Forever for a Year(13)

“Well, that happens to be me,” Mr. Pasquini said. One side of his long-bearded mouth lifted up into a grin. He was a strange dude.

“And it’s just running, right?”

“Oh no, young man, cross-country is not merely running. It is pushing the limits of the human spirit.”

Whatever. Don’t overthink this, Trevor. So I said, “Okay, I’ll run.”

Pasquini did another freaky grin thing.

*

I didn’t have any running stuff with me, so Coach Pasquini lent me some old gym-class T-shirt and shorts. It was as disgusting as it sounds. And dorky, epically dorky, which I tried not to care about. But I just did. What made it worse was that after I changed, I joined the team out on the steps of the gym and discovered that not only was every boy on the team a total outcast or nerd, but the girls’ team practiced with us too. I don’t even know what to say about that.

Two years ago, I’m quarterback of my eighth-grade football team, I have a pretty girlfriend named Dakota (who was super nice; a bit superficial, but super nice and super pretty), my mom at least pretends to be happy, I’m basically the king of junior high, and I’m in California, which is where everything happens. Now I’m in smelly, old, torn gym clothes that are riding up my butt crack and strangling my neck, I’m on the cross-country team with girls and geeks, my mom wishes she was dead, and I’m stuck in Bumblef*ck, Illinois.

And I swore I wouldn’t be judgmental anymore, except I feel like judging everybody, so I feel like crap for that on top of everything.

“Gentlemen! Ladies! Gather up!” Pasquini hollered like he thought he was some kind of Civil War general. “We have a new warrior in our midst! You treat him with respect. You encourage him. You challenge him to be the best runner and human he can be. Stand up, Trevor.”

Please just kill me. But I stood up and Pasquini led the team in applause, which only made me feel like a bigger idiot. “It’s Murder Monday, runners. Murder Monday. Five miles. Down Kirby Street, up Jeske Ave, back down Fridell Road, and then through the practice fields. Up! Up! You go! You go hard! You never stop moving, you never cut corners, and you never stop fighting! Go! Go! GO!”

And then the lot of us—probably forty kids, from freshmen to seniors—just started running. I had no idea where the hell any of these roads were, so I just followed the pack. Not that I would have wanted to lead even if I did know where I was going. Because I know sports are just another way to pacify the masses. One hundred percent. Watch ’em. Play ’em. Either way, they exist to distract people from their empty lives. You think you’re better than someone because your NFL team won or you beat someone in a five-mile run? Then you’re an idiot. Why are we so competitive? What’s wrong with people? Why can’t people just be chill? It’s because everyone is insecure. So pathetic.

Except I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to stay near the front, just behind the leaders. Want to know why? Because I’m more pathetic than anyone. I know it’s all BS, yet I can’t stop myself. Moments like this, where I just have to stay at the front, when I can’t let anyone see me as weak, even if it’s a bunch of strangers, remind me how weak I am, even if I’m fooling everyone else into thinking the opposite.

By the time we made the turn onto the forest preserve bike path, there were only five of us in the lead pack. The senior captain named Randy Chung, who had a shaved head and tattoos of Bible verses on his arms. A quiet freshman named Conchita Piniayo with thick black hair down to the middle of her back. And the other senior captain, Craig Billings, who looked like he should be related to the Kennedys.

But it was clear to me that the best runner was this junior named Todd Kishkin. He was no taller than five six, with rounded shoulders almost pointing to the ground and a beak for a nose. If I had seen him in the hall, I would have pegged him as a violin player or a math club president who had never seen a sport on TV, let alone played one. But this kid could run. My chest was burning, my legs were going numb, and this Todd Kishkin looked like he was just floating above the ground. When we turned down Fridell Road, he said, as if getting off an elevator, “I’ll see you guys in a bit.” And, pow, he went into another gear and out of sight.

I wanted to ask Craig about him, but I didn’t have the energy to speak. Eventually Randy and Craig pulled away from Conchita and me, and I made sure to stay side by side with her. Couldn’t lose to a girl. But then, as we crossed the practice fields, just when I should’ve been able to outsprint her since my legs were twice as long, I had nothing left. She cruised ahead as if I were cemented in place. Everything hurt so much. I wanted to drop this pointless sport, get another gym period, forget about Carolina Fisher anyway. Who does this crap? Run five miles for no reason? This isn’t a sport! It’s torture!

But I never walked. Never. Might as well have, but still. By the time I got to the steps of the gym where we started, two sophomores had caught me. Then a half dozen others. Didn’t care. Couldn’t care. I collapsed to my knees, hard into the gravel of the cement. If you had asked me in that moment if I would ever, ever run with the cross-country team again, I would have said, “Fuck no.”

But Pasquini walked fast toward me, mumbling, “I thought so, I thought so.” Then he crouched down because I was on my hands and knees, dry heaving, and lifted up my chin and said, “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but when you do learn, you might be dangerous.” He was giving me a compliment in his way. It felt good. I wished it didn’t. But it did.