Читать книгу Thirst - Heather Anderson - Страница 13

CHAPTER 3

VICARIOUS ADVENTURER

Growing up, I was overweight, inactive, and introverted—a bookworm of the highest order, elementary school teachers would find my Nancy Drew books nested inside textbooks—my eyes glued to storylines rather than their instruction. Sometimes they took them away and lectured me about paying attention. Most of the time they let me be. I was reading at a college level by age nine and earning straight A grades. When I wasn’t reading, I was weaving my own adventure stories in longhand in piles of notebooks by my bed.

I read and I read. I traveled and journeyed and adventured with Madeleine L’Engle’s characters, with Nancy Drew, Huckleberry Finn, Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and, eventually, into the worlds of J. R. R. Tolkien, Diana Gabaldon, and Lewis and Clark. Sacajawea was my own personal heroine. I felt a connection with her through my great-great-grandmother—an Anishinaabe woman whose faded tombstone bore the name “Elizabeth.” Through these books, I traveled from an early age through history and around the world without leaving the couch.

MICHIGAN / MAY 1992

“How far did you run, Anderson?” my fifth-grade gym teacher barked, looking up from his notebook, with a pen poised.

I sucked wind and tried to answer without gasping.

“All eight laps.”

I was a sweaty, hot mess. Most of the other kids were already heading back toward the brick school building, having finished the two-mile run in far less than the fifty minutes we had for gym. My two best friends were waiting for me by the chain-link fence, and probably had been for at least fifteen minutes.

“No, you didn’t.”

I stared at him in horror.

“What?”

“You didn’t. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not! I ran all eight!”

“Get out of my sight.”

Hot tears ran down my flushed face as I hurried to catch my friends. He didn’t believe me! It had been the hardest thing I’d ever done . . . and he didn’t believe me. I knew it was because I was fat. He knew I hated gym class and, more so, that I hated running. And fat girls can’t run two miles. Everyone knew that.

After school, I walked into the house and threw my backpack on the floor. The kitchen smelled deliciously like cornbread. I folded back the towel and cut a four-inch square right out of the middle of the dish of golden goodness. Still warm. I smeared it with honey and butter.

My mouth was full when my dad walked in.

“Have you been running laps around the house?”

I nodded, feeling incredibly stupid. Fat girls can’t run.

“Maybe try running on the road for a while. You’re wearing a path in the grass.” He started laughing.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be running around the house anymore.”

What was the point, anyway? I had run daily for a month, training in secret. Today was supposed to be the day I proved my potential athleticism. Or at least that I could do the bare minimum required to pass gym class. And it hadn’t mattered at all. Fat girls can’t run. Even when they did, no one believed them.

MICHIGAN / FEBRUARY 1993

“Yesterday’s participation was terrible!” Our sixth-grade gym teacher paced back and forth in front of us. I looked over at my friend and she shrugged.

“I’m embarrassed by you. All of you. I don’t know what to do to get you to take exercise seriously.”

I lost track of his tirade as I marveled at the ridiculousness of his tiedyed, zebra-striped balloon pants. He looked like one of the pro wrestlers my dad mocked on TV. How does he not know how idiotic he looks?

“So today we’re going to write. Yes, write. All athletes need to be able to spell out their goals.” He passed out sheets of paper and pencils.

I squirmed around, uncomfortable in my sweatpants. Just sitting still I was hot. My mom had bought them for me after I came home crying because I couldn’t handle being teased about my unshaven legs when I wore shorts to gym class. Why on earth did he have us get dressed for exercise if he was only going to have us write something? I took my sheet of paper and pencil, passing the rest along. For once, I had a realistic chance at earning an A in gym class.

“Full page from everyone before you leave. Tell me what your current athletic ability is. Your strengths and weaknesses. What you want to achieve athletically and how you’re going to get there.”

“What if I don’t want to achieve anything?” I whispered to Melissa.

“What was that, Anderson?”

“Nothing.”

Everyone started scribbling while our gym teacher continued pacing. I wrote my name at the top and chewed on the eraser. I glanced around. Most of the boys were done within five minutes. I could see the papers of many of the girls and they were almost done too. Most of them played some sort of sport, which gave them something to write about.

I’m not in very good athletic shape.

At least starting out the essay was easy: my many athletic weaknesses took up half the page. I wrote big and simply listed every sport I’d ever tried and failed at. When it came time to list my goals and how I would achieve them, I was stumped. I didn’t have any. I doodled in the corner of the paper as our gym teacher collected pages from two-thirds of the class.

“Go ahead and change when you’re done. You can have the rest of the period free.”

The few kids that remained upped the speed of their writing. I closed my eyes and wondered if he’d keep me late. I tried to imagine myself doing anything athletic. Instead, all I could think of were my failures. My father walking away from me, shaking his head and throwing his hands in the air. Leaving me standing there with the ice skates. With a baseball bat. With a golf club, a basketball, a broken kite . . . the list was long. But, I needed to write something. I let my imagination run wild. I was never going to actually achieve anything athletic, but I could write anything.

If I ever manage to overcome my athletic weaknesses, I want to set a record. Not just any record, but an athletic record. One that everyone will know me for. One that my dad will be proud of. I don’t know what it will be, but I will do it. I have a lot of weaknesses, but I have two critical strengths. I am stubborn and I am smart. I will find a way to be good at something athletic. I will lose weight. I’ll get faster and stronger. Maybe I’ll even go to the Olympics. Whatever it takes to achieve my goal.

I was the last student still in the gymnasium when I handed my paper to the gym teacher. I didn’t look at him and tried to hurry away.

“Wait.”

He was reading the paper right there in front of me. I felt my face growing hot as I stared at my feet. He was going to tear it up and make me rewrite it. I knew it. I couldn’t even pass a gym class essay. He knew I was making up something ridiculous just to finish the assignment.

He lowered the paper and handed it back to me.

“Good job.”

I ran for the locker room. That night, I taped the essay to the wall beside my bed.