For a Girl, J.T. D'Arelli [reading fiction txt] 📗

distant second. This frustrated me, of course — she didn't seem to take my running seriously, or appreciate how important it was to me. It was the age-old conflict between the generations: the parents have one vision for their children — the kids have a different one for themselves.

"So how was your English paper?"

"A-"

"What went wrong?"

"Hey, A- is a pretty good grade, Mom."

"Pretty good is not going to get you into the Ivy League."

"But I've already got two Ivy League coaches recruiting me."

"After-school activities are not the stuff of a successful career. I'm glad your hobby is going well for you — but it's no substitute for true academics."

I was too incensed over her dismissal of my running as a 'hobby' to point out that as long as I got in, who cares what criteria were used? When would she ever respect my effort? I finished the ride in silence.

We lived in an old farmhouse about three miles from town. We fixed a quick spaghetti dinner (all distance runners love pasta for 'carbo-loading'). Mom and I made small talk about the office — we avoided school and track. Tired from a long day, and the emotional high of the race, I showered up and hit the sack.

The next morning, I rode the school bus in — the only way I was going to get my own car was to work for it, and I wasn't giving up running for an after-school job at McDonalds. While at my locker before first period, a pair of slender, feminine arms encircled my waist and a warm body, smelling sweetly of soap and lilacs pressed against me. I smiled and turned around, looking into the lovely blue eyes of Sue Wendell, my recently acquired girlfriend.

"Congratulations!" she said — kissing me quickly. Then, not so quickly.

"Thanks, sweetie." nuzzling her neck in return. At least she appreciated what I did.

I still couldn't believe my good fortune. Sue was a very pretty, petite young woman, as close to the ideal All- American girl as one could get. She was a superb student, an excellent field-hockey player, a cheerleader and president of the school class. She was easily the most popular girl in school — but not because she belonged to the right clique. Instead, she... transcended cliques, forming true friendships with jocks, nerds, bangers, Goths and all the rest.

How did she do this? Because she was the most honest person I'd ever met. There was no pretense about her and she never judged people by what category they might be in. To borrow from the film, she was the anti-Heather.

I'd always had a crush on her — along with every other guy in the school. But while I never expected it to come to anything, we had been very good friends for years. Study buddies, school activities and so on. But about two months back, I'd asked her to a movie — I had no ulterior motives, yet something clicked that night. As we said goodbye, I had leaned over to kiss her cheek — she had turned her head and our lips met. We both felt the shock of the unexpected contact, looked at each other, then kissed again. And again.

Turned out there was something there after all. We started dating regularly, and I was very, very happy. I'd never made it past second base with her — which was just fine with me. I was more than satisfied with what I had — and that lack of pressure made us quite comfortable with each other.

There were only a few months to graduation — so I didn't know what kind of future we had — we were content to take it one day at a time. I smiled down at her, delighting in how her light brown hair framed her face. She was wearing a set of the low-riding jeans that had been so popular with girls lately, and I could just glimpse the lace waistband of her panties as I bent to kiss her again.

She laughed and gently pushed me away. "Time for class, Jack — we don't want to be late."

And so began an excellent day of school. I received all kinds of congratulations and slaps on the back. A track athlete, even one who could run a sub-four mile, was not going to be in the same league as a star quarterback or pitcher. This was true for both high-school and the 'real' world. Nevertheless, I had made the local TV news and was featured in the papers — so teachers and students alike were according me a new measure of respect.

Long about lunch, I turned a corner and nearly bumped into Andy Marks. He glared malevolently at me, then he walked away.

The Federation has the Klingons. Bond has Goldfinger. Kerrigan has Harding. And I have Andy Marks.

There's one like him in every school — Marks was an all-around bully and equal opportunity offender. He led a group of similarly challenged twits who delighted in the pain they caused others. Physically, when they could get away with it. Most of the time, they specialized in taunts, pranks and general cruelty. Just like predators stalking a herd — they had a knack for spotting the weak, the outcast, the emotionally vulnerable. Then they would pick, tease and threaten until whatever sick satisfaction they required was fulfilled.

Do I sound bitter? Oh yeah — I had been a regular target of Marks myself, until my senior year. But as I mentioned earlier, I'd picked up several inches in height, and I had become a bit of a jock myself. Once both my size and my status had improved, Marks eased off. Like most bullies, he lacked the courage to face someone who could fight back.

Plus, with Sue Wendell on my arm, I felt damn near invincible.

So he left me alone. I finished classes and went to the locker room to change for practice. Hal was already there - he waited while I got ready.

"You and Sue are looking good together — are you two still as wholesome as ever?"

"A gentleman never tells."

"Which usually means he's not getting any."

"Hey, I've got all I need. Speaking of such things, I've noticed Becky making eyes at you. Any possibilities there?"

Hal grinned. He said nothing, but I knew he had a little thing for Becky Barton. She'd broken up with her last boyfriend a couple of months ago and his interest was definitely piqued. Hal and I were both rather shy with girls, so we spent a lot of time speculating about the female of the species. We'd had some dates and kissed a few ladies in our day, but girls were definitely a mystery to us — more so (we thought) than for most guys.

I finished lacing up my shoes (which seemed a little loose for some odd reason). We hit the track behind the school, where we met up with the rest of the distance running corps. The sprinters were in the weight room, the jumpers and throwers on the runways — so we had the oval to ourselves. Becky and the rest of the girls finished their stretches (always fun to watch), then we began our workout. I noted with amusement that Becky and Hal did the warm-up jog together. They even looked alike, both tall, slender and with dark hair. They were certainly on their way to couplehood.

The centerpiece of my training for the mile was the 400- meter run. Coach Bradford and I had designed a 'ladder' program — where I would run single laps at an increasing pace, trying to build quickness and endurance. Often, I would set myself against a sequence of runners, starting with Hal (whose speed was nearly close to mine), then against the girls -- where a pair of them would run 200- meters each while I did the full 400. This way, we all pushed each other to a higher level of training than we could have achieved on our own.

Today, though, I seemed to be struggling a little. Hal almost beat me for the first 400, and I found myself having to reach a bit deeper in the later stages of the workout. I chalked it up to being tired from last night's race — I'd rest a bit and come back stronger tomorrow.

That night the phone rang while Mom and I were eating dinner. I picked it up — it was a reporter asking about my race. I spent about 10 minutes recounting the event for her - both play-by-play and background. 'Color', the reporter called it. She was very nice and wished me good luck as we finished the conversation.

"So who was that?" my mother asked. "Another local paper?"

"Sports Illustrated."

And I had the satisfaction of seeing Mom's eyes widen in surprise. Even though she tried to conceal it, I could tell she was impressed. Maybe I was finally getting through to her.

"Are they going to do an article on you?"

"Nothing that elaborate. It'll just be a couple of paragraphs in the back of the magazine."

I played it nonchalantly — I didn't want to oversell it. I'd have to break Ryun's record to get a full page with picture, but even so, just to get mentioned in the nation's premier sporting journal was making me feel as though all my effort was paying off.

The next day, though, my practice times were even slower - I felt strong but I couldn't reach my usual speeds. Hal beat me for the first series of 400s and Coach Bradford was a bit concerned. I did a full speed workout mile under the clock — my time was 4:22. Now, I never run as quickly in practice as I do in a race — but I should have been able to get at least 10 seconds faster, even on my own.

A little worried, I went home and did the usual shower- homework-dinner routine.

By the following day it was clear that something was really wrong. My clothes seemed to be fitting a bit oddly — I wondered if I was losing weight. And during practice — my times were slower yet. Not only was I finishing well behind Hal, but in my run against the girls relay, Becky actually matched my pace for the second 200 meters. There was no way a girl runner, however fast, should have been able to keep up with me. Coach Bradford called me over.

"Are there any symptoms at all, Jack?"

"No, Coach. That's the weird part. I feel perfectly fine. No soreness or muscle cramps — and I'm not tired. I just can't seem to get up to my normal speed."

"I think it's time you saw Doc Gilroy. Something's got to be causing this. If you don't have an injury, it might be mono. We've only got four days before our next meet."

The possibility of mono was daunting. The bane of high school athletes, mononucleosis was a blood disorder that completely sapped a teenager of all energy. Someone with mono was in no serious danger as long as they got proper medical treatment. But mono could last for weeks, even months. And kids with mono ended up so exhausted they couldn't even summon the strength to get out of bed, let alone compete in sports. If I had mono, my high school track career was over. So it was with some trepidation that I made an appointment with the doctor.

Despite the town's small size, Milford actually had a pretty respectable medical clinic. Headed up by Doc Gilroy, the staff had a good reputation and was well liked by the community. The Doc, as everyone called him, was a classic version of the country physician, with silver hair, a kind, patient face and a reassuring bedside manner. He poked and prodded at me for a while, making little jokes and asking about my symptoms. I mentioned mono — he said not to jump the gun (an apt track analogy), and drew some blood. The clinic had its own