and so I was racing for St. Sebastian
in the four hundred today.
Mom and Giselle showed up to the race. Because she's skinny, Giselle looked like all the fourteen-year-olds around her, but
somehow like an old woman, too. She was wearing a funny green tennis visor with a pair of big movie-star sunglasses (none
of her old clothes fit her anymore so she's wearing my old stuff).
But I was too nervous to really care about how crazy Giselle looked, even with Bobbie Carpi, a pimply, stocky shot putter,
making stupid comments about how "hot" my sister was, like a model or something.
When the blank went off in the starter's gun, I had a perfect lead. I didn't jump the line, I didn't collapse into the adjacent
lane, I didn't make any of the mistakes I'd dreamt of. Instead, my back leg shot out from under me and propelled me into a
series of perfect long strides and I passed five girls in the first hundred metres. Then I glided into place, behind a dark
ponytail, just as Mr. Saleri had told me to, and held tight until the last hundred-metre stretch. In the last thirty metres,
I passed the dark-ponytailed girl and saw Lucy's back. Always ahead of me, Lucy's muscled back.
The strange thing is, I don't even mind that she won. I shook Lucy's wet hand and blew the sweat off my dripping nose and
felt OK. There was still a lot of work to do on my body, on my time. Lucy was my marker: if she could do it I could do it,
and I would continue to do it, despite the constant ache in my knees and back.
Maybe the reason I didn't care about losing was that, as I was running the last stretch, something distracted me from the
finish line: I saw my father. He looked a little older than he was when he died and he was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and
a backwards baseball hat. It was Dad, or Dad's ghost, I guess, a little paler, a little more bloated, but Thomas all the same.
He had his hands cupped around his mouth and was yelling: "Go! Go!"
He appeared again as I approached the bleachers where Giselle and Mom were. He was standing behind them eating an ice cream
sandwich, looking as if he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Of course, he disappeared by the time I got to Mom and
Giselle.
The last time our paths crossed today we spoke. I was in the locker room packing my gym bag when he poked my arm in the annoying
way he used to when he was alive.
"Holly." He still had his accent, saying my name like "holy."
"Hi, Daddy."
"Why's your sister wearing that goofy sun visor? Why she is so small? I'm thinking it's you at first."
"She's sick, Daddy."
"Sick?" He looked alarmed.
"Sick, like, you know, mentally." I twirled my finger around my head, thinking maybe ghosts couldn't hear so well, that they
needed sign language.
"Oh." He looked really confused and I wondered if I should explain the last nine years of our lives. I also wondered, if he
was dead, when did he get a beer gut?
"Great race, Holly."
"Thanks, Dad."
"No really, you hear me shouting?"
"I did."
He didn't hug me or touch me, which kind of surprised me—he was an affectionate man, after all, that much I remembered (plus,
I was his favourite). He just shuffled away slowly, his flip-flops clapping against the soles of his feet as he righted his
baseball cap.
It makes sense to me now that he didn't touch me, because I know how difficult it was for him to even come and talk to me.
Maybe he was afraid that he'd scared me. Maybe he thought he'd make his other daughter mentally sick too if he kept visiting
me and having little heart-to-hearts. Maybe he thought his family had enough problems without him wandering around in summer
clothes and giving out hugs. I don't know.
I stuffed my hoody sweater and my sweaty clothes into my bag and ran out to the parking lot, where Mom and Giselle were waiting.
I glanced in front of me and saw him, walking away from us. I looked at Mom and Giselle, who were giggling and waving, and
I moved towards
in the four hundred today.
Mom and Giselle showed up to the race. Because she's skinny, Giselle looked like all the fourteen-year-olds around her, but
somehow like an old woman, too. She was wearing a funny green tennis visor with a pair of big movie-star sunglasses (none
of her old clothes fit her anymore so she's wearing my old stuff).
But I was too nervous to really care about how crazy Giselle looked, even with Bobbie Carpi, a pimply, stocky shot putter,
making stupid comments about how "hot" my sister was, like a model or something.
When the blank went off in the starter's gun, I had a perfect lead. I didn't jump the line, I didn't collapse into the adjacent
lane, I didn't make any of the mistakes I'd dreamt of. Instead, my back leg shot out from under me and propelled me into a
series of perfect long strides and I passed five girls in the first hundred metres. Then I glided into place, behind a dark
ponytail, just as Mr. Saleri had told me to, and held tight until the last hundred-metre stretch. In the last thirty metres,
I passed the dark-ponytailed girl and saw Lucy's back. Always ahead of me, Lucy's muscled back.
The strange thing is, I don't even mind that she won. I shook Lucy's wet hand and blew the sweat off my dripping nose and
felt OK. There was still a lot of work to do on my body, on my time. Lucy was my marker: if she could do it I could do it,
and I would continue to do it, despite the constant ache in my knees and back.
Maybe the reason I didn't care about losing was that, as I was running the last stretch, something distracted me from the
finish line: I saw my father. He looked a little older than he was when he died and he was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and
a backwards baseball hat. It was Dad, or Dad's ghost, I guess, a little paler, a little more bloated, but Thomas all the same.
He had his hands cupped around his mouth and was yelling: "Go! Go!"
He appeared again as I approached the bleachers where Giselle and Mom were. He was standing behind them eating an ice cream
sandwich, looking as if he was eavesdropping on their conversation. Of course, he disappeared by the time I got to Mom and
Giselle.
The last time our paths crossed today we spoke. I was in the locker room packing my gym bag when he poked my arm in the annoying
way he used to when he was alive.
"Holly." He still had his accent, saying my name like "holy."
"Hi, Daddy."
"Why's your sister wearing that goofy sun visor? Why she is so small? I'm thinking it's you at first."
"She's sick, Daddy."
"Sick?" He looked alarmed.
"Sick, like, you know, mentally." I twirled my finger around my head, thinking maybe ghosts couldn't hear so well, that they
needed sign language.
"Oh." He looked really confused and I wondered if I should explain the last nine years of our lives. I also wondered, if he
was dead, when did he get a beer gut?
"Great race, Holly."
"Thanks, Dad."
"No really, you hear me shouting?"
"I did."
He didn't hug me or touch me, which kind of surprised me—he was an affectionate man, after all, that much I remembered (plus,
I was his favourite). He just shuffled away slowly, his flip-flops clapping against the soles of his feet as he righted his
baseball cap.
It makes sense to me now that he didn't touch me, because I know how difficult it was for him to even come and talk to me.
Maybe he was afraid that he'd scared me. Maybe he thought he'd make his other daughter mentally sick too if he kept visiting
me and having little heart-to-hearts. Maybe he thought his family had enough problems without him wandering around in summer
clothes and giving out hugs. I don't know.
I stuffed my hoody sweater and my sweaty clothes into my bag and ran out to the parking lot, where Mom and Giselle were waiting.
I glanced in front of me and saw him, walking away from us. I looked at Mom and Giselle, who were giggling and waving, and
I moved towards
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