4: Running on Empty
From the Journals of Dipper Pines: Tomorrow is March 1, and that means my first JV track meet. It's no big deal, just five schools (it's the "quint school meet," which makes no sense to me, because shouldn't that be "quintuple?"), and we're going on a bus up to Oakland Park High for the meet. Unfortunately, three of our best runners are down with the cruddy flu that's going around.
I'm down for the boys' 100 meter, which runs at nine a.m. Then I have nothing else to do for the rest of the day, so I guess I'll sit on the sidelines and cheer. Dad is driving Mabel up.
Thinking about them watching me, and me maybe failing, I've got my usual case of butterflies in the stomach—abdominus lepidopterus, Grunkle Ford would call it.
I just hope I won't come in last.
In fact, Dipper came in first in the Junior Varsity heat—with a very good time of 10.70 seconds. He grinned as he trotted off the track and to the stands, because he could hear Mabel cheering above everyone else: "That's my brother, the winnah! Woohoo!"
It almost made up for being listed in the program as Mason Pines (F).
"Hey, Coach," Dipper said to Mr. Dinson, "is it OK if I go up and sit with my family?"
Glancing around, Dinson said, "You can meet up with them for lunch and stay with them after that. Hang around, though. I may need you at ten."
"Huh? Ten? That's the 800, Coach."
In a voice dripping with sarcasm, Dinson said, "I'm glad you can read the schedule, Pines. American education succeeds again. Yeah, it's the 800, and Clowse was supposed to run it for us—Get in there, Macavoy, you waiting for an engraved invitation?"
Dipper watched Chuck Macavoy go out onto the track and start stretching for the 110-meter hurdles. "Uh, Coach?" Dipper asked, "what about Frank Clowse?"
"He's sick in the school nurse's office," Dinson said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the high school complex. "Got this gosh-danged flu, looks like. I'm gonna have you fill in for him."
Dipper sank onto a bench. "Fill in for—I haven't trained for the 800!"
Dinson pulled his Lions' cap down to shade his eyes, watching the runners line up for the 110-meter hurdles race. "You run every day, though. I've seen you do three miles around the track."
"Yes, but—that's just, you know, for general fitness, not for competition."
Dinson sighed. "Chill. I don't expect you to win, Pines. But I want us to have a man in every event, and that's the only one I don't have covered. Just do your best. Wetherby, stretch out now! The 110 will be over before you know it!"
Slumped on the bench, Dipper thought, Every time something good happens, something bad's right around the corner with brass knuckles on both fists.
The hour sped by, and before he could prepare even mentally, the announcer called the 800, his name went out over the PA system as a substitute, and he sort of crept to his starting position. The other four runners from the different schools towered over him—or so he thought. All taller than he was. Longer legs, longer strides.
I am gonna get killed.
But crouching down, muscles tensed, he told himself, Coach said just do your best.
The starting gun barked, and all five runners bolted forward. One, a lanky African-American kid from Consett High named Cooledge, took the lead right away, with a runner from Dawsen City six strides behind him, Dipper bringing up third, and beside him a long-legged guy from Taylorville pacing him, just half a step behind. The fifth runner they left behind—maybe he felt a touch of flu, too.
A hundred meters, and Dipper reflected, I could've been first if I'd run all-out—but then I'd have nothing left.
They made the turn, and the Dawsen City guy slowed bit by bit. Dipper reached him, drew even with him—the Dawsen City runner shot him an alarmed glance and tried to put on a burst of speed, but nearly stumbled, and Dipper drew ahead of him. Now Cooledge remained the only man in front of him. I'm in second! That won't mean a disgrace if I can—keep—it—up!
But just before he reached the halfway mark, Dipper felt his rhythm slackening. He clenched his teeth and willed his legs to pump. Can't fall behind the others!
Either the Dawsen City guy or the one from Taylorville had drawn close behind him—he couldn't tell from the sound of the footfalls which lane the runner held—and, with the breath burning in his lungs, Dipper realized I don't have anything left!
What was it Scotty always said in those reruns of the old Star Trek show that had addicted Dad? "I'm givin' her all she's got, Cap'n! She won't hold together much longer!"
His legs began to noodle beneath him. Can't fall! This is so unfair of Coach! Got to finish the race on my feet at the least! Can't fall!
Six hundred meters, and Cooledge still ran like a machine six strides ahead of Dipper. Dipper thought that he would pass out. He could feel the pulse pounding in his temples.
And then, between one stride and the next—
It was as if he'd grown a third lung. He felt his muscles settle into a new, easier rhythm. He lengthened his stride, he pumped his arms.
Seven hundred meters down, just one hundred to go, into the last lap now!
He drew closer to Cooledge, and closer still. Cooledge sensed him and sped up. Dipper kept closing, though not fast. He caught glimpses, fragments of everything around: There sat the crowd, yelling and cheering. Round the turn. Coach on his feet, pumping his fist and screaming. Onlookers pressing against the chain-link fence that surrounded the track. Closer and closer—the finish line—
"Aww!" Dipper crossed it just one long step behind Cooledge, who took a few more strides, slowing down, and then stepped onto the grass, put his hands on his knees, stooped over, and vomited.
Dipper's legs felt like noodles again. He went up to Cooledge and asked, "Hey, man, you all right?"
Cooledge nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You—you had me—goin' there, man. Saw—you win—the JV hundred. Good sprint, man!"
"You won this one hands down," Dipper said. "Congratulations." He held out his hand.
Cooledge chuckled. "Sure you want to do that? I just kinda puked and wiped it off my mouth."
Dipper held out his left hand. "This one'll do OK. You ran a great race, man."
Cooledge gave him a left-handed handshake. "Thanks."
Dipper left the track. Dinson actually clapped him on the back. "See? Knew you could do it."
"Couldn't win, though," Dipper said, panting for breath.
The coach patted his shoulder. "You made a damn good try. Don't tell Mr. Mooney I said damn."
Despite his heaving lungs, Dipper chuckled. Nobody in school seemed to like Myron Mooney, the vice-principal. Or as Mabel called him, Moron Mooney. Back in the fall he had threatened to confiscate Wendy's beloved trapper's hat from Dipper—so now it stayed at home, safe until the summer, when he would—he hoped—return it to her.
"Hey, Pines," Dinson said, "You did good. Stick around for the awards, but go join your family if you want. You ridin' back with them?"
"If it's OK."
"Yeah, Pines, you earned it."
He climbed up to where his dad and sister sat. Mabel jumped up and hugged him, yelling, "This is my brother, people!" Then, just as loud, she yelled, "Yuck, you're wet and stinky!"
"Just sweat," he said as his dad moved over to let him plop down on the bench.
"Were you supposed to run the half-mile?" Dad asked him.
"It's the 800-meter, Dad, and no. We had a sick man, though, so Coach told me to go in."
"If it'd been a mile, you'd have beat him!" Mabel said with a fierce scowl.
"If it'd been a mile, I think I would've dropped dead," Dipper told her.
Piedmont didn't do too badly: firsts in the boys' 100-meter sprint and the 1600-meter distance run and also in the girls' 110-meter hurdles and 200-meter sprint. Dipper's second-place win in the 800-meter, and three third-places in all.
Dipper had managed to speak to the guy announcing the awards, and thankfully, when his turn came, the man said into the microphone, "A first-place award and a second-place one, too, for Dipper Pines."
Much better than "Mason."
That afternoon, on the drive back home, both twins sat in the back seat. Dad drove humming along to eighties music on the radio. "Reminds me of Mabel Land," Dipper muttered.
"Not as annoying, though," Mabel said. "You know, I feel sort of guilty about Dippy Fresh. I guess he blew up into confetti."
"No one deserved it more," Dipper told her.
After a moment of silence, Mabel asked, "Hey, Dipper? What happened in that 800-meter thingy? You were like blarrgggh! And then all at once you were like hero time!"
"He got his second wind," Dad said from up front. "It happens when a runner is in good training."
"It felt good," Dipper confessed. "Like I'd been running on empty and then got a refill in mid-run."
"Second wind," Mabel said. "So that's what that expression means. I always thought it had something to do with farts."
"Mabel!" Dad yelled, but he was laughing.
"I'm getting my second wind!" Mabel yelled, then stuck out her tongue and made fart noises that sent both Dad and Dipper into hysterics.
For a wonder, Dad managed not to crash the car.
I got a little bronze badge pinned to a blue ribbon for the first-place win. Mabel says it reminds her of a sheriff's badge in a Western movie, and I guess it does. It's a five-pointed star inside a sort of flat hoop. The hoop part is engraved "GREATER OAKLAND QUINT SCHOOL TRACK AND FIELD 2014" On the star is a number 1. It's small, only about an inch in diameter, but shiny.
Before she even asked, I told Mabel she couldn't have it. Instead she got the red ribbon they gave me for second place in the 800 meter. "Goin' straight in the scrapbook!" she announced.
We got home, I showered—"'Bout time!" Mabel said. Remembering Robbie, I was tempted to take Dad's three different kinds of cologne and his aftershave out of the medicine cabinet in his and Mom's bathroom and douse myself in them, just to show her that I'm an actual real teenaged guy.
But . . . I didn't.
Dad told Mom all about the meet, and she said, "That's nice," but she didn't stop cooking dinner. A roast chicken with dressing, salad, glazed carrots, and those string beans that Mabel doesn't like except for sticking them up her nose.
But she didn't do that this time because her boyfriend Trey came over to have dinner with us.
Trey makes me sick. He's so polite to our parents—"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Pines," and "Your wife is a wonderful cook, Mr. Pines," and I know he rags on them and makes fun of them when they're not around.
Calls dad a geek and tells Mabel that Mom has a stick up her butt. I mean, I've heard him say that! And she laughs at it!
But when I complain, Mabel says "He's just teasing, Dipper."
Right.
After dinner, he and Mabel went into the den to watch a DVD, and I tagged along.
Yes, OK, as chaperone. This jerk needs one!
Mabel sat on his lap! They were in Dad's recliner, and she sat in his lap with her arm around his neck! They turned off all the lights except the TV, but I sat on the sofa close to them and turned on the reading lamp. And pretended to read.
They didn't make out or anything that I saw, but when the movie was over and Trey left to go home, they stood outside the front door for a long time. Too long if you ask me.
Mabel gave me a kind of guilty look when she came back inside and we went upstairs, but it has been a good day, and I didn't want to spoil it, and I didn't say anything to her.
One day soon, though, I know I will. We'll have a serious discussion, the three of us.
Me, Mabel, and Trey.
When I get my second wind, we're going to have some words.
I'm just afraid that no matter what, we're all going to wind up hurt. I don't want that, I don't. But I'm thinking there's no way out of this without us getting mad and upset and hurt.
And I'm afraid Mabel will hurt worst of all.