SATURDAY. RACE DAY. My first one ever. I got up early, met by the sweet smell of bacon and eggs, neither of which are actually sweet-smelling, but you know what I mean. My mother was on the phone with Aunt Sophie, telling her what time she had to be here so that we could all go over to Martin Luther King Park together. I didn’t know what I was more excited about—the fact that I was going to run my first race on a track team, or the fact that my mother would be there to see it. I had been seeing Lu’s mom cheering for every little stupid thing he did in practice, and after I got over how annoying it was, I realized that there was something about it I kinda liked. So, my mom being there was major. And Aunt Sophie, because she was the loud one. She was the one who had a bullhorn for a mouth.
“Don’t be late, Sophie,” my mom said into the phone, dishing out the eggs.
Of course, anytime a person tells another person not to be late, it pretty much guarantees that they will be. I don’t know why, but it does. And Aunt Sophie was late. Not like crazy late, to the point that I couldn’t make it to the track on time. It’s just that we don’t have a car and were going to have to catch the bus to the park. But the bus was supposed to come at eleven fifteen, and Aunt Sophie and King didn’t get to the house until 11:09.
I was in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. Coach had given me my uniform the day before, after humiliating me at the sports store. Guess, well, I kinda humiliated myself. But whatever. When we got back to my house, he told me I had earned it and that he hoped he never had to bail me out like that again.
“I won’t really put you in the trunk,” he said, smirking. “I’ll just tell your mother and cut you from the team. That’s way worse. Got me?” Coach dangled my jersey and shorts out in front of me. And I did get him. Big-time. I made up in my mind that I wouldn’t do nothing that stupid ever again. At least, I would try not to, especially judging from the way I felt holding that electric-blue uniform.
I usually get dressed in the living room, but I just wanted it to be a surprise for Ma when I came out. And I could’ve gotten dressed in the bathroom, but it’s too small, and I couldn’t risk doing anything stupid like dropping my jersey in the toilet or something. I know it sounds impossible; trust me, it’s not. I mean, not like I ever dropped anything in the toilet or anything. But it could happen! So I did what I never do. I got dressed in my bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room with the door wide open and pulled my shorts on. Then my jersey. I looked around at the posters of LeBron on the wall, from when he played for Cleveland the first time. My bed. The same cover. Same pillow. Same everything as that night. I sat on it, my body sinking into the mattress, almost like it was wrapping itself around me, hugging me. Like it missed me. And if the door wasn’t open and I couldn’t see straight down the hall to the living room, I might’ve freaked out. But I didn’t lose it. I just took a deep breath and let the flashes of that night come over me. My mother, flash, the covers being yanked off me, flash, the hallway, flash, the gun, flash. Then I looked down at the floor. Flash. My silver bullets, waiting for me. I unlaced them, slipped my feet in, then relaced them tight. And just like that, I felt different. I was a Defender.
My mother had even given me a fresh haircut the night before, just for this day, and I hit the bathroom to brush it and see if maybe a few waves were popping out. Or at least make sure it wasn’t one of her jacked-up cuts. Thankfully, she got it close to perfect. Almost no patches.
While primping in the mirror, I heard Aunt Sophie come in. She was hollering about how they were late because she had to make a sign to hold up when I was running.
“Castle!” my mother called from the living room. “They here! Let’s go!”
I came out the bathroom and my mother almost hit the floor. She put her hand over her mouth, which I only ever saw her do when somebody on one of those movies said something corny about not wanting to live without the other person and then they kiss.
“Look at you,” Ma said, hugging my neck, her eyes instantly wet. “You look like a champion.”
“You look like a superhero,” King said. “I’mma call you Runnin’ Man.”
“Yeah, like the dance?” Aunt Sophie asked.
“What dance?” I replied, totally confused.
“Doesn’t matter,” my mother cut in, now back to business. She grabbed her purse. “We gotta go.”
We went dashing down the block toward the bus stop, only to see the bus pulling off just before we got there.
“No!” Ma shouted, turning toward me. I could tell she wanted to cuss, but she didn’t. She just bit her lip, then looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry, baby.”
But it was okay. I had walked it so many times, and I knew that it was only like a fifteen-minute trek. With all the stops the bus was going to have to make along the way, we could probably get there quicker if we walked anyway. So I told them to follow me, as I took the short way, for once. Imagine it, my mother in yellow pants with flowers all over them (not scrubs) and lipstick and red cheek stuff on her face, and my aunt with jeans and sneakers, with a bright pink T-shirt and a baseball cap, and my cousin, King, dressed in shorts and a tank top and the same shoes as my beat-up ones, holding a big neon sign. Imagine the three of them, following behind me, Castle Cranshaw, dressed in an electric-blue track uniform. The Defender.
We walked past the fish market, the wig shop, and Everything Sports, before I realized that I had to make one quick stop. Mr. Charles’s store. Luckily, it sits right in the middle of everything. At least it seems like it does. Like I can always get to it no matter where I am in the city. I think maybe that was Mr. Charles’s plan. He’s smart like that, and I can see it even if his family don’t. He’s the smartest person with a store in the whole city, and maybe even the world. That’s what I think.
When we got there, I told Ma and Aunt Sophie and King to give me a second.
“Just need to get something,” I explained.
I pushed the door open and there Mr. Charles was, standing behind the counter as usual, staring at his television.
“Castle! How are you, my friend?” Mr. Charles said, holding his hand out. “What’s with the getup?”
“This is my track uniform. The Defenders,” I explained, pointing to the gold word printed across my chest.
“Who?” Mr. Charles leaned in so he could hear me.
“The Defenders,” I said louder. “The track team I told you about. Today’s my first race, and I just wanted you to see me.” There was no way I could hide the excitement in my voice.