PINTA PARADE

 

I limp. Darkness is starting to weld the lavender lid of  its eye around 5:50. Tendrils of smoke quavering from chimneys. It is getting cooler. After the first five weeks we are no longer allowed to wear shorts during the day at Manual.

I am limping. I limp home. My father asks me what is wrong. There is a look on his face as if he is hurt inside.

 “I’m not sure dad. It was the last half-mile at hole five. I just passed the leader from richwoods and I was heading down the final stretch with a half mile left to go when I heard a crack and couldn’t move. I don’t know what I was doing. All I was doing was running.”

I have a limp. I have cool Joe Thomas’s second test the next day worth 60 percent of the grading period grade. He has not gone over anything. Last period he brought a vial containing his mother-in-law cataract to the classroom and passed it around snickering when fellow classmates offered verbal irks.

 

I should be icing my leg. Dad thinks that maybe it is pulled muscle.

 

All I can think is that I still have one more time to break the record. I still have Notre Dame on the sixth. All I have to do is heal 80 percent and I should make it.

                                                                        ***

“But Dave, I don’t do that. I mean I don’t do that. I mean...”

                                                                        ***

Father does the paper when I am hurt. For the second consecutive night I sleep all night with an icepack planted on the top of my leg like a melting mortarboard.

 

When I wake up I look at the front page I see the news.

 

I really liked him to begin with and I think he’s by far the most intelligent of the candidates but he dropped out. You don’t go half way, drop out and then drop back in. You just don’t, son.”

Columbus Day is one week away. Historically that is when the Journal Star announces the entries for the Young Columbus contest.

 

You just don’t go half-way, drop out then drop back in.

 

 

 

                                       ***

I ask Mrs. Peabody if it is okay if I come in after school and get help She telsl me no. She says she is sorry.

 
“Maybe I can come in on my study hall. It’s fifth hour.”

 Mrs. Peabody shakes her head again left and right. There is no reason for her to be this adamant.  She seems vindictive because I am just asking for help.

 “Look. Maybe you are just not advanced enough for this course. Maybe the mathematical curriculum offered at your grade school just wasn’t on par with state standards. Maybe you should see your guidance counselor and see if you can switch down to an easier class."

 I’m not backing down. Either in cross-country or in life.

Mrs. Peabody then says something infuriating.

"Just because you're a big time athlete and have your name on the announcements every day doesn't mean you get special treatment."

I am furious. I have a limp. I hurt all the time. I feel like following Patrick's lead and dropping out of the class.

I am just not backing down.

That night when I look at the Gideon bible next to my bedside I wonder if God is damming me for wanting something.

I wonder if he is damming me for trying to break the  FROSH record.

I wonder if he is damming me for being proud.