Free Running the Rift by Naomi Benaron

heads and they start burning our houses, I have to question.” She faced Jean Patrick, her gaze even with his. “You are old enough to understand now. A shadow of fear follows me wherever I go. I can’t remember a time since I was a young child when both my eyes slept at the same time.” She stepped across the rutted earth, the basin steady atop the ingata. “We can never forget we’re Tutsi, eh? It’s a curse but also a blessing.” She leaned her weight into the hill as if pushing against an opponent.
    Jean Patrick found a rhythm of movement, swinging crutches and thenbody to keep up with her. The padding on the handles had started to unravel. In the distant fields, women bent and swayed with the rhythm of their hoes, their pagnes splashes of bright color in the gray air. The countryside quivered, everyone waiting for rain.
    I T DIDN’T TAKE long for government forces to beat back the RPF or for Jean Patrick’s bruises to fade and then disappear. But the incidents of January 23 had changed Gihundwe for good. The peace at school, like peace in the country, remained an uneasy one. Jean Patrick’s bones were healing. After four weeks of rest, two weeks of slow running, and three weeks of hard training, Coach finally said, “I think you’re ready for the burgomaster now.” Practice had ended, and he was rubbing a minty-smelling oil into Jean Patrick’s legs. “Your rebel friends are making everyone’s life hard.” As if it had been the RPF that had burst into class, turned the afternoon upside down, and stamped on his foot.
    A fierce breeze drove trash across the track. Itumba, the long rainy season that spanned Easter, knocked at the door, and rain weighed heavily in the air. Jean Patrick looked over at the scratched-out oval of dirt where he felt most at home in his life. “Me, I don’t care about the RPF,” he said. “I care about racing. About winning.” He waited for Coach to dismiss him, hoping the subject of politics was finished.
    A thin smile cracked Coach’s face. “I like you, Jean Patrick. You’re a true warrior. I believe you will show the burgomaster what you’re made of.”
    â€œEh? You think I’ll win?”
    â€œI would guess that you have only just begun to win.” Coach helped Jean Patrick to his feet. “OK. For now, we’re done.”
    Released, Jean Patrick jogged toward the truck. Daniel was there, waiting for him. His baby fat had disappeared; he was trim and solid now, a real footballer. At least their friendship had endured. Jean Patrick knew he could always count on that.
    O N THE WAY to the dorm, Daniel grabbed his arm. “Walk a minute, eh?”
    â€œWhat’s up?” Jean Patrick fell into step beside him.
    Daniel walked toward the chapel. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I wanted to tell you what I heard. There’s been talk of expelling all Tutsi from school.”
    Jean Patrick swallowed. “Who told you?”
    â€œNo one. I overheard the priests talking.”
    The path seemed suddenly close and dark. “Headmaster won’t allow it. Neither will Coach. He knows it’s me the burgomaster’s coming to see.”
    â€œI heard Coach’s voice,” Daniel said. “He was there with them.”
    â€œYou heard wrong.” Rage bubbled in Jean Patrick. Mama had been right when she said being Tutsi was a curse. About the blessing, he was not sure. But he knew one thing: in Rwanda, it was the Hutu who drank the cream from the igicuba—the milk jug. If Imana were to come down this minute and ask him to choose his ethnicity, he couldn’t say for sure how he would answer.
    â€œYou didn’t let me finish,” Daniel said. “Coach also said it was because of you—only you—that he couldn’t agree.”

E IGHT
    J EAN P ATRICK CLOSED HIS NOTEBOOK and packed up his books. Father had