The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen Read Free Book Online Page A

hate hearing about it; hate thinking about it. I break out in a cold sweat every time she starts chatting about it.
    She reaches across the white tablecloth and nearly knocks over the single-carnation centerpiece as she grabs for my wrist. “You’re coming back! Really? You’re ready?” She bounces in her seat. “Finally, finally, finally!”
    I look down. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be
ready.
” I glance at her. “But I think I’m ready to try.”
    She bounces again, saying, “Tomorrow would be perfect! It’s Friday. One day, then the weekend … You can get your feet wet, you know?” Her cheeks flush and she covers her mouth with a hand.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, then shake my head. “But
tomorrow
?” The thought sends me into a panic.
    “Look,” she says softly, “you can put it off, but that’ll just make it worse.”
    I think about this, about what Kaylee said, about how I’ve pushed away everyone I know because I’m always thinking, No. Finally I give a little nod and say, “It
would
only be one day, and then I’d have all weekend to get over people staring or ignoring or—”
    “Or putting their foot in their mouth?”
    I grin at her. “Yeah. That too.”
    “So is this a yes?”
    I take a deep breath. “This is a maybe-yes.”
    Fiona laughs. “That’s a big improvement over absolutely-no.”
    The waiter brings some steaming bread, which I’m happy to dive into. “So,” I say, “catch me up.”
    Fiona grabs some bread. “Oh! Well! First off, everyone misses you. They ask me every day how you’re doing.”
    “Really?” It comes out quiet. Like I’m hurt.
    Which I guess I kind of am.
    Fiona leans forward. “Of course they do!”
    I shrug.
    She frowns a little. “When you’re gloomy and won’t talk to people, they don’t know what to do, okay? It’s not their fault.”
    I look away. “I know.”
    “So, yes. Everyone misses you and asks about you and wants to know when you’re coming back.” She eyes me and says, “Gavin’s asked about you at least three times.”
    “Gavin?” I shake my head. “Why? Does he need more information for his story?”
    “He seems sincere, but …” Her voice trails off and she scowls.
    “But what?”
    She shakes her head.
    “Just tell me.”
    She takes a deep breath, then blurts, “Merryl’s managed to work her magic on him.”
    I feel myself flush. “They’re going
out
?”
    She rolls her eyes. Frowns. Rips apart her bread.
    And then she nods.
    After I compose myself, I say, “Look. Get real—he wasn’t interested in me when I had
two
legs.”
    “What does that matter? You’re the same person!”
    No
, I think as I sip my water,
I’m not
.
    “Well, forget about him,” she says. “What do
you
want to know about?”
    This is a good question, and it’s one I really don’t have an answer to. I want to know everything about school.
    And nothing about it.
    It hurts to realize how unnecessary I am. From what little I’ve let Fiona tell me, school life seems the same as always. Track meets happen. The same flitty people are still flitting about. The same teachers are keeping to their same routines. The same lunchtime activities and rallies and club meetings still take place.
    I fell off, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.
    Lucy
died
, but the merry-go-round keeps moving.
    Still. As much as thinking this upsets me, I’m starting to see that I need the merry-go-round much more than it needs me, and in the end my choice is to hop back on or get left in the dust.
    So I take a deep breath and ask about the one thing that means the most to me.
    The one thing I absolutely don’t want to hear about.
    “How’s track?”
    All her little fidgeting motions stop. She studies me a moment, then says, “We lost to Mount Vernon by six points. They swept the four hundred and won the four-by-four-hundred. It lost us the meet.”
    I have a twinge of comfort.
    Maybe the merry-go-round at least slowed down with me