Too fast. Too fast. Pace yourself, Deja. But Deja didn’t slow up. By the time she hit the second lap, she had a pretty big lead on everyone . . . until the home stretch, when her legs turned to mush. You could literally see her downshifting from the fastest to the slowest.
“Come on, Deja! Come on!” we were calling out, Brit-Brat already in position for the handoff. As Deja fought her way into the red zone, Brit-Brat took off. Deja’s face was a grimace—I could almost see her fighting through the cramps, taking one for the team, leaving her legs out there. She pushed through, screaming in pain as she handed the baton to Brit-Brat.
Deja collapsed, and Coach ran out onto the track to help her up. Brit-Brat, however, was able to hold on to what was left of the lead. She ran a steady race, her long ballerina legs graceful, which was ironic since she couldn’t stop stepping on my toes during practice. Grace. Such grace. Until the red zone.
“Stick!” Brit-Brat shouted. Krystal had already taken off, and she thrust her arm back to receive the baton. Brit-Brat reached out to give it to her.
Except it slipped out of Brit’s hand before it had Krystal’s fingers around it.
Oh . . . God . . .
The sound of the metal cylinder clanging on the track could be heard over the howls and groans of people who knew exactly what that sound meant. It seemed like everyone froze, everyone watching it bounce and roll. Really, nobody froze. Brit-Brat scrambled frantically to pick it up, like chasing down a rolling quarter. And once she finally did, Krystal, whose face looked like it was going to literally jump off . . . her face, and who had already run twenty meters, had to backtrack and meet Brit halfway to take the handoff. It was a fumble, and I slammed my hands together. No. Noooo.
This was it. We blew it. I shook my head and huffed, so mad that I could’ve untied my shoes and flung them into the stands. Forget it. But then Deja started going off. And I do mean OFF.
“GO! GOOOO!!!!” Deja screamed, snapping me back into the race. She had gotten up—she left her legs on the track, but now she was jumping and screaming. What was I doing? Coach told me, no matter what, I couldn’t check out. I couldn’t leave my team hanging. They needed me. Not just my legs. But my support. My energy. We needed each other. I looked behind me. Ghost and Lu were screaming their heads off. Curron, Aaron, and even Mikey were at the edge of the track, punching at the air with their fists, urging Krystal onward. Whit was biting her fist, while Coach stood next to her, arms across his chest, too cool, just watching.
“GOOOOO!!!” I belted out. I caught Brit-Brat out of the corner of my eye, covering her face as she came over to where we were. I grabbed her—snatched her right up—turned her around, and threw an arm over her shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re still in it. We’re still here!”
We kept screaming, but we’d already lost the lead. There were four people in front of us, but Krystal wasn’t giving up. And neither would I.
As soon as she hit the back stretch on the second lap, I stepped onto the track. Rolled my neck, right to left, left to right. Stretched my arms behind me, clenched my hands to work out any shoulder and back kinks.
Lane three. I sized up the other girls who were taking their places beside me. Then I looked over and saw Ghost nodding at me and clapping. Sunny next to him doing the same thing. Lu had one of his arms flexed up, making a muscle. He slapped his bicep, then pointed at me. And Coach, still cool, was now looking at me, nodding. Like he knew something I ain’t know. Or maybe, something that I actually did know.
You are strong enough. Your mother’s legs. Patina Jones ain’t no junk.
I glanced up at the crowd. At first everyone was a smear of color and sound. Except for a few people. Then a few came into focus. Cotton. I couldn’t tell if she was winking or not, but she might’ve been. I could see Maddy, but even more, I could hear her, hear her screaming my name as if it was just her and me in a tunnel. And next to her, for the first time in forever, was Ma. Her arms raised high in the air, her fingers tickling the sky. I couldn’t hear her, but I could see her lips forming a P. Pancake. She might’ve been saying Patty. But she had to be saying Pancake.
TO DO: Just run.
And win.
Here we go.
The other three girls had just made their handoffs when Krystal pounded into the red zone. I broke out and could tell that I was in lockstep with Krystal—in sync.
“Stick! Stick!” she yelled, and I reached my left arm back and grabbed the baton smooth as smooth. From her hand to mine—the energy protected, the power transferred. I opened my stride early to make up for lost time, and it wasn’t long before I caught up to the pack, my beads clicking in time with my heartbeat. Thump-thump-click! Thump-thump-click! Long Ponytail was in lane two. Baldy in lane one. Twists in lane four.
Cannon to the right of me! Cannon to the left of me!
We all stayed together coming down the home stretch of the first lap. Now, for the second. Time to make my move. I opened my stride even more. Figured I’d make Long Ponytail, who was shorter than me, work for it. She couldn’t hang, and two hundred meters into the lap, she rigged and fell back, as if her legs locked up on her and she had to pull up or something. Like she gave up.
The other two were still with me. Well, actually Baldy was leading Twists and me by a few steps. And as we came down the back stretch and hit that final two hundred, I felt my legs start to stiffen. No! It was like my muscles were turning into wood or something. No!!
Come on, Patty. Push. Push. Push. Breathe. Thump-thump-click!
“Come on, Patty,” I said out loud.
“Come on, Patty!” I could hear Maddy screeching from the bleachers.
Thump-thump-click!
Final one hundred. The pain. The pain. The pain. Is nothing. You are strong enough. You got your mother’s legs.
The three of us were neck and neck, shoulder to shoulder, fighting until the end. The batons in our hands like broken sword handles. Warriors. The finish line. Right there. Leave your legs on the track. Heart pounding. Beads clicking in time with my steps, like a clock ticking in my ears.
Or a time bomb.
Come on, Patty. Come on!