Seconds Read online

  Seconds

  Seconds

  SYLVIA TAEKEMA

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Text copyright © 2013 Sylvia Taekema

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be

  invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Taekema, Sylvia, 1964-

  Seconds [electronic resource] / Sylvia Taekema.

  (Orca young readers)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0404-3 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0405-0 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca young readers (Online)

  PS8639.A25S43 2013 jC813'.6 C2013-901905-7

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935377

  Summary: Jake is a dedicated young runner who is fed up with always getting second place.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs

  provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the

  Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of

  British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover artwork by René Milot

  Author photo by Denise Blommestyn

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For Mark

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Jake hated every minute of it. The tension of those few seconds before the gun went off. The elbows that jabbed into his ribs as he jockeyed for a good position. The way the long grass pulled at him, branches grabbed at him, mud sucked at his shoes and sprayed up around him. The way his chest hurt and his head pounded. The way the muscles in his legs screamed at him to quit. The agony of the hills, the monotony of the long straight stretches, the pain of stubbing his toes or rolling an ankle on stones or stumps. The icy water of the swollen creek that was too wide to jump over cleanly, which seeped into his socks and pooled in the bottom of his shoes, making them squish with every step. He hated running, but he wasn’t going to quit. He was going to beat Spencer Solomon today no matter what. Spencer had won the first city race last time out, but only because Jake hadn’t been ready. He had been new to the course and the league and hadn’t known what to expect. Not this time.

  His breathing grew more ragged as he pushed harder, and spit clung to his chin. He was closing the gap, but Spencer still had five meters on him. Three. Now two. And only three hundred meters to the finish. Time. To. Go. Jake willed himself to maintain the brutal pace for just a little longer. He knew he could catch Spencer as they tackled the last hill. Stay with him, he thought. Just stay—but Spencer took off in a sprint. How did he do that? Jake gritted his teeth through the mud kicked up by Spencer’s spikes. Run. Run. He battled up the hill and pushed across the line. Sucking in great gulps of air, he ripped his racing number away from the pins, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the ground. He lifted his shirt and wiped the mud from his face. Second. Again.

  Jake walked around for a bit, until his breathing had slowed and he’d calmed down. Next time. He’d get past Spencer next time. He went over the course in his head. He could probably shave a few seconds off his time on the flat stretches, but what he really needed to do was find a way to get up the hills more quickly. He made his way back toward the bike racks to grab the water bottle and the sweatshirt he’d left in a backpack slung over his bike handle. He almost tripped over some kid sitting on the curb changing his shoes.

  “Hey, Jake.”

  Jake regained his balance, straightened up and turned. “Simon?”

  Simon Patterson. They used to be neighbors. He and Simon had done all kinds of stuff together, from Lego to video games. Simon had had a great tree house. They’d spent hours there—even tried spending the night in it once but were scared out by an owl. They had built massive Tinkertoy robots in Simon’s basement and had some great movie nights at Jake’s. They’d throw new pizza ideas at Jake’s dad, and he’d cook up a masterpiece every time. Some were great, like the triple-cheese-goo experiment. Some were weird, like the one with the marshmallows.

  Then Jake had moved across town, about two and a half years ago now. His dad had wanted a house with a workshop. Simon came over to the new place a couple of times. This was at the height of Jake’s hockey craze. Jake watched all the games, knew all the teams and most of the players, and bought all the cards. He wanted to play, but the equipment was expensive and the practice schedule was too hard to fit in. Running was easier that way. Simon hadn’t loved hockey the way Jake had. Although Jake still liked to watch the games on TV with his dad, he wasn’t a hockey nut anymore. He probably hadn’t seen Simon in over a year. He remembered him as kind of tubby and klutzy. Always ready with a funny line. Wore glasses and Spiderman shirts. He’d loved Spiderman.

  “Simon! Long time no see! What are you doing here?”

  Simon looked up. Same curly blond hair. Glasses. Red T-shirt. “Running.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t take you for a runner. No offense.”

  Simon laughed. “That’s okay. I didn’t either. I started because my mom made me. It’s not a complicated sport, she said. I think she meant you don’t have to be coordinated to do this sport.” He laughed again. “But now, I like it.”

  “Yeah? What place did you get?”

  “Thirty-sixth.”

  Thirty-sixth? Yikes. What was there to like about being thirty-sixth? thought Jake.

  “Last week I was fortieth. So thirty-sixth is okay. I felt good today.”

  Well, there’s your problem, thought Jake. If you’re running hard, hard enough to be up front and not back at thirty-sixth, you don’t feel good. You feel like garbage. Like I do now.

  “How did you do?” asked Simon.

  Jake scowled. “Second.”

  “Second? That’s amazing. You always were good at running.”

  Not good enough, thought Jake, feeling the anger return. “Yeah, well, it’s only because the guy in first cut me off.”

  “That stinks,” said Simon.

  “Look at me,” said Jake. “Thanks to Spencer Solomon, I’m covered in mud.”

  “The course sure is muddy today. Pigs could wallow in some parts. Spencer won? Are you sure he cut you off?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve never seen him do anything like that.”

  How would you know? thought Jake. You probably couldn’t see much of anything from back where you were. “That’s how it looked to me,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  The next Tuesday afternoon, another hundred or so runners, including Jake and Spencer, were back on the course. It was the third race of
six scheduled runs before the championship, and Spencer was well in front. The previous year, when Jake had run for his school team, he had won every race easily. His coach had told him he should run in the city-league races. Said he had a good chance of winning. Right.

  Jake was angry. His chest was burning. His legs felt like lead. What was he doing wrong? He was eating right, drinking lots. He was running every morning at six, almost twice the distance of the course, and it wasn’t helping him at all. He watched Spencer’s bright-green shoes disappear over a ridge. Dig deep, Jake told himself. Dig deep. But it wasn’t enough. The bridge, the hill, the finish. He crossed the line in second place. He saw Spencer off to the left, walking in slow circles with his hands on his hips. A strange feeling began to bubble up inside Jake’s chest.

  “Good run,” said the official at the line.

  Jake nodded. Then he blurted out, “That guy with the green shoes? He pushed me. Almost knocked me right off the course. Cost me a lot of time.”

  Jake was almost as surprised by his words as the official was. “The first-place guy? Pushing?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “That’s a serious charge, son.” He looked Jake straight in the eye. Jake met his gaze for a few seconds, then put his head down, hands on his knees, and tried to slow his breathing. He was winded.

  “I’ll look into it. Whereabouts on the course?”

  “Ah, not sure,” Jake said. “About three quarters of the way maybe?” He looked up again. “Never mind. The race is done. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “No, no. We take these things seriously. Stick around. I’ll get back to you.”

  Jake still felt strange as he went to get his gear. He might have pushed it a little far today.

  “Hey, Jake.” Simon was sitting on the curb again, changing his shoes.

  “Simon.”

  “How’d you do today?”

  Jake held up two fingers. “You?”

  “Thirty-three, that’s me.” Simon beamed.

  Jake sat down beside Simon. He nodded absently. “I’m pretty sure I could come in first if I had fancy spikes like Spencer’s. I wanted shoes like that, but my dad wouldn’t buy them for me. He says they’re too expensive and I’ll just outgrow them.”

  “That’s probably true,” said Simon. “Your spikes don’t look too bad, just experienced.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not fair. Those new shoes give Spencer a big advantage.”

  “They sure look cool,” Simon agreed. He waited. “Maybe Spencer’s just fast, Jake.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “I didn’t say that. Second place is no disgrace. I don’t mind that he got new shoes.” Simon smiled.

  “He gave me his old ones. I used to just wear my running shoes, but spikes make a big difference.” Simon held up the underside of one shoe and laughed. “If you get my point.”

  Jake didn’t. “You asked him for his shoes?”

  “No. He offered them to me. They didn’t fit him anymore, and they fit me pretty good so…”

  “So you took them?” Jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Well, he wasn’t going to use them anymore. I thought it was a nice thing to do.”

  Jake shook his head. “Simon, can’t you see what he’s doing?”

  “Being a nice guy?”

  “No, man! He’s putting you down, Simon. He’s showing you you’re not as good as him.”

  “I’m not as good as him!”

  “Well, I am,” muttered Jake. “And next week, he’ll know it.”

  The official Jake had spoken to after the race came over. Jake sighed. He wished he hadn’t said anything. He looked up.

  “I talked to the other runner, son. Says he didn’t do any pushing.”

  “I figured he’d say that,” said Jake.

  “Right. So I talked to my course monitors,” said the official. “They say they didn’t see anybody doing any pushing.” He paused briefly before going on. “In fact, they say they never saw you and the other fellow close enough to each other for any pushing to be going on.” He waited.

  Jake didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what had come over him to make him say he’d been pushed, except that for a moment it had seemed a good way to push Spencer out of first place. “I—I guess it’s hard to see everything,” replied Jake sheepishly.

  The official frowned, then nodded. “You can be sure we’ll keep watching things closely.” He walked away. Jake walked the other way, toward his bike. He could feel Simon looking at him, but he didn’t look back.

  As he knelt to unlock his bike, Jake heard footsteps on the gravel and glanced up.

  “Dad?”

  “Hey, Jake. Good race?”

  “It was okay, I guess. Uh, I thought I told you and Mom you didn’t have to come to the runs.”

  “You did.” His dad smiled. His eyes were twinkling.

  “Not a lot of people usually come out. Runners need to focus on the race, without any distractions.”

  His dad watched the steady stream of cars pulling out onto the road. “Looks like a lot of people came out today.” He smiled again. “You want a ride?”

  “I have my bike.”

  “Right. I’ll see you at home then.”

  Jake finished unlocking his bike. It was true. He’d read more than once how a serious runner could not let anything break his concentration. Still, he felt a little sad as he heard his dad walk away.

  Chapter Three

  “Jake!”

  Jake heard his mother calling him, but he was in the middle of a workout in the basement and didn’t feel like stopping. He couldn’t be in trouble. He’d taken out the garbage and fed the cats. Maybe she didn’t really need him and if he just waited, she would forget she’d called. Or maybe she’d call his older brother, Luke, instead. He just listened to music all day and fooled around on his guitar. Hopefully his mom would remember Luke was home too.

  “Jake!” she hollered again. Guess not.

  Jake grabbed a towel and made his way up the stairs.

  His mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by grocery bags. The freezer door hung open, and she was holding the fridge door open with her toe. She balanced in front of it with a head of lettuce in one hand and a bag of frozen peas in the other.

  “Yes?”

  She turned to look at him. “Jake, what is all this?”

  “Oh. Yeah. My water bottles. I need to be ready for training and races. And I made ice cubes out of my sports drinks so I can just drop them into the cold water. Sports drinks are good, but they’re better diluted, so I thought up the ice-cube idea.”

  “Uh-huh. Clever. And this?” She tilted her head toward the wall of green jars in the fridge.

  “Ah.” Jake’s eyes lit up. “The secret ingredient to running success. Pickles.”

  “Pickles are the key to running success?”

  “Yes. I’ve read all about it, Mom. Pickle power. Pre-race days, you eat pickles. On race day itself, you just do the juice.”

  “You drink it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Pickle juice?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I know, but they say that pickle juice is very effective in preventing cramps.”

  “Uh-huh. Who knew? But where am I supposed to put my groceries?”

  Jake shrugged. “You could buy another fridge,” he suggested with half a smile.

  His mother laughed. “How about you store one jar of pickles, one or two bottles of water and one tray of supercubes at a time, instead of a three-year supply? And keep the rest in the basement?”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “I guess.” He sighed. “But then I’ll constantly have to monitor the inventory.”

  Now his mother rolled her eyes. “You sound like one of those magazine articles you’re always reading.” She put on a serious face and deepened her voice. “I’ll help you keep tabs on it and let you know when you need to replenish you
r stock.” Then she smiled and tossed him the lettuce. “Deal?”

  Jake caught it and grinned. “Okay. Deal. Did you buy granola bars?”

  “Again? I thought I bought a jumbo box last week.”

  “They’re gone. And so are the bananas. I need to have lots of bananas.”

  “I see. Jake, it’s not the Olympics, you know. Are you sure you’re not taking this running stuff a bit too seriously?”

  “No. If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Isn’t that what you and Dad always say? This is important stuff, Mom. It’s a science. Would you like it better if I was eating junk food?”

  “No.” She smiled and messed up his hair. “No, I would not. I’ll get you those bananas, as long as you remember that a little monkey business now and then is okay.”

  “Can I go back downstairs now? I was in the middle of a workout.”

  “Sure, but help me unpack these bags first.”

  “Aww, Mom.”

  “Consider it part of your workout, mister.”

  Jake tucked a jar of peanut butter under his arm and grabbed two loaves of bread. “Hey, Mom,” he said as he made his way over to the cupboard to put them away. “Guess who’s running in the city league?”

  “Who?” she asked, kneeling in front of the fridge taking pickle jars out.

  “Simon Patterson.”

  “Simon? Really? How’s he doing? You boys haven’t seen each other for ages. Why don’t you invite him over sometime?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Simon seems like a bit of a…” Jake paused. The word loser was on the tip of his tongue.

  His mother turned. “A what?”

  “Nothing. It’s just been a long time, that’s all.”

  Chapter Four

  This was it. Jake felt it. Today he was going to win. Everyone was gathered at the starting line. There were a lot of runners out today, but he was only interested in one. And there he was, about three meters down the line. Chatting it up with the guys beside him. Mr. Green Spikes himself. “You’re going down today,” whispered Jake. “Somebody’s going down, and it isn’t going to be me.” It made Jake feel kind of bad when he said this, but it made him feel tough too, and he knew he’d have to be tough out there.