Free Not Pretty Enough by Jaimie Admans Page B

I mean, at
the moment. I’m only a few paces around the track so far, and I have to go
round the whole thing four times, but I can probably manage it. Maybe.
    Now, to catch up with the
others.
    They’re fast. Lloyd has done one
lap already. He’s going to pass me in a minute on his second round.
    I wonder if you can take a
shortcut in a race?
    I wonder if anyone will believe
that I went so lightning fast that they didn’t see me do the first lap and this
is actually my second too.
    Wow, if anyone would believe
that I’d actually be neck and neck with Lloyd.
    “You’re supposed to run, not
walk, Chessie!” Lloyd yells as he zooms past me.
    “I’m pacing myself,” I yell
back. “Like The Tortoise and the Hare.”
    But I don’t think he heard me,
which is perhaps a good thing because I’m probably too old to be talking about
ancient fables.
    Can’t he see that I am running?
I’m actually running pretty fast for me.
    “Hey,” Laurie yells as she comes
past on her second lap. “I think you should stick to javelin in future.”
    “Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
    At least I’m trying, right?
    What does it matter if the
others have already done two hundred out of the four hundred metres and I’m on
approximately ten?
    I am going as fast as I can.
It’s not like I’m slacking off or anything.
    In fact, I think that maybe I
should suggest to Mr Hursh that the others have all been taking steroids or
something, because it cannot be natural to run
that fast.
    It just can’t.
    I hear Debs cheering for me, and
as I look over to wave at her, something awful happens.
    I trip.
    I fall down.
    Splat. Face first on the grass.
I guess I should be glad that it wasn’t concrete or something.
    God, this is embarrassing.
    I try to get up, but this
running lark has left me a bit out of breath, and I’m panting for air. I think
the fall must have winded me.
    Darren runs past me and scowls
on his way. Obviously my flailing is taking up too much of the track.
    I bet if that had been Lloyd
passing he would have stopped to help me up.
    Eventually I struggle to my
feet, and as if this race could get any worse, my shirt is completely covered
in grass stains. It’s now white and green with a definite hint of mud. How
lovely.
    “Clemenfield, move or leave!” Mr
Hursh is shouting at me.
    Well, I’m not giving up that
easy. I’m not even halfway through one lap yet and the others are on their
last.
    I run again. I’m totally out of
breath and my chest is feeling all tight. I uncap the water bottle I’ve been
carrying with me, and take a huge gulp.
    And then I choke.
    Obviously drinking and running
doesn’t mix.
    I spit water everywhere,
including down my shirt.
    I can’t breathe.
    I’m hacking and coughing and
spluttering but I can’t breathe.
    I think that mild asthma I was
diagnosed with when I was a kid has just become severe asthma.
    I’m trying to take huge gulps of
air in an attempt to get some into lungs that feel too small for my body.
    Stupid, unfit body.
    Mr Hursh blows his whistle to
signify the end of the race.
    “Clemenfield, get off the
track!” He yells angrily.
    I oblige.
    I collapse to the floor and
start crawling over to the edge of the field where Debs has come to meet me.
    Mr Hursh blows his whistle again
and the winner of the race is announced.
    It’s Lloyd.
    Of course it is.
    As if we ever thought it would
be anyone different.
    In fact, I’m beginning to think
that all the things Lloyd said to us earlier were just a load of crap to get
his ego stroked.
    He was in the lead the whole
way. Even Darren didn’t come close, but that might be because he was too busy
glaring at me.
    “Jeez, are you okay?” Debs asks
worriedly as she helps me to my feet.
    “Fine,” I pant. “Just let me sit
down for about three years.”
    I hobble along behind her and
sit back down at our spot on the grassy bank.
    “Remind me never to enter a
race,” Ewan says. “Are you okay?”
    “Fine,” I mutter, heat flaring