We stepped out on the track and walked down to the end. Lu’s mom instantly started screaming and waving those stupid pom-poms. No clue what she was saying, but whatever it was, it was loud. Until, Aunt Sophie.
“C-A-S-T-L-E!” Aunt Sophie screamed. “Smoke ’em! Burn ’em! Dust ’em! Roast ’em!” she shrieked. It was like her and Lu’s mom were a perfect out-of-control cheerleading pair. I looked over and King was holding the sign above his head. It said, CASTLE CRANSHAW AIN’T NO JOKE. YOU ARE!
Nice.
All the runners from all the different teams were slapping hands, when I saw . . . him. No way. No. Freakin’. Way. He ran? He ran? By now you know who I’m talking about. Brandon Simmons. He was standing in lane eight, running for a team that called themselves the Bolts. He saw me the same time I saw him, and he looked just as shocked as I was.
“You run?” I asked, coming toward him. Brandon was a runner? He was tall enough to play ball, so I always assumed that’s what he did. Then again, I should’ve known better, because he had those slimy hands. Can’t hold no ball with those butter fingers.
“You run?” he responded, wiping his hands ironically on his shorts. Then he smirked and shot breath out his nose like he couldn’t believe it. Like I was some kind of joke. Like he ain’t see that sign King was holding up.
“Yeah,” Lu said from behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “He runs, real, real, real fast,” he said, taunting Brandon. Lu pulled me into him, grabbed me by the back of my neck. “It’s me and you,” he said, snapping me out of my Brandon Simmons nightmare state and back into focus. Had I known Brandon was a runner, I would’ve told Dre and Red to come to the meet just so they could see me smoke him. Shoot, I might’ve invited the whole school. Even Principal Marshall. Maybe even would’ve told Shamika to bring that laugh with her for this special occasion. Lu gave me five, then repeated, “It’s me”—he pointed to himself—“and you.” He put his finger on my chest.
I was in lane six, Lu in lane one. I bent down, untied my silver shoes, then retied them. I looked around at the crowd, a smear of people rooting for their friend or son or brother or teammate. Somebody was probably there even rooting for Brandon. Then I looked over at the side where the Defenders were, Coach clapping, a proud grin on his face. Sunny cheering, an orange slice in his mouth, the peel like a bright mouthpiece. And Patty—who by the way had on shiny lip stuff and had her hair greased and slicked straight back—squatted down and stared, almost like she was mind-beaming speed to me. She nodded. I nodded. My mother, looking at me with wet eyes. She waved. And all I could think about at that moment was the two of us running down the hall three years ago.
“On your mark!” said the starter. My heart thump-thumped, thump-thumped, and I could feel my insides turning colors. I’m not sure what color. Not red. Not blue. Something else. Something different. A color I never felt before. I squatted down, pushed my feet back against the blocks, stretched out my thumbs and index fingers and placed them on the edge of the white starting line. Rested my weight on my arms. Closed my eyes. Thought of us running to the door. Running for our lives.
“Get set!” said the starter. Butts in the air. The sound of the gun cocking. The sound of the door unlocking. Heart pounding. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Silence. This. Is. It.
And then . . . BOOM!