Page 48 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
It’s a legitimate reason. Ms. Hedge cornered me outside the bus before we left this morning and forced the task on me. Julius and I each have twenty spots to fill, which is why I spend the next half hour running around the stadium—not in races, but in search of potential participants. By the end, ten spots are still left empty. Nothing works, even when I use every strategy I can think of:
Pleading.
“It’s really important,” I beg one of the sportier boys in our year. He’s lounging in the front row of the stands, shamelessly scrolling through some pretty girl’s account on his phone. He doesn’t glance up at me. “Please. Everyone should sign up for at least one race—”
“Is it compulsory though?” he asks.
“I . . . It’sexpected—”
“Will the principal expel me if I don’t run this race?”
“No, but—”
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.” I watch him send the girl’s recent post to a friend, alongside a disturbing number of heart-eye emojis. “Good luck finding someone else.”
“Good luck getting her attention with your current profile picture,” I can’t help muttering. I wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but after the party, I figure I can’t be anylesspopular than I already am.
Now he jerks his head up. Looks alarmed. “What? Hey, wait, what’s wrong with my current—”
But I’m already moving on to my next target with another strategy.
Negotiating.
“Just one race,” I tell Georgina when I find her by the water fountains. “I can run the fifteen hundred meters for you if you run the five hundred meters.”
She shoots me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Sadie. I twisted my ankle on the bus just now. It’s probably best that I don’t.”
“On the—on thebus?” I repeat, blinking. “How did you . . . How is that even . . .”
“I think I was sitting down,” she says.
“And?”
“And then I stood up,” she says somberly.
“You twisted your ankle,” I say, in case I’m misunderstanding. “From the very act of standing.”
“Yep. That did it,” she agrees, and turns away. Which leads me to my last resort—
Guilt tripping.
“We need you,” I say, cornering Ray outside the bathrooms. “If you don’t run at least one of the races, then Georgina Wilkins will have to, and she’s twisted her ankle. You’re not going to let her go instead of you, are you?”
Ray dries his hands on his shirt and raises his brows. “Twisted her ankle? How?”
“You don’t need to know,” I say hastily. “Can you run? Or will you sit on the sidelines, in the shade, and watch all your classmates struggle out there on the track, sweating and gasping for breath?”
“Sit in the shade,” he says without hesitation. “I have a fear of running, you see.”
I almost throw up blood. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s a very real fear. Google it.”
“I’m sorry, but how does that even work?”
“As soon as my feet start moving very fast,” he says, “my heart just starts beating wildly, and my vision goes all blurry. It’s like being on a roller coaster. Or in a race car. The speed at which the world rushes past me is terrifying.”
“How poetic,” I remark under my breath.
