Free Running the Rift by Naomi Benaron Page B

“I’ll make a star out of you yet, but you have to listen to me,” Coachsaid. “Have patience.” He aimed a finger at Jean Patrick’s chest. “
Buhoro buhoro ni rwo urugendo.
” Little by little a bird builds its nest. Jean Patrick recognized the proverb with a chill. It was the same one Uncle had quoted to describe how the Hutu would wipe the Tutsi off the face of the earth.

    T HE TRACK AT National University in Butare was an oval of swept red dirt encircling the football field. Unlike the track at Kamarampaka Stadium, the ground was leveled, wide enough for eight runners. Spectators filled the seats and sprawled across the grass. When Jean Patrick saw the crowd, adrenaline rushed through him. Runners jogged around the track, practiced drills and sprints down the straights. Jean Patrick watched a group of girls doing lunges and high-step drills in the grass.
    â€œYou look like you’re trying to figure out their genus and species,” Daniel said.
    â€œEh! I think some of them could beat you.”
    â€œWatch it! Come on—let’s warm up together.” A dot of pink tongue showed between Daniel’s front teeth.
    Isaka caught them. “Hey-yey-yey! Can you believe this? I wonder how many runners in the fifteen hundred.”
    They took an easy jog around the track. In the final turn, a group of runners closed in behind them. Two came up on either side, and two stayed back, on their heels. Jean Patrick nodded a greeting, but in response they only tightened the space between them. The hairs on the back of Jean Patrick’s neck stood up.
    â€œSomething smells,” one of them said. He made a show of sniffing the air, and they all laughed. “You’re Nkuba Jean Patrick, right? That Inyenzi from Cyangugu who thinks he’s a star?”
    Jean Patrick quickened his pace. “Maybe I am a star.”
    â€œYou tea pickers think you’re good, but you haven’t been to Kigali.”
    â€œDon’t talk stupid,” Daniel said. “I come from Kigali.”
    The boy sprinted in front and spun around. “Take a good look, Inyenzi,” he said. His nose veered crookedly to one side, giving his face an off-balance look. “It’s all you’ll see of our faces. After this, it will be our backsides you look at.” The four hooted and peeled off down the straight.
    Isaka chased them down and ran on their heels. Jean Patrick started after him.
    â€œStay focused,” Daniel said. He pulled Jean Patrick back. “They want to wear you out. They’re scared.”
    â€œThey should be. If I am Inyenzi—cockroach—I have six legs to run on.” Jean Patrick turned his attention to the girls on the track. “Who goes first, them or us?”
    S IX RUNNERS REMAINED for the eight-hundred-meter final, including three of the four Kigali boys. Crooked Nose mouthed something to Jean Patrick that he didn’t catch. Jean Patrick looked him in the eye and laughed. Coach had instructed him to let Crooked Nose win the semifinal. It took every ounce of willpower, but he did it. Now came revenge.
    The starter banged the blocks. Jean Patrick drove off the line, rising quickly from his crouch. He expected to leave the boys behind, but after breaking for the inside, the four of them ran together. Crooked Nose crowded him toward the pole. Jean Patrick stepped it up. Two boys faded from the pack. Jean Patrick surged again, but Crooked Nose hung on.
    By the second turn, Crooked Nose had fallen back, and Jean Patrick ran alone. His chest compressed; his lungs burned. When he passed the start for his second lap, Coach was on the sidelines, stopwatch strangled in his hand, signaling, Slow down! Dig, Jean Patrick told himself, but his legs would not respond. His new Nikes felt more like lead than air, and his rhythm began to desert him.
    By the time he reached the back turn, all three Kigali boys had caught him. They hemmed him in,