Читать книгу The Underdog Parade - Michael Mihaley - Страница 9

The Great Willow Creek Race

It’s only fair to note that Peter had never been in favor of the move to Willow Creek Landing. He liked his old neighborhood where he had friends on his block and friends in school. Though Willow Creek Landing was only a twenty-minute car ride away, it might as well have been Iceland. There was a whole group of unfamiliar neighbors and a new school district. It was no big deal for CJ; she was entering kindergarten at the time they moved. Peter came in at sixth grade, a year before middle school, when groups of friends were already established.

Peter’s skepticism of his new neighborhood was born when his father, Nick, had brought home a glossy, full-color brochure advertising Willow Creek Landing, “a community for the twenty-first century.” His old neighborhood didn’t need that sort of promotion. Peter wasn’t impressed with the private golf course (he hated golf), luxurious new homes, on-site restaurant and catering facilities, or the general store where you can shop without leaving the wrought-iron gates. Big deal.

The community also hosted several events throughout the year for the residents, which was the reason Mrs. Keeme cut short her visit earlier. Today was the Great Willow Creek 5K, a 3.1 mile run through the development—which the residents made into this huge deal. Mrs. Keeme wanted to get outside the gates before the community’s security team closed the streets to traffic.

When the front screen door slammed shut, announcing Mrs. Keeme’s exit, Peter unlocked his bedroom door and walked down the hallway to the living room with CJ at his heels.

Their mother, Abby, was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher and going over the conversation she had with Mrs. Keeme in her head. Abby would miss the cranky, old lady; in a strange way, she enjoyed her company. There was a part of Abby that understood and felt for Mrs. Keeme. The urge to drop everything and start anew was not groundbreaking—Abby had felt it several times standing at this very spot, loading or unloading the dishwasher. The damn machine required the attention of an infant.

“You can come out now, the coast is clear,” Abby said, hearing the kids’ footsteps.

“Is Dad coming to the race?” Peter asked.

“He’s hiding in his room too. You can tell him she’s gone. He’ll be happy to hear all the news.”

The neighbors were one of the few things Peter’s father didn’t absolutely love about their new surroundings. On several occasions, he said they lived in the “fruits and nuts” section of the Creek. At first Peter thought his father was talking about the trees lining the block, though his father was never the nature-loving type. He later realized his father was referring to the neighbors.

CJ drifted into the living room and turned on the television.

“Did you take your meds, Peter?” Abby asked.

Meds, Peter thought. It used to be did you take your pill; now it was a concoction of different orange vials soon to be changed again since this recent recipe hadn’t worked either.

Peter had taken his meds with his Cheerios in the morning, scarfing them down as quickly as he could, hoping the bitter aftertaste or smell of the pills wouldn’t revive the horrible memory of his last seizure. But they always did: gym class, end of the school year.

He had done a good job up to that point of melting into the background. Fitting in was Peter’s ultimate, but highly improbable, goal at school. He’d planned on settling for remaining invisible. But after the seizure, even that goal was no longer possible. He shuddered when he pictured himself flopping around the gymnasium’s Lysol-stinking oak floors in front of all the other students, lying on his back with his arms and legs flapping about as the gym coach removed any objects near Peter that could harm his out of control body. They had nicknamed him “Nemo” after that. Indeed, Peter was a fish out of water.

* * *

Peter, CJ, and their parents walked down Ranch Street—named, rather unoriginally, after the style of homes on the block—toward the pavilion in the center of the Creek. The pavilion was like a town hall where all the big events were held. People were already gathered near a huge, white banner that read FINISH LINE in big, blue letters. Two men held a thin tape taut, ready for the winner to break through. The runners started at the cart path of hole one on the golf course and continued along the perimeter of the development. Willow Creek Landing bordered on the Pine Barrens, a huge nature preserve that Peter was excited to explore once the drought broke. From an aerial view, the preserve shaped Willow Creek Landing like a bushy beard.

Peter lagged behind his parents, and CJ lagged behind him, dragging a small, stuffed dog in her lasso. Over the last few months Peter developed an acute sense of when his parents were fighting. Recently, they had provided him with ample resources to polish this talent. He couldn’t understand when they’d found the time to forge this new fight since his father had just returned home late last night from another one of his business trips. They faced one another only to speak in hushed, forceful bursts, and then turned away after tossing whatever verbal grenade they threw, unconcerned by the damage it would generate. It was like a dance of the angry.

Thankfully, the dancing stopped as they approached the growing crowd. Peter found himself in the awkward position of standing between his silent parents as CJ lingered behind them, whispering indecipherable words of either encouragement or threats to her imprisoned fluffy animal. Every once in a while, a resident would stop and greet either Peter’s father or mother or both, and wide smiles would crease their faces only to disappear once the neighbor left. Peter couldn’t wait to go home. He’d add parents seemed a lot happier in old home even if they didn’t realize it themselves to the list of reasons why he hated Willow Creek Landing.

“This is fun,” Peter lied to his father, just to break the silence.

“Oh, yeah. Holding a race in August in ninety-five-degree dry heat, during a drought. Brilliant idea,” his father said, returning the icy stare of a lady in front of him who overheard his answer. Nick looked around with disdain at the faces of the crowd, detaching himself from the people surrounding him.

Peter could feel only relief as a smattering of applause turned into a steady stream of cheering as the lead runners came into view from down Victorian Row one hundred yards away, for the final stretch. The sweltering sun had apparently taken a greater-than-obvious toll on the runners, and the two men in the lead, with their arms and legs flailing, looked more like they were falling off a cliff than sprinting to a finish. The spectators started to cheer.

Peter cheered because everyone else was doing it, not counting his father. He held little interest in the outcome of the race until, just ahead of the runners, a figure broke suddenly from the throngs of people on the sidelines and started sprinting toward the finish line. From a distance, Peter thought this unofficial runner was a tall, skinny girl because of the long, flowing hair, but then he saw a flimsy beard bouncing up and down in the air. His beard didn’t have that rough look of iron wool, but seemed soft and fragile. He wore blue jeans hastily cut into shorts and a T-shirt with many different, bright colors melting into each other like a kaleidoscope. His eyes were wide and alert. He wasn’t running that fast—the open sandals on his feet were designed for a more leisurely pace. The lead runners, with barely enough energy to register a look of surprise or anger, tried to catch the bearded fellow but eventually withered and faded farther behind.

The crowd, fuming at this stranger who was ruining their great event, shouted things as he passed, but the stranger continued to run with a determined grin to the end. He skidded at the finish line, almost tripping into the tape, then contorted his body into a limbo-type maneuver and passed cleanly underneath. He pointed to the crowd and held a finger to his lips, similar to a reprimanding librarian, and shouted, “Your wealth is rotted! Restore, people! Restore!”

Willow Creek Landing’s security team, color-coordinated in dark-blue pants and collared polo shirts, surrounded him immediately and escorted him off the course by his elbows. His sandals skimmed the ground.

“Live righteous, people! You have been forewarned!” the bearded guy shouted before being swallowed up by the crowd.

No one noticed who really won the race.

CJ giggled, thinking the act was part of the day’s planned festivities.

Nick looked sickened. “Don’t tell me that’s the Keeme kid.”

Abby nodded slowly, having watched the scene play out in disbelief. She glared at her husband. “Joshua. Product of a broken home, exhibit A.”