Breathe, Annie, Breathe
Page 41
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“You can’t take away points!”
“I just did.”
With the help of PopPop and his special scoring process, I beat Jeremiah by a landslide.
“That was so unfair,” Jeremiah grumbles during the drive back to the Roadhouse.
“I didn’t take you for a sore loser.”
“Hmph.”
I enjoyed this afternoon. Jeremiah hugged his PopPop long and hard before we left, and PopPop patted his grandson’s back. Jere really is a nice guy; I like how he cares for his family, and he’s down to earth and sort of an old-school gentleman. I wonder if he’d ever let a woman open a door for herself.
“Your PopPop is cool.”
“He’s such a badass,” Jeremiah says. “When my mom wouldn’t let me come home for Easter, he took me on a fly-fishing trip over in Johnson City. It was cool—he called it a bachelor’s weekend. And he always tells me I should really live life…you know, because he went to Vietnam and he lost a lot of friends there…He’s the one who gave me a gift certificate for my first skydiving lesson.”
“You’ve been skydiving?” I exclaim.
“Yeah, seven times so far…it’s the best rush I’ve ever had…but I guess I won’t be going anymore.” His quiet smile is happy and sad at the same time. To me, it seems so simple: family would outweigh the need to do something bat-shit crazy like skydive. But it must not be simple for him.
“We’ll have to have a rematch,” I say to get his mind off skydiving. “I want to beat you at something for real…With all of those extra points PopPop gave me, who knows who really won?”
“Tomorrow is Miniature Golf Monday.”
“You probably have your own putter, huh?”
He grins, turning the steering wheel.
“I’ve got work tomorrow,” I say.
“That’s fine…I’ll beat you at putt-putt some other time. Listen, do you want to run a race with me next weekend? It’s on Sunday.” He sounds nervous asking.
“I can’t run as fast as you. Or as far.”
“It’s only a 5K. It’ll be just like one of your daily runs.”
That’s only three miles. Matt has me signed up to run a half-marathon in September—he’s considering it one of my Saturday long runs. Doing a 5K ahead of the half isn’t a bad idea. It would be good to experience what actually happens on race day. I mean, all the information about the Country Music Marathon kind of overwhelms me. I’m supposed to pick up my race number the day before and I have to clip a timer to my shoelace. I have to park my car in a certain place and check my bag at the starting line. Someone will bring it to the finish. I need to memorize charts that show the elevation of every section of the course, along with maps that show the water stops, food tables, and first aid tents. I know where the porta-potties will be by heart.
Matt expects me to remember it all.
“What time is the race?” I ask.
“Seven a.m.”
“Good lord, that’s early. I can’t. I work brunch on Sundays.”
He taps the steering wheel and chews on his lower lip. “That sucks.”
“Did you want me to come so I can see what a real race will be like?” I ask.
He looks over at me. “I thought we’d have fun together. We’re friends, right?”
“I’ll have to see if I can get off work.”
“You will love this race,” he says, smiling.
Nothing wrong with going to a race with him. I need to experience one, after all. And I do like having plans again.
When he drops me off at my car, he taps on my window and I crank it down. “I forgot to mention something about the race. You have to wear a white T-shirt.”
ADRENALINE JUNKIE
Work starts to slow down late Tuesday night, so I take the opportunity to page through the MTSU course catalog. Standing in the back vestibule, I dog-ear the physical therapy section. This human anatomy and physiology course looks cool. Working with Matt and discovering muscles I didn’t know I had is making me more interested in the human body.
Right then, Stephanie stalks by. Oh good, I need to talk to her.
“Stevens, get out there and clear table twelve already!” she yells, and the offending busboy darts past the vestibule where I’m hiding.
I stow the course catalog in my tote bag, take a deep breath, and approach Stephanie. Sure, she’s Mom’s friend, but she takes her job as manager of the Roadhouse seriously. If we want time off from work, we have to request it in the leather-bound book behind the hostess stand two weeks in advance. And I didn’t do that. The race Jeremiah wants me to run is in five days. Time to face the wrath of Stephanie.
“I just did.”
With the help of PopPop and his special scoring process, I beat Jeremiah by a landslide.
“That was so unfair,” Jeremiah grumbles during the drive back to the Roadhouse.
“I didn’t take you for a sore loser.”
“Hmph.”
I enjoyed this afternoon. Jeremiah hugged his PopPop long and hard before we left, and PopPop patted his grandson’s back. Jere really is a nice guy; I like how he cares for his family, and he’s down to earth and sort of an old-school gentleman. I wonder if he’d ever let a woman open a door for herself.
“Your PopPop is cool.”
“He’s such a badass,” Jeremiah says. “When my mom wouldn’t let me come home for Easter, he took me on a fly-fishing trip over in Johnson City. It was cool—he called it a bachelor’s weekend. And he always tells me I should really live life…you know, because he went to Vietnam and he lost a lot of friends there…He’s the one who gave me a gift certificate for my first skydiving lesson.”
“You’ve been skydiving?” I exclaim.
“Yeah, seven times so far…it’s the best rush I’ve ever had…but I guess I won’t be going anymore.” His quiet smile is happy and sad at the same time. To me, it seems so simple: family would outweigh the need to do something bat-shit crazy like skydive. But it must not be simple for him.
“We’ll have to have a rematch,” I say to get his mind off skydiving. “I want to beat you at something for real…With all of those extra points PopPop gave me, who knows who really won?”
“Tomorrow is Miniature Golf Monday.”
“You probably have your own putter, huh?”
He grins, turning the steering wheel.
“I’ve got work tomorrow,” I say.
“That’s fine…I’ll beat you at putt-putt some other time. Listen, do you want to run a race with me next weekend? It’s on Sunday.” He sounds nervous asking.
“I can’t run as fast as you. Or as far.”
“It’s only a 5K. It’ll be just like one of your daily runs.”
That’s only three miles. Matt has me signed up to run a half-marathon in September—he’s considering it one of my Saturday long runs. Doing a 5K ahead of the half isn’t a bad idea. It would be good to experience what actually happens on race day. I mean, all the information about the Country Music Marathon kind of overwhelms me. I’m supposed to pick up my race number the day before and I have to clip a timer to my shoelace. I have to park my car in a certain place and check my bag at the starting line. Someone will bring it to the finish. I need to memorize charts that show the elevation of every section of the course, along with maps that show the water stops, food tables, and first aid tents. I know where the porta-potties will be by heart.
Matt expects me to remember it all.
“What time is the race?” I ask.
“Seven a.m.”
“Good lord, that’s early. I can’t. I work brunch on Sundays.”
He taps the steering wheel and chews on his lower lip. “That sucks.”
“Did you want me to come so I can see what a real race will be like?” I ask.
He looks over at me. “I thought we’d have fun together. We’re friends, right?”
“I’ll have to see if I can get off work.”
“You will love this race,” he says, smiling.
Nothing wrong with going to a race with him. I need to experience one, after all. And I do like having plans again.
When he drops me off at my car, he taps on my window and I crank it down. “I forgot to mention something about the race. You have to wear a white T-shirt.”
ADRENALINE JUNKIE
Work starts to slow down late Tuesday night, so I take the opportunity to page through the MTSU course catalog. Standing in the back vestibule, I dog-ear the physical therapy section. This human anatomy and physiology course looks cool. Working with Matt and discovering muscles I didn’t know I had is making me more interested in the human body.
Right then, Stephanie stalks by. Oh good, I need to talk to her.
“Stevens, get out there and clear table twelve already!” she yells, and the offending busboy darts past the vestibule where I’m hiding.
I stow the course catalog in my tote bag, take a deep breath, and approach Stephanie. Sure, she’s Mom’s friend, but she takes her job as manager of the Roadhouse seriously. If we want time off from work, we have to request it in the leather-bound book behind the hostess stand two weeks in advance. And I didn’t do that. The race Jeremiah wants me to run is in five days. Time to face the wrath of Stephanie.
