Page 31 of It’s All in How You Fall
Peregrine and I exchange a small high five. “Let’s indeed.”
13
Alex appears in my driveway at seven. He’s got a fancy handheldwater bottle slung snuggly between his knuckles and palm, and yet another version of a KC Royals hat shading his face. His running shoes are actually that—blue Nikes that correspond with his hat. Of course he can make even jogging look effortless.
I shut the door quietly—both Nat and Dad are blessedly still asleep—and skip down the steps. “Someday I’ll have to pickyouup.”
He shrugs. “You can drop me off. We’ll take a different route back.”
Considering that this will leave me with fewer questions from Dad or Nat, should they wake up, I’ll take it. I don’t know why I want to keep this whole Alex coaching adventure a secret from them. But I do. I just feel icky about it. Exposed somehow. Even telling Peregrine was difficult, and in less than an hour Sunny’ll know too. But… I just want to keep it as close to the vest as possible, you know?
I take a running step toward the mouth of our cul-de-sac, but Alex doesn’t move, and I realize I’ve caught him in yet another staring contest with my endless number of gymnastics tank tops. I present the shirt, stretching it out long. It’s one of those holographic prints where the image changes with movement. I make sure to wiggle it around (appropriately) to catch sun. The image flips and twists, and I can’t help it—I’m thoroughly enjoying his expression of intense concentration, as much as I can see it with the hat shading his features.
Stumping him with my clothing is probably my actual new favorite sport.
Alex lifts the bill of his hat up a little and squints. “Simone Biles?”
I rock the print from side to side in verification: Simone completing her groundbreaking triple-twisting double back on floor. “You, sir, are correct!”
Dimples flash. “What do I win?”
I drop the shirt and turn to begin to jog. It’s already 7:03. Gotta get moving—it’s two miles there and I honestly don’t know if I’ll need a walk break. “The answer is nothing because if Simone’s entered, she’s already won. There’s absolutely no way to beat her so don’t even try.”
Alex just laughs. Nat would play hurt and claim it’s not fair—Alex isn’t going to touch that argument with a ten-foot pole. Simone istheGOAT. There is literally nothing to disagree about or “well, actually” when it comes to her greatness. This boy is smart enough to realize that.
We fall into a rhythm that’s two strides of mine to his one. That’s going to be a problem that only my pride can mitigate. And even that might not be enough.
Two miles there. Sunny. Two miles back.
I’ve got this.
Maybe.
We pass the park a half mile in, and I realize that even though it’s much cooler than any other time I’ve attempted running this summer, I’m sweating bullets because Alex’s “slow” jogging pace is well above my natural cadence, stride length or no.
Luckily he’s really trying to distract me from the fact that I’m breathing way harder than him by delineating all the merits of running. “In most sports, running is considered punishment, but I love it. It’s meditative, calming, the path from novice to advanced is uncomplicated, and it makes you better at any other sport you do,” he says. “Basically, the benefit-to-effort ratio is high.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. Practice is all it takes. And this is my third time jogging this week.
“Plus,” he says as we hang a right on the main drag toward both the farmers’ market and the country club, “running should be pretty gentle exercise when it comes to your particular type of back injury.”
I swallow a gulp of air and try very hard to sound just as conversational as he is. “So you’re saying running is my backup sport.” Another breath. “In case I don’t make another type of team,” I clarify, mostly so that me sucking wind at this increased pace will sound like a natural pause.
“Don’t think of it as a backup—think of it asbackgroundwork.” He smiles and I’m starting to wonder if he baked up our entire conversation on the way over. “Makes you stronger, clears your mind.”
I smirk as best I can while out of breath. “You’ve really downed the Kool-Aid, my friend.”
“Who needs Kool-Aid when a runner’s high is available?” Alex glances over his shoulder. “Come on, pick it up—I can see you’ve got more speed than that.”
“Speed I have. It’s the sustained part that’s difficult.”
“Ah, but that’s the easiest thing to change. Get a good base and I’ll take you to the track.”
I swallow back another gulp of summer-heavy air. “Yep. Okay.”
I zero in on all the things he said he likes about running.
Meditative.
