Read Online Sloppy Firsts by Megan McCafferty - Free Book Online
Authors: Megan McCafferty
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kidding. It usually goes like this:
"You lost the race right there," he says.
"Dad, the gun just went off. We weren’t even twenty-five meters into it."
Dad rewinds and freezes the tape. "Look right there," he says, pointing at the screen. "See how you had to go all the way into the third lane to get around that girl from Lacey? That was a waste of energy. Energy you needed for the sprint in the final straightaway. That’s why Alexis Ford beat you by four-tenths of a second."
A few weeks ago Dad spliced together an entire tape of these race-breaking moments to create a video montage I like to call "Notso Darling’s Agony of Defeat, Volume One." I’m supposed to watch and learn and never let them happen again.
"Look right there," he says. "See how your arms are swinging all over the place? See how you got boxed in?"
All his coaching is lost on me. The way I see it, there’s only one racing strategy that matters. It’s the one I run by:Get in the lead and don’t let anyone pass you.
I know that my dad is just excited to have an athlete in the family. Bethany never broke a bead of sweat in her life. And he’s relieved I’m not one of those chunky girls who lumber around the track, hoping to break an eight-minute mile. I’m actually good. That almost makes up for the Little League games and Pee-Wee Basketball tournaments he thought he would attend but never got the chance to.
He sees these father–daughter jaunts as a way for us to bond, but I resent the interruption. As soon as he starts in, the blank-slate state of my brain gets all mucked up.
It got so bad today that I had this psycho fantasy: I wished he’d hit me with his bike. I imagined him losing control for a split second, the wheel clipping my leg hard enough to make me lose balance, and me smacking the asphalt. I’d roll into a ball of pain and fury, my hands and legs a mess of blood, skin, and gravel. I’d scream, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING RIDING SO CLOSE? THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?" Maybe I’d break a leg or arm. Maybe I’d be out the whole season and my dad would feel too bad to be mad.
I got so excited by the idea of getting injured that I decided I couldn’t wait for fate. I’d carefully orchestrate the crash. Yes. I’d fake the fall, confident that he wouldn’t ride right over my body, crushing and killing me. No, just a brush, a bump, enough to make himleave me alone . My adrenaline cranked up and I started running faster at the thought of it. And that’s when my dad said, "That’s more like it, Notso!" Instead of making me feel better, like I knew he wanted it to, his praise made me feel worse. And more than ever I wanted him to hit me and end my running career altogether. I knew there were bumpy tree roots up ahead bursting out of the asphalt, so I could logically trip over them and ("That’s it. Keep it up, Notso! You’re flying!") fall into his path and he would hit me. I wouldn’t have to run anymore and hear about Alexis Ford and swinging arms and the Agony of Defeat. I knew it was now or never so I stepped on the sticky-outiest root. My arms flailed and I felt like I was falling in slow motion, all the while anticipating the sting of rubber tire treading ("No!") on my ankle, my shin, my thigh. I was waiting to scream, to yell, to vent, to blame.
But my dad instinctively swerved out of the way.
Later, when I was applying hydrogen peroxide to my bloody, banged-up knee and shredded palm, my dad stood in the doorway and lectured me about being more careful.
"You could have ended the season right there," he said.
"Yes," I sighed. "But I didn’t."
My skin still stings.
the tenth
A bunch of us went to the annual PHS talent show tonight. We needed a break from the weekend-in-Pineville monotony of hitting the multiplex, chowing at Helga’s Diner, or vegging at Scotty’s. Plus, we needed to give Hy a tasty slice of
"You lost the race right there," he says.
"Dad, the gun just went off. We weren’t even twenty-five meters into it."
Dad rewinds and freezes the tape. "Look right there," he says, pointing at the screen. "See how you had to go all the way into the third lane to get around that girl from Lacey? That was a waste of energy. Energy you needed for the sprint in the final straightaway. That’s why Alexis Ford beat you by four-tenths of a second."
A few weeks ago Dad spliced together an entire tape of these race-breaking moments to create a video montage I like to call "Notso Darling’s Agony of Defeat, Volume One." I’m supposed to watch and learn and never let them happen again.
"Look right there," he says. "See how your arms are swinging all over the place? See how you got boxed in?"
All his coaching is lost on me. The way I see it, there’s only one racing strategy that matters. It’s the one I run by:Get in the lead and don’t let anyone pass you.
I know that my dad is just excited to have an athlete in the family. Bethany never broke a bead of sweat in her life. And he’s relieved I’m not one of those chunky girls who lumber around the track, hoping to break an eight-minute mile. I’m actually good. That almost makes up for the Little League games and Pee-Wee Basketball tournaments he thought he would attend but never got the chance to.
He sees these father–daughter jaunts as a way for us to bond, but I resent the interruption. As soon as he starts in, the blank-slate state of my brain gets all mucked up.
It got so bad today that I had this psycho fantasy: I wished he’d hit me with his bike. I imagined him losing control for a split second, the wheel clipping my leg hard enough to make me lose balance, and me smacking the asphalt. I’d roll into a ball of pain and fury, my hands and legs a mess of blood, skin, and gravel. I’d scream, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING RIDING SO CLOSE? THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?" Maybe I’d break a leg or arm. Maybe I’d be out the whole season and my dad would feel too bad to be mad.
I got so excited by the idea of getting injured that I decided I couldn’t wait for fate. I’d carefully orchestrate the crash. Yes. I’d fake the fall, confident that he wouldn’t ride right over my body, crushing and killing me. No, just a brush, a bump, enough to make himleave me alone . My adrenaline cranked up and I started running faster at the thought of it. And that’s when my dad said, "That’s more like it, Notso!" Instead of making me feel better, like I knew he wanted it to, his praise made me feel worse. And more than ever I wanted him to hit me and end my running career altogether. I knew there were bumpy tree roots up ahead bursting out of the asphalt, so I could logically trip over them and ("That’s it. Keep it up, Notso! You’re flying!") fall into his path and he would hit me. I wouldn’t have to run anymore and hear about Alexis Ford and swinging arms and the Agony of Defeat. I knew it was now or never so I stepped on the sticky-outiest root. My arms flailed and I felt like I was falling in slow motion, all the while anticipating the sting of rubber tire treading ("No!") on my ankle, my shin, my thigh. I was waiting to scream, to yell, to vent, to blame.
But my dad instinctively swerved out of the way.
Later, when I was applying hydrogen peroxide to my bloody, banged-up knee and shredded palm, my dad stood in the doorway and lectured me about being more careful.
"You could have ended the season right there," he said.
"Yes," I sighed. "But I didn’t."
My skin still stings.
the tenth
A bunch of us went to the annual PHS talent show tonight. We needed a break from the weekend-in-Pineville monotony of hitting the multiplex, chowing at Helga’s Diner, or vegging at Scotty’s. Plus, we needed to give Hy a tasty slice of
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