The Pearl Inside of Anything

Same Monday, 2:40 p.m., Mr. Morris' English 10

Same Monday, 2:40 p.m., Mr. Morris' English 10

Morris is out of ideas. Which means silent reading until the end of the year. Except nobody knew, so nobody brought a book. We're all flipping through this year's text, trying to find anything but Beowulf  to finish the day.

The window to my left overlooks the track. A boys' class is milling around, restlessly kicking the gravel with the toes of their shoes, stretching, warming up with arm swings and lunges. In the group, I see him. Tall, peanut butter-coloured hair...no shoes! The other guys glance at his feet. There are a few odd looks but then the coach blows his whistle and they all take their marks.

They are staggered on the track, Ben is in lane 8, the furthest distance from where I can see. He crouches in starting position. The pistol cracks and all the boys break into a sprint. Eight rockets released at once.

I turn my book over and crane my neck to see better. They round the top of the track, then head in the direction of the school. Ben crosses from his outside start and easily joins the runners in the inside lanes. They run together—a tight group—brows creased. The pace gets faster as they begin the second lap. Ben is in the centre and suddenly things turn choppy, one guy breaks free and slightly ahead, Ben stays with the others. Faster together, chasing the heels of the leader, and then... something happens as they round the first bend of the second lap. I can't see what it is, they are all so tight together. But Ben loses his balance and falls out to the side. He swerves to the right, puts out his hands and breaks his fall with the touch of his fingertips to the track before darting up and forward as if nothing happened.

Except he's lost them. They are all 10 meters ahead, or more.

"Miss Riley?"

I can't breath. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and when I open them, Ben has closed the gap. He takes a few more flying strides and he's parallel to the pack. At the second bend, he's passed them and is heading for the leader, a stocky guy with thick legs—surprisingly fast. The leader's face is pulled back in a grimace, it looks like he's in pain. Ben's face is different. He looks...he looks...I can't mentally Thesaurus it fast enough...

"Miss Riley?! Hello?"

The coach and his assistant are waiting for them. Holding the tape. Ben and the other stocky guy bend their chests forward ...

The stocky guy breaks the tape. One loose piece crosses Ben's chest before fluttering to the ground.

The other six runners plow forward and past the finish line. Boys fall on each other, some slowly wander in circles. Ben stands alone, wipes his brown and lifts his face to the sky.

Exhilarated. That's how he looks. I mean, I know something about second place—and when does it ever look like that?

There are some handshakes. Back slaps. A few guys point at Ben's feet, one gives his shoulder a shake, another raises his hand to high five him. The leader takes his own shoes off and jogs on the spot for a few seconds, wincing but nodding at Ben with approval.

"Please, Miss Riley," I hear Mr. Morris clear his throat. "Is there some reason you are standing?"

"I... I'm standing?"

"Indeed."

I look down. My hands are gripping my desk, and I am for certain standing up. Not straight either, my nose is almost touching the window and I've only got one foot on the ground.

"No, I—I, I'm fine. I mean, I saw something, I saw something out—out there."

"The ghost of T.S. Eliot, perhaps?"

"No, sir." I straighten up, force both heels down. "Just something."

8:12 p.m. Sunday, June 28, walking Benny and Bjorn

I have been walking these crazy dogs for three nights straight and still I haven't seen him. The good part is that the Sigurdsen's think I walk on water for offering, the bad part is I think Benny and Bjorn have dislocated my right shoulder from pulling so hard on the leash they share. It splits close to the end like a wishbone with one clip for each collar. So they are a united force of ill repute.

We don't go far, just around the block a few times, near to where he saw me the first time. Or I saw him. Or we saw each other. No Ben, though. Not that I'm looking but it would be okay. Or nice. Okay, it would be nice.

"Guys," I sigh. "I think it's time to head back."

They bark and jerk my arm in the opposite direction. Bad to the bone beagles. I spin around and there he is, slowing down to a stop right in front of us.

"Hi Wendy."

"Oh, Ben. Uh, this is a coincidence! Funny how, I mean..."

"Are these the wild dogs?" He bends down. Starts scratching both behind their beagley ears. They balance their front paws on his bent knees and are instantly transformed into a couple of happy puppies.

"Um, yes. Careful. They can be very deceptive." I rub my shoulder and wince.

"Here," says Ben, standing up. "Give me the leash."

I hand it to him, and we start walking. Benny and Bjorn stay right beside Ben, looking up at him like he's Zeus.

"Ben?"

"Uh huh."

"On Monday—"

"Monday?"

"Yes," I say and press on. "On Monday. I saw you. On the track."

"Oh," he says. "The 800 metres."

"You almost won."

"I guess I did."

"Were you disappointed?"

"Disappointed?" Ben stops and looks at me. "Why would I be disappointed?"

"Oh," I blush. Why would I remind him about losing? What is wrong with me? I fumble for an answer. "Well, because you didn't win."

"I didn't really think about it," he says.

"But you were so close."

"I guess I was," he shrugs. "But you don't always know where you are in a race until it's over. At least I don't. I haven't raced much, but I run a lot. I run far. I always have. I just wanted to see if I was fast."

"Well, you are."

"Oh, I dunno. The other guy, Derek, he wanted it more. I was just running my race."

"He looked like he was hurting."

"Did he?" Ben thinks for a moment. "Well, there's always pain when you run. Something always hurts."

"But you—you finished smiling."

"Huh. Well, a good pace can make you forget everything else," he says.

"So it doesn't matter, that you didn't win? What if you wore shoes? Shoes can make a big difference." I think of telling him about Mrs. Daltry's Ferragamos, but catch myself just in time.

"Shoes?" echoes Ben, shaking his head. "Well, I do wear them most of the time, it's pretty cold here, I'm not used to it yet. But now that it's warming up, I want to feel how I used to when I ran. In Tasmania when I was little. Then in South Africa. Running without shoes is pretty common there. It's no big deal."

I stop in front of the Sigurdsen's and take the leash back. All of a sudden Benny and Bjorn get ratty again, and I give them a tug towards the front door. But I am not quite ready to say goodnight.

"So it's not about the shoes, then." I feel doubtful. It's not about the shoes. Tell that to Dorothy and her ruby slippers. Besides, aren't heels the short girl's chance on the runway? Not that I'll ever know for sure now that I'm all washed up without ever really starting.

Ben shakes his head and smiles. He looks down and runs a hand through his ripply hair. "You just have to run your race."

"Whatever it is?"

"Whatever it is."