What We Take Away

Chapter 2 | Zac

August 31st, 2005

The heat is brutal. My throat is parched even though I drank my weight in Gatorade. Sweat drips down the back of my neck and the chalk on my palms has long dissolved. I need a better grip for this jump, or I won't clear the bar. It may feel like hell's front porch outside but at least my head is cooler, thanks to Lee's clippers. Having him as a roommate has so far had its perks, even if he is a bit odd.

Who was she, anyway? The girl in #219 with the dark hair and pretty eyes. She caught me off guard last night when I was buzzing my head in the bathroom. And she was sitting by herself in the dining hall this morning... why didn't she come sit with us? Her door is propped open late at night, and sometimes on my way to the bathroom I hear a soft guitar playing from inside. Is that her? I wish I knew my floormates better, but between early wake ups and afternoon practices, it's a miracle I even remember to go to class.

"Peters! Let's jump!" Coach Dillon's voice hits me like a brick.

"Haul ass, Zac," Jesse Montes urges at my side as sweat drips down his face. Rule number one – do what Coach tells you to do and do it fast, the senior vaulter said to me on our first day of preseason. I nod and grit my teeth.

"Yes, Coach!" I yell, jogging the distance towards my start point.

I blink the sweat out of my eyes and breathe. It's so hot that I can see the refraction of the heat rising from the ground. Jump days are intense, but the muggy weather makes it damn hard to focus. Send it home. That's what Dad would say if he were here. I was thirteen the day I cleared my first full jump with Dad cheering me on like a mad man. Right now, Dad is probably outdoors training the newbies back home. If my old man can withstand this sweltering heat, then so can I.

The pole is heavy in my hands and my shoulders protest the idea of another jump. I'm also pretty sure I'm sunburnt. But I can't be weak, not when Coach and the others are watching this closely. I'm gonna send this shit home, Coach.

On my next inhale, I find my grip on the pole and begin to sprint. Run hard. My feet pound the earth as I charge forward like lightning and lift the pole. Plant deep. The pole hits the box and I begin to careen into the air like a missile. Swing and extend. My feet shoot upwards as the world turns upside down. For a wild moment my right hand threatens to slip from the sweat but I grit my teeth and strengthen my hold. Blood rushes to my head and adrenaline pumps through my body. Fly high. It's a feeling like no other as I rip towards the sky and arch over the bungee cord. I let go of the pole and free fall back to earth, my body smacking into the hot, cushioned pit. I tuck into a roll and stand just as my teammates approach.

"13-9," Coach shouts, the sun glinting off his shades. Until now, the only pole vault coach I'd ever had was Dad. Back home, Dad would whoop and holler - You sent it! But where Dad is encouraging, Coach is exacting.

"Not bad, Freshman," Chloe Finnegan nods approvingly. The tall blonde senior steps next to me with her hands on her hips, her movements graceful and strong. I look her in the eye, careful to not let my gaze skim over her body. Rule number two – no dating or hooking up with anyone on the track team. Especially Chloe, Jesse had said.

"That's as close to a compliment you'll get from Chlo," Jesse chuckles.

"Hell yeah," junior Katrina Fiorelli says, bringing her hand up high.

Grinning, I slap my palm to hers, feeling happy and confident. I love a good high-five, and Kat gives them frequently.

"Are you missing Daddy yet, Freshman?" Sampson snickers as he approaches.