Cross Country

She hates to run long distance. She hates the grueling pump bump pump of racing over courses that a goat would balk at. She hates getting lost, and she always gets lost, ending up in front of people who left her behind twenty minutes ago. They look at her with red eyes and she flushes, stepping aside to let them pass.

Once, stumbling along on tired legs and leaning against a stitch in her side, she came across a deer on the path. It stared at her, wide-eyed, before racing into the trees again, and she knew that she was so far behind that the huffing and puffing of her teammates had faded from even the timid fawn’s ears.

The coach speaks to her only when absolutely necessary, treating her with indifference the rest of the time. They both know she’ll never be an asset, never be one of the girls standing on a platform accepting a cheap metal medal on a patriotic ribbon. He mumbles lukewarm encouragement as she passes, her hair soaked in an attempt to stay cool. His face is already turned to the runner behind her, a boy who wears the coveted spikes purchased for top runners.

Oh, she tries, though she hates it. She attends every practice, lagging behind with a grim face, sweat staining the brace she wears on her left knee. At an invitational, she dry-heaves near the end, her stomach shuddering as she spits into the yellow grass. She feels a weird sense of pride for this and goes to her couch to obtain approval.

So, did I give 100%?

No. Maybe 93%.

Her muscles clench and she walks away, looking for something to put into her stomach so that when she throws up into a port-o-potty, it won’t hurt as much. A shoelace flops and she ignores it, the aglet tangling in dirt and pine needles. She wonders if anyone else on the team knows what an aglet is.

Eventually, the season ends. There is a dinner and she goes, eating squares of pizza and watching the seniors accept their praise and farewell gifts. She doesn’t know any of them except as irritated profiles. The coach does a small speech about each team member. She doesn’t remember a word he says about her, and doubts that he does either.

And then—track

—jumping—she laughs, smiles—

jumps and jumps and jumps—and wins

—her stubby legs are springs—and she bounces

—through the air—her socks stained by pit sand—

sunglasses tumble off her face at every leap—

nobody can touch her—she flies

—she thinks that—

Summer comes, and with it the end of the year, of the season, and something of her joy spills into the endless long distance practices that return with the heat. She finds a bit of wind in her and sprints around the lake, whistling at the frogs that part as their crowd thunders past. Time drops off her in chunks and suddenly she understands the group meetings, her arms propped on the shoulders of her teammates, chanting before their race.

Junior varsity, where she runs, is a dumping ground for the young and superfluous but she doesn’t care, treasuring her first medal as if it were important. She pounds a nail into her wall to display it, still wearing her shorts and tank top and now two knee braces, her slim ankles tan. The closet acquires a bevy of cheap T-shirts with ugly logos, her name usually spelled wrong, and she wears them to school, smiling when she finds a twin.

Deep down she knows that their section win really has nothing to do with her, she can still squeezes into the team picture, eyes no longer obscured by glasses. She grins from the top of the pyramid their limbs can hold only for a minute before it collapses into a heap of giggling girls who rub elbows and heads and throw beans at each other.

She is happy.

And if the pizza at the end of the season dinner still tastes like seasoned cardboard, at least this time she shares it with the girls who run fifty miles a week and think nothing of it. They drink too much pop so that their conversations get loud, echoing in the school cafeteria as their coach talks to their parents.

When the girls in her grade stand up for their individual speeches, she ends up in the middle, a little awkward in her skirt and heels. She fidgets as she waits for her turn, detached enough even now to want to roll her eyes at the stirring phrases he uses for each girl. They are all wonderful athletes, all tough, all fighters. . . she tugs at a seam as he says her name, smiling for the flash of her mother’s camera.

Jenny has very little running ability.

She blinks. The camera doesn’t flash and it takes her a moment to figure out why, a moment to notice that the room has gone silent with embarrassment, and then she takes in another gust of air and his words register. She flushes and lets out a ragged laugh, her breath skittering in her lungs like she was at the end of the third mile.

He continues speaking, now back to the familiar format of trying hard, and the steel pity goes out of the cafeteria, but she doesn’t really hear anything.

very little running ability.

When he presses the “most improved” plaque into her hand—an honor he gives to another girl as well, the first double award they’re ever had—she feels nothing. The polished red glints against her eyes and turns smeary for a second until she can find her other arm and wipe her face.

little, very little

Her friends congratulate her timidly as the next group files onto the stage. They pat her as she places the award upside-down on the table.

ability

She drums her feet against the chair with heavy thuds.