, the harder the knives stabbed me.

But I wasn't going to quit.

The pain began to make me angry, so angry that I screamed.

But I kept running. I let the anger push me into a rage that drove me harder.

Seventy.

I saw someone reaching me on the left. Then on the right.

I screamed louder. Pushed harder. More pain. Sharp, killing pain on the bottoms of my feet.

Eighty...

Ninety...

I screamed again.

A hundred yards. I finished first, barely ahead of Jason.

But the pain drove me to my knees. I let myself fall, skinning my knees on the track. I rolled over and over and over, feeling the track shred the skin off my shoulders and elbows.

When I finally came to a stop, I took a couple of deep breaths.

My feet felt like I'd been running on nails.

I pulled off my shoe and saw blood.

I turned the shoe over. And I saw three thumbtacks that had been pushed into the sole.

In a flash, I understood.

Someone had gotten into my locker. Someone had put tacks in my shoes. It wasn't until the pounding of the sprint that I had driven them through the soles and into my feet.

It didn't take too much brainpower to
figure out who had done it. And that a bunch of the others knew about it too.

My first thought was to show the shoe to Coach Lewis.

My chance came as he walked toward me with a worried look on his face.

“You all right?” Coach Lewis asked.

Behind him I could see the other guys. They were smirking. Like they had just played a great trick on me. It made me angry all over again. So my second thought took me somewhere else.

I wanted to bury those smirks. I saw only one way. And it wasn't by whining to Coach Lewis. Even though I desperately wanted to throw off my second shoe, I didn't. Instead I put the first one back on.

I stood and smiled at Coach Lewis.

“I'm fine,” I said. My guts felt like they were ripping in half thanks to the pain in my feet. “I'm going to have to work on my finish, I guess. Falling isn't such great form.”

Behind him I saw all those smirking expressions turn to disbelief. Disbelief that I had actually put the shoe back on. Disbelief
that I was standing there like it didn't hurt at all.

“Good thing you won the race before you fell,” Coach Lewis said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Good thing.”

As much as it hurt to stand on those tacks, it was worth it to watch those guys stare at me in shock.

“Coach,” I said, “do you mind if I sit down and take a breather?”

I'd take the tacks out when he wasn't looking. I didn't want him involved in something that was between Jason and me.

“No problem,” he said.

I walked toward a bench beside the track. It hurt more than I can describe, pushing my feet down on the tacks again and again, step by step.

Call me stubborn. Call me stupid. But when some of the guys started clapping, it was worth every step.

Jennifer's phone call caught us halfway through supper. Unfortunately, Dad got up from the table to answer the phone.

“It's for you,” he said, holding the phone out. “Some girl named Jennifer. And after only a few days at school. Wow.”

He said it loud enough for Jennifer to hear him.

I swallowed my mouthful of soft-shell taco and groaned. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, grabbing the phone. He missed my sarcasm.

“No problem,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. I put my hand over the mouthpiece—like he should have done.

“By the way,” I said, “it's not what you think. It's not a big deal that she called.”

And it wasn't what Jason thought either. Although I wished, in a way, that it were.