Chain Letter

Chapter Eight

Tony always spent a long time warming up before a race. His distances were the quarter mile and the half mile, but before he even stepped to the starting line, he would have jogged two miles and run a dozen sets of wind sprints. His teammates thought he carried the warm-up to far, especially when he sweated so much that he always needed to drink before he ran, which to them was a sure prescription for a cramp. His stomach didn't seem to mind. He favored a particular brand of lemonade that came in eight-ounce clear plastic cartons that could be purchased only at gas stations. Jogging toward the ice chest in midfield, he felt exceptionally thirsty. The sun had the sky on fire.

" How do you feel?" Neil asked, sitting beside the ice chest. He came to all the track meets. He helped keep stats, measured the shot put tosses, and reset the high jump and pole vault bars. He was a big fan, though on this particular afternoon, he was only one of many. Today's track meet was the biggest of the year. Over half the stadium was filled.

"Are you referring to my mental or physical state?" Tony asked. Three days after Joan had put on her homemade Bozo outfit--much to the delight of the entire senior class, which was catcalling Joan to this day--and the day after he had received the chain letter from her, a not unexpected ad had appeared in the paper.

T.H. Come Last Next Races

The meat was against Crete High, which was tied with Grant High for first place in the league. If he did not win both the quarter mile and a half mile, Grant would probably lose the title. Coach Sager had already penciled in the sure ten points to the final score. Tony could not lose, it was as simple as that.

He was getting a crick in his neck guarding his back.

"Both," Neil said, hugging his knees to his chest. He did not seem so down today, and Tony was glad.

"Great." Tony smiled, flipping open the chest, reaching for his lemonade. There were four cartons on ice, all for him--no one else could stand the stuff. He tore off the tinfoil cap and leaned his head back to finish it in one gulp. Neil stopped him. "Let me taste it. You never know."

"Are you serious?"

Neil plucked it from his hand. "Just a sip, to be sure it's kosher." He took a drink, rolled it around inside his mouth and made a face. "It tastes sour."

"It's lemonade, for godsake." Tony took the carton back and downed it quickly. Reaching for another container, he hesitated. Was that an aftertaste or what? He decided he was the victim of suggestion. He didn't, however, take any more. "Where are the others?"

"Keeping their distance. They're afraid the earth's going to open up and swallow you." Neil laughed. "Not really. Kipp and Brenda were here a few mimutes ago. I told them you like to be by yourself before a race. They're in the stands somewhere. I hope you didn't mind me speaking for you." He added, "I told Alison the same thing."

Although his friend was acting nonchalant, Tony could hear the tension in his last line. He had told himself he wouldn't do this to Neil, and he had gone right ahead and done it just the same. He was an SOB, why didn't he just accept the fact and have the initials tattooed on his forehead so he wouldn't be able to fool anyone else? The problem was, Alison was the first girl he had found who made him feel important without having to swell his already bloated ego. Quite simply, he was happy around her. But these feelings, they seemed to totter on a balance: Add a gram of joy to the side and you had to put a pound of misery on the other side. That is what he had been trying to tell Alison that night in the car. I feel guilty, baby. He would have, except it would have been like stealing a piece of Neil's pride, and he would never do that.

"I should have told you I went out with her," Tony said. "I meant to."

"That's OK. You better keep stretching. The starter is . . ."