Free What They Always Tell Us by Martin Wilson

again. When he looks back, flashing his big smile, Alex summons his legs to get moving. They run together all the way back to Alex’s house. His parents’ cars are in the garage now, and the lights of the house burn in the twilight.
    “That was good,” Nathen says. They both walk in circles around the front yard, catching their breath and keeping their legs moving.
    “I’ll meet you after school tomorrow at the track field? You can change in our locker room.” Nathen lifts his shirt and wipes his brow.
    “I’ll be nervous,” Alex says, his hands clasped behind his head, opening his mouth wide to gulp in extra air.
    “Don’t be. You’ll do great. I’ll be there to root you on.”
    Alex nods, and when he looks at Nathen looking at him, he almost asks him why he is being so nice to him. Why he has
always
been nice to him. The night air is chilly, and soon winter will arrive in full force. Standing there, it almost seems like Nathen is the only warm and kind presence that exists on the entire planet.
    During dinner later Alex waits for James to say something about Nathen and cross-country, but he barely speaks, just shovels the baked chicken and new potatoes and salad into his mouth. His parents ask their usual questions—how was the doctor and school and so on—but Alex doesn’t dare tell them about tomorrow. Because what if he fails? Why get their hopes up? Alex knows
he
can handle the disappointment, but his parents? Haven’t they had enough to deal with when it comes to him?
    “Nothing big going on at school?” his mom asks.
    “No, just the usual,” Alex says. Across the table, he and James trade knowing glances. And Alex realizes James won’t say a word because he’s thinking the same thing: why set them up for more disappointment? For this, Alex is grateful.
    Later, just as Alex is about to turn off his light and go to bed, James taps on the door and pokes his head in. “Hey, good luck tomorrow,” he says, and before Alex can even thank him or anything, James pulls the door shut and is gone.

    After the school bell rings and most kids clear out, Alex takes his book bag and the duffel with his jogging clothes in it to one of the bathrooms and changes in a stall. He wants to show up ready to run. Plus, he doesn’t want to change in the locker room with all the other athletes, all of them likely wondering what the hell
he
is doing there.
    Thankfully the track field isn’t crowded when Alex shows up. Most kids have gone home for the day. The track is the usual size—about 400 meters of bright red surface, recently refurbished, surrounding a field of grass. This used to be the football field, too, but two years ago they built a new one on the other side of the school campus, with stadium-size seating and custom-designed locker and weight rooms just beyond the north end zone. Football rules the roost in this city, in this state. Track is an afterthought, really. Cross-country especially, which lacks the glamour of the sprints.
    Alex sees Nathen in the grass along the track, stretching his long, toned arms toward the tips of his blue and white jogging shoes. Alex walks to him and plunks his bags on the ground. Nathen looks up from his stretch. “Hey, buddy. You ready?”
    “Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be.”
    “Here, sit next to me and stretch. Coach R will be over in a minute.”
    Coach Runyon is across the field, talking to another runner, a tall black guy Alex recognizes as Joseph Ewusi-Mensah, the star of the team. Coach Runyon is short and lean, probably in his midthirties, with receding red hair and a gaunt face.
    “You’re gonna kick some ass today,” Nathen says.
    “If you say so.” Alex is so nervous that he can barely complete a stretch. His limbs feel heavy and rubbery, and his belly feels like it wants to explode. And now he sees Coach Runyon pat Joseph on the shoulder, sending him toward the locker rooms. He starts crossing the field, heading right toward them.
    “Alex?” the