Page 77 of Nineteen Letters
“You were so fast. You could have made a career out of running if you’d wanted to.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“You ran for fun. The competitive side was something that never interested you.”
“So I just gave up?” I unzip the sports bag and see that she was right: it contains shorts, tights, singlets and a pair of brightly coloured sneakers.
“You gave up competing, but you still ran every day, right up until the accident.”
“Wow.” There’s still so much of me I don’t know.
She stands and walks towards the door. “Read your letter, and when you’re ready, come downstairs and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
Letter nine…
Dearest Jemma,
The twelfth of February 2005. It was a Saturday and the day of the cross-country state championships. I’d always known you were a fast runner; you beat me in races when we were kids, and you won most of the events at all the school sports carnivals. Long-distance events were your favourite, but you never pursued athletics outside of school until one teacher suggested that you enter a local cross-country event. It took a bit of persuasion from me and your parents, but you eventually filled out the forms and started training for it.
You ran a few kilometres every morning and afternoon. On the weekends, your father would drop us at the beach so you could run along the sand. It was soft and a great way to strengthen your legs.
You ended up winning both the local and regional events, and even broke the state record previously held by a girl by the name of Natasha Wilkinson. You’d nevercompeted against her before, but would be up against her in the state championships.
We were all up early that morning and travelled the long distance to the event. Your parents and grandparents took their seats in the grandstand, and I was sitting on the fence by the grassed area while you warmed up.
You were stretching when a blonde girl approached. You immediately smiled—nothing unusual, you were friendly to everybody—and didn’t hesitate in extending your hand to her. She didn’t take it. I couldn’t hear what she was saying from where I sat, but by the look on your face, I could tell it wasn’t good.
Jumping down off the fence, I headed towards you both. But when she saw me approaching, she pivoted and walked away.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“That was Natasha Wilkinson,” you answered, with an eye roll.
“Who?”
“The girl who held the state record. Well, she did, until I broke it.” I could tell by the scowl on your face that she had made you angry. “She told me to watch my back, and that she hoped I like the taste of dust because I’d be eating hers shortly.”
“What?”
“I know, right?”
You went back to your stretches and appeared undeterred by what she’d said. I, on the other hand, was furious. I scanned the area, looking to see what direction she’d headed in.
“She better not do anything to you during the race.”
“I’m not scared of her. She’s just trying to put me off my game. Little does she know her words spur me on … I’ll take great pleasure in beating her now.”
You were always so driven, so I didn’t doubt it for a second, but I still had an uneasy feeling in my gut.
When the contestants were called to the starting line, I took my place with your family in the grandstand. You’d swear I was the one about to compete, judging by the butterflies in my stomach.
We had a great view of the start and finish lines from where we sat, but for the rest of the race, you would be out of sight. It was a four-kilometre open-air course that comprised hills, valleys and flat terrain, with a variety of surfaces including grass, dirt and gravel.
Nasty Natasha, as we eventually dubbed her, was giving you the evil eye as you all stood in a diagonal line, waiting for the starter to sound his pistol. I saw youglance at her briefly, and a proud smile burst onto my face when you gave her a cheeky wink. You didn’t seem to be threatened by her at all.
The next twenty minutes were an agonising wait for us all, and when the first cheers were heard, we knew that someone had entered the stadium and we all jumped to our feet.
I was so proud when I saw you powering to the line. Nasty Natasha was a good five-to-ten metres behind you, with tears streaming down her face.
