Carl Hyde was right at my heels, probably trying to figure out a way to kick them out from under me. I shook out my clenched hands. I wasn’t thinking about Hyde. Nope. I had to stay focused on my race. 16:30 was my goal.
I dashed around number 316, my feet flying beneath me. Sweat stung my eyes as I swiped at my brow.
Hundreds of runners had funneled through the starting line at a city park ten minutes ago, but the pack had thinned out. Now it was just me and a few others trotting through the suburban neighborhoods of Eugene, Oregon.
I checked the sky again for seagulls. Seagulls were my arch nemesis. I always wore a hat, just in case, but they were devious. Never trust seagulls. I got hit by an average of one seagull turd per week. They frequently stole my food (outdoors or indoors), I even tripped on one that decided to swoop in front of my foot while I was walking downstairs at a park.
I kid you not. Never. Trust. Seagulls.
Never. Trust. Seagulls.
I ignored the water station. It was just a 5K—three short miles. If I was fast enough, I’d make the varsity cross country team. It might not be football or basketball, but it might decrease my freak status. With my luck, I needed all the help I could get.
Let me explain.
When people say someone is lucky, they usually mean that as a good thing. But I knew better. I was the luckiest guy I’d ever met. The problem was my luck was all bad. And we’re not talking standard bad luck here—I mean really bad.
Like my first day of middle school when I walked around a corner only to crash into a custodian holding a large can of paint. I ended up drenched in red, but not a drop fell anywhere else. Mamá was lecturing at the university and didn’t have her phone. Oh, and the can of paint? He’d ordered it by mistake.
Side note, I started keeping two sets of spare clothes in my locker. And yes, I have used both sets before and, by the end of the day, found myself wishing I had three.
Another time, my family visited a jewelry store. A fancy necklace was somehow catapulted across the shop, falling neatly around my wrist. A store employee happened to look up at that moment, and thought I was shoplifting. It took a solid hour for my mamá to convince the manager that I was not a thief. I still don’t know how the necklace was thrown across the room. I suspect a seagull was involved.
On another occasion, I was in between classes and my scarf got caught in someone’s locker as the owner closed it. Whose locker, you might ask? Yup. Carl Hyde’s. He was so tickled to find me leashed to his locker, that he whipped out his phone and snapped a photo.
And that’s how I came to be known as Scarf Boy throughout seventh grade.
And all of that was in addition to the numerous times I’ve tripped. Believe it or not, I’m not very clumsy, but if you gave me a dollar every time I’d stumbled on a cat, a remote-control car, a mop, a ball kicked right in front of me, or anything else, I could build a mansion.
It wasn’t always this way. Half of my luck used to be bizarrely good and the other half, bizarrely bad. But for several years running, it’s all been bad. Actually, not bad; awful.
That’s why I was racing today, covered in sweat with Hyde at my heels.
Three weeks ago, I had to talk Coach Kafburn into letting me do this.
“Please coach, I swear I was on my way to tryouts when–” I hesitated. “I um, brought a note from my stepdad that explains it.” I pushed the note across his desk. I learned a long time ago to have someone else sign their name to all the weird stuff that happens to me.
Kafburn eyed me beadily before picking it up and reading it aloud. “’Dear Coach Kafburn, as we drove my son to tryouts yesterday, a stray tennis ball went through the open car window, striking him in the head and knocking him unconscious for a few seconds. We took him to the doctor to have him checked out.’” He put the note down. “A stray tennis ball?” he asked dubiously.
I nodded, quickly pushing my hair aside to show him the gnarly purple bruise as proof. He looked from my bruise to the note, to my face, then back at the bruise, as if trying to determine if I could fake something like that.
“How fast can you do a 5K?” he asked.
“My fastest is 16 minutes 30 seconds,” I told him.
My stomach churned as he massaged his temples. Finally, he pulled a flyer out of his desk and slid it over to me.
“There’s a city race in three weeks. If you run a 16:30, I’ll consider you for varsity.”
“Thanks, coach! I won’t let you down!” I said, taking the flier and practically bouncing out of my chair.
I was elated . . . until Hyde found out about it. He’s the only other eighth grader who could beat me at running. And he did it every time. I desperately hoped I wouldn’t have any classes with him when high school started next month. He probably signed up for this race so he could sabotage me. He didn’t need to do the race—he’d already made varsity. This was personal.
But I wasn’t thinking about Hyde.
I glanced around, trying to find something—anything—to distract myself and noticed a peculiar lady along the road ahead of me. She appeared old enough to predate just about everything. Her skin looked like it was about to droop off her narrow face. A white top hat crowned her head. Delicate veiny hands clutched a golden cane. Despite the muggy Oregon weather, the lady wore a long, plum overcoat that reached down to just below her knees.
And she was staring at me.
Was something on my face? I wiped my nose, wondering if I had a booger hanging off it or something.
“It’s you, Santiago,” she called.
“Huh?” was about all I could manage as I passed.
I almost stopped—almost asked her what she meant. Then I dismissed it. I was running a race, after all.
Wait—how the heck did she know my name? I glanced over my shoulder, but she wasn’t there. All I saw was Hyde, who smirked. Shoot. There was no surer sign of insecurity in a race than looking over your shoulder.
Focus! I thought. What did it matter if Hyde was there? My best time in the 5K was 20 seconds faster than his. Of course, I ran that when Hyde was at the dentist.
So how did he always beat me?
Looking ahead, I was surprised to see the same old woman. How had she gotten there so fast?
Once again, I almost turned to talk to her then stopped. Focus on the race, I told myself.
“Santiago Huamán, we must converse,” she demanded.
“Can’t right now, sorry,” I mumbled as I passed.
“Hey Huamán, is that your girlfriend?” I could feel my cheeks burning. Just pretend he’s not there, I thought.
I risked a glance over my shoulder, but the lady was gone again. Weird. Did I imagine her? Well, no. Hyde saw her too.
SPLAT! I winced in disgust at the familiar feeling of a seagull dropping hitting my arm. I somehow managed to maintain pace as I pulled up the towel tucked into my shorts and wiped off the nasty white mess.
Not long left—it was almost time to kick.
And suddenly the old lady was smack dab in front of me.
“Santiago, it is vital that we speak!”
I narrowly missed barreling into her, sidestepping the lady at the last second. “Where did you come from?” I puffed.
“That is not important,” she called after me. “Time is short!”
What the heck was going on?
I was about to glance over my shoulder again but then something cold and wet pegged my cheek. Hyde had snuck up to my side and spat in my face.
“Uck!” I exclaimed, shuddering as I pulled my jersey up to wipe my cheek, trying not to break pace. My chest tightened, and my fingers curled. I wished I could just go home and shower for two hours.
“Sorry, Tiny, didn’t see you there,” Hyde said, speeding past me.
I tore after him, my insides churning. We crossed through the high school parking lot toward the field behind the building where the finish line was.
I kicked, lurching forward to match Hyde stride for stride. Hyde glanced at me, smirking. We leapt up onto the sidewalk, running along the brick wall of the school.
Hyde crashed into me, smashing my shoulder into the rough surface of the building. Dude, not cool! My skin burned where it grazed brick.
I pushed myself off the wall and sprinted after Hyde. The taller boy was several paces ahead of me now. I could tell—even from behind—that he had that stupid, condescending sneer on his face.
I propelled myself forward even faster, slowly closing the gap as we wheeled around the corner of the school and pounded onto the track.
400 feet left.
I caught him. We were neck and neck now and with far too many bystanders for him to try shoving me again. My eyes kept darting to him, doubt seeping in.
300 feet.
Hyde glanced at me, sneering as though he knew something I didn’t. My throat felt dry. A desperate sound escaped my mouth. I gave it all I had but. . . .
200 feet.
Hyde cranked up the speed and so did I, but I couldn’t keep this pace up for long. I barely noticed my stepdad cheering me on near the finishing shoot. I felt my cheeks heat up as I realized he was going to watch me lose.
100 feet.
And suddenly Hyde was one step ahead.
Hyde crossed the finish line.
I crossed the finish line.
16:33
I failed.
SPLAT!
Yup. Another seagull turd. This time on my right shoulder. I didn’t even bother wiping it off this time.
One volunteer cut the timing chip off my shoe, another dropped a participation medal around my neck, and stuffed a water bottle into my hand.
Then I saw Hyde puking into a garbage barrel. So, the race wasn’t a total loss, I guess.
