Ghost (Track #1)(30)

On the first few I was able to keep pace with Lu, Mikey, and Aaron, and on the fourth, I decided to prove a point and turned the jets on. We hit the final stretch, the last hundred meters, which was when we were supposed to run full-out, and I must’ve channeled my inner Usain and bolted to the end.

“Good job, Ghost!” Coach said, whistle still in his mouth, clasping his hands behind his back. I bent over as the other boys crossed the line. They all swung their hands toward me, dapping me as Coached continued, “You proved that you can get it if you want it. Now get back on the line.” But I couldn’t move. Because even though Coach had blown the whistle, I had blown my legs.

“I ca . . . I can’t,” I panted just loud enough for Aaron to hear me. I dropped to one knee.

He grabbed my arm. “Yes, you can. Let’s do it. You got some more in you.” And even though he was the captain, and kind of a suck-up, and he’d gotten smoked by me—a stupid decision that didn’t feel nearly as good as I thought it would—I knew he meant that. That I still had more.

Needless to say, the rest of practice was rough, and ended in me crawling from Coach’s cab, barefoot, to the house, through the house, into the bathroom, and into the bathtub, where I basically let the hot water cook my muscles.



And that’s how it was every Monday after. Every other day during the week was similar, but with a different routine. Coach had it set up so that we always knew what we were doing at practice every day. That way if he was late, or if Coach Whit wasn’t around, we could—Aaron could—run the workout for the team.

So it went like this:

Mondays: Fart licks. Which for me meant an afternoon of running my legs to death, and an evening of boiling them back to life.

Tuesdays: Technique. How to come off the block. Elbows in. Open up your stride. Head up. Back straight. Glide, don’t wobble; be a horse, not a penguin. Run through the finish line, not to the finish line. Blah, blah, quack, quack, wah, wah, on the line, whistle, whistle, over and over and over again.

Wednesdays: Ladders. Four, three, two, one, one, two, three, four. Also known as, Don’t Eat a Big Lunch day. Going from four to one was rough but most of us could crush it. Even me. It was heading back up the ladder that was the killer. Go down, throw down. Go up, throw up. The absolute worst.

Thursdays: Long run. Every week, a different route. Once I was finally able to keep up, it was kinda cool being part of the train of runners zooming down the sidewalk, dodging people, and bus stop benches, and fire hydrants, and trash bags, with the Motivation Mobile trailing behind. My only fear was that one day Coach Whit would lead us on the wrong route—the route that went past the sporting goods store, where I was probably a wanted fugitive. Sure, I could just turn my head or shield it with my shirt—pretend to wipe sweat—and nobody would know it was me. But the shoes? There was no disguising them. That girl, Tia, would know the sparkle of the silver bullets, easy. Luckily, we never went that way.

Fridays: Everybody’s favorite day. Off. Thank God.

I had pretty much gotten used to everything and everybody. Mean Mikey, mumbling stuff. Aaron, the captain of the team, acting like the captain of the team, which at first I wasn’t so sure I was going to be okay with. I mean, the guy had a big mouth. Like, big big. But he knew how to keep everybody together and motivated, which could get hard when you’re on the side puking your guts out. And then there was the four of us. The newbies. Our special gang. I had gotten used to Patty and Lu snapping on each other and arguing. All. The. Time. I had gotten used to Sunny quoting some spacey book that nobody had ever read. Or saying something really cool, but it’s so out there that you don’t really even know why it’s cool, but it’s cool. As a matter of fact, I think that’s the record he holds. The record for saying the coolest what in the world is he talking about sayings. Definitely. I had even gotten used to Coach on my back every day about my homework, which I usually got done during the ride home, and whatever I didn’t, I finished while Ma was zoning into the cheesy movie of the night. Even Coach’s stupid whistle and the constant shouting of “on the line” became just as normal as sunflower seeds from Mr. Charles’s store. I had gotten used to it all, and I was pretty sure that they had all gotten used to me. So everything was cool. Maybe the coolest it had ever been.

But uniform day changed everything.

Uniform day was the day when Coach was going to give us our jerseys and shorts. He had been talking about this day for two weeks, going on and on about how uniform day was important because it meant you were officially on the team. It was the last piece to the puzzle. And I wanted that piece. I mean, I had traded running in my jeans for a pair of cutoff scrubs I got from my mom, but that was like running in a pair of drawers! And when I got to sweating . . . man, straight-up gross. So a uniform sounded amazing. An actual uniform, just like basketball teams, except for a track team. Yes.

Coach showed up at practice carrying the box. He dropped it on the track in front of us as we bent and stretched, getting ready for the usual “Technique Tuesday” routine work. I was gonna practice coming off the blocks, because it was where I needed the most help. It felt weird to not just stand up straight and run when I heard the whistle. But to bend down and press my feet against that metal . . . thing, was way weird.

“Bring it in,” Coach said. “As you all know, our very first meet of the season is this Saturday. You’ve worked hard these past few weeks, and I’m proud of you. So to get you excited about smoking everybody this weekend, I’m gonna give out this year’s Defenders uniforms.”