Nearly two miles gone, about three to go, another mile to the turn where the wind would be with me. Now was the time to start breaking away in a sudden burst of speed, when the others least expected it. But Danielle was still lumbering. If anything, she was slower than before.
I pulled up behind her left shoulder. ―Go,‖ I hissed, ―go, go!‖
―Shut up,‖ she panted back. Muddy water beaded on her neck. Her jersey was soaked. ―It‘s too early, I‘ll go when . . . when I‘m ready . . .‖
Two more girls passed us and then, finally, one of our teammates got tired of waiting and put on some speed and kicked out ahead of us. That seemed to be a signal because then the entire team went for broke.
So did I. Screw Danielle. I cranked it up, stretching my stride, my shoes pounding, thighs pumping, legs scissoring. The faces of the refs stationed along the way blurred to a smear. I imagined that I was running with Mitch and we were flying over the ground, skimming the earth, and his voice was in my head: Go go go go fast go fast go faster go go.
I blew past Danielle in two seconds and then I was kicking it higher, blazing, a rocket streaking over the dead grass, shush shush shush shush. I bulleted past my teammates and through a mile, up a hill, legs pistoning, quads bunching and clenching. The wind whooshed past my ears and tore at my hair. I kept focusing on the girl ahead and then when I passed her, the next and then the next, and then I saw that it was just me and one other girl, her legs flashing, her spikes stabbing the trail. Stream ahead: I watched her hit the water, take a step then another and then both arms flew up and she was stumbling, arms windmilling wildly just as I crashed into the water. I tried veering left, away from whatever had grabbed the other girl, but slipped and staggered and almost fell. But then my spikes snagged the streambed, and I was through, plowing up the opposite bank.
My lungs screamed; my throat was on fire. One more mile, one more, one more mile, go go go go go. Push off from the hip, punish the ground, punish it, punish it, punish it. My heart was a fist, bruising my ribs; every step was a solid bang that shuddered up my spine. I remembered that first run with Mitch, how badly I‘d done and I would not let that happen now, I wouldn‘t. He was waiting for me at the finish. He would see me crest the rise and then hurtle down the final stretch, pulling a phalanx of runners in my wake like the streaming tail of a comet all the way to the finish line. He would be there; I would make him proud; I would be his girl and we would—
― Bitch.‖ Somehow, Danielle was right there, at my left elbow. ―No, you don‘t,‖ she hissed, ―no way.‖
I didn‘t answer. I don‘t know if I could‘ve. That she had the breath was a bad sign because that meant she still had more to give, and I was already digging deep.
We hit the ridge together, stride for stride, the trail only wide enough for three. The drop-off on either side wasn‘t precipitous or a killer. But that didn‘t mean you could recover from a misstep. The trail was rutted and uneven, a hard-bed scramble with rocky scrub flanking either side, as well as referees and screaming parents and friends spaced like beads on a string. Ahead, the ridge dropped then leveled out to a grassy fan, but a fall here and you could kiss the race good-bye.
Which was precisely what Danielle was trying to force on me. Running flat-out, she pushed in on my right, trying to bully her way into the lead. I shot a quick glance, saw how the muscles of her neck stood out like ropes. Her teeth were bared in a grimace. No more talk or taunts now. We were dead even and both running as fast as we could.
Faces flashed by. Below, I could see the crowd at the finish line; I picked out David and there was Mitch waving us in and I could hear his voice above the others: ― Come on, come on, pour it on bring it on go go go! ‖ I focused on that, on his voice, running to him, for him, only him. I blistered along that trail as the wind whipped my hair and sweat ran in rivers down my neck and over my back and belly. My muscles were fraying, unraveling, tearing themselves from my bones. But I was winning; I would win this for him, for him, for him. A fraction of an inch and then another, and then I was moving ahead of Danielle and still I went faster, faster, faster, the kettle drum of my heart pounding, pounding, faster run faster go faster go go—
Then I felt a quick blow just below my ribs, something swift and sure and sharp, and yet so fleeting I almost didn‘t register that anything had happened. In the next instant, Danielle‘s feet tangled with mine and then I felt a sudden laser-bright burn as her spikes sliced my right ankle.
I lost it: my balance, my speed, everything. We caromed off one another like bumper cars. Her elbow smacked my temple. My left ankle rolled, and then it was like I‘d spiked a bare knuckle of bone into solid rock. A shout of red pain grabbed my calf and then I screamed along with it as the world swirled in a drunken spiral.
Danielle and I tumbled off the ridge in a sweaty snarl of arms and legs. The ground rushed for my face, and I twisted, but I‘m no gymnast. My shoulder banged against rock, and then the back of my head smacked icy ground. My vision flickered like a faulty lightbulb and then I was somersaulting down the hill.
You know that old riddle, Bob, the one about what‘s black and white and black and white and black and white? (Answer: a nun falling down stairs. Or a zebra.) That was like this, only it was gray rock and brown earth and dead grass and slack open mouths and faces, lots of faces. There was shouting, there had to be, but I didn‘t hear. I‘d lost track of where Danielle was. I don‘t know how many rolls it took for me to finally stop, but the next thing I knew I was sprawled flat on my back, my feet still above me on the incline, my aching head dragging below. My mouth filled with a taste of wet metal. There was a confused, muddled sense of people rushing forward, pushing in, dropping on their knees, shouting, the words all running together like broken egg yolks: heyheyareyouallrightsomeonegettheemtsjennahowstheotherjennajenna . . .
Leave me alone. My head was swoony. Everything hurt. Too bright, too noisy, go away—
Then someone shouted in my ear: ―Jenna!‖
That voice, so frantic and frightened and one I knew so well by then, called me back. I pried open my eyes. There were gray clouds. It was beginning to snow; I could feel the ice pecking my cheeks. Two EMTs with blue latex gloves swam into view. Their lips moved, but I didn‘t hear them. Didn‘t care. For me, all that mattered was Mitch‘s stricken face.
―I‘m so sorry,‖ I said, and passed out.
38: a
So they said I had a mild concussion. My left ankle was sprained. The ER doctor stitched a bad rip just above my right ankle, finishing off with a train track of staples. The doctor was nice and pretty professional. He asked about my skin grafts but not my other scars. Although he checked them pretty carefully, his gloved hands probing my stomach and hips and pulling at the skin, probably to see if any were fresh because then he‘d have to call the shrinks.