July 14, 2013
Here is another snippet from my third book aimed at the young adult, science fiction market. The previous displayed a little of the romance that flows throughout the book, the following is more along the lines of sports-action. In my book there is a sport that the girls play which is based on parkour, free running, or perhaps even the warrior dash. Enjoy.
Standing at the start line, unable to start running, I try desperately to block them out, desperately to focus.
Focus! Focus!
Everyone staring, me remembering the favelas, remembering racing through the streets, boys chasing after, they could never catch me, me always first to escape, bouncing off shanties and ranchos, dirt and rocks, as I cascaded down the crooked paths, accelerating with each twist and turn, ducking under carts and tables made of old sawhorses, bounding over old women stooped on broken concrete stairs, dodging the slow moving, weaving around children playing in the crooked streets, I sped away, faster, faster, faster.
Standing there, at the start line, the coach pleading for me to start, everyone watching, my breathing slows on its own as if I am no longer in control and suddenly my mind is clear, suddenly I can see the path, the way, my way. The vision is so clear, I can somehow see where to place each foot, each hand, twist, turn and move as if someone is pushing, pulling, controlling me as if I can see the entire course already completed in my mind.
“Let’s go girl! What’s your name? Gabriella? Let’s go!” The coach looks at his clipboard, frustrated that the evening has been such a waste of his time with only three barely making it through the course.
Suddenly, I go, full speed down the course, arms pumping.
Gomez screams, “This is going to be great!” obviously excited at my upcoming demise.
I hurdle the first obstacle easily then speed toward the second, higher one. I know I can’t hurdle this one so I dive vault it, using my arms to increase forward momentum and land in a body roll, up to my feet and still at full speed. The crowd hushes, eyes suddenly on me. The ropes and water hazard are easy enough. Finally I head toward the giant L, my heart racing faster than my feet —can I do this?
I try to imitate what the young man did, running up the side of the L, trying my best to push up instead of away, and I find myself much higher on the wall than any of the other three. My hips are above the second wall and my arms reach down as if they already know what they are doing. My hands plant themselves on the top of the wall and I swing my legs between my arms like a monkey, catapulting my body and landing several feet in front of the wall, almost overshooting the landing pad. I don’t understand what just happened but a feeling of fierce joy steals over me as I realize that this is something that I am good at, something I can do without being taught.
Running at full speed, blood pounding in my ears, I glance back to see many now standing and the coach involuntarily clutching his watch and baby stepping toward the track, in a trance, as if a hypnotist is drawing him in. I can’t believe what I just did myself, but I can’t stop.
I repeat the loop again and this time it comes more easily, naturally, as if my body is made of water, fluid. It feels wonderful.
On the third pass, I go for it; full speed. Electricity is in my veins and I can’t understand it. Hurdle, hurdle, vault, swing, swing, swing, vault, and on to the L.
I see Roberto sneering. He wants me to fall; I want to shut him up.
Placing a foot on the side wall I kick myself up, up with all my strength, arms pointed skyward, swinging my knees around and turn my body 180 degrees, tuck and over. I back flip the wall. The group in the stands stomp on the aluminum seats and scream so hard the traffic stops outside and I think the stands might break. I sprint to the finish and the coach is bent over staring at his watch saying, “No, no, no. I can’t believe it,” then mutters something to me too fast. I can’t understand his accent.
Mara runs over to me along with many of the others who give me high-fives.
“What is he saying, Mara?”
“He say ya broke sum recor’.”
Now everything is surreal.
Like a dreamy dream, I notice the little fluffy clouds and the voices are muffly.
Exotic.
The blue sky screams at me.
Foreign.
My skin is suddenly tingling, jingling, ingling as if the sweat on my shoulders is changing to needles, a liquid acupuncture. My hairs are on end and the voices are neon. “What?” I can’t believe it. I didn’t hear right.
“Is wha’ he say. I dunno bu’ wha’ ya just did, —que magnífico, que puro.” Her voice is like butter when she tries to speak Spanish and it’s hard to focus on it with so many around me hooting.
The coach is already on the phone with his finger in his other ear, bent over slightly, and glancing over to me every so often, then he hangs up and comes over saying, “I just spoke to the director of the Bahía team, he is going to find out if we can train you and, who knows, you might make the national team.”
Roberto and Gomez return with orange traffic cones they stole from the street and begin screaming through them as if they are megaphones, “Go Gabby Go! Go Gabby Go!” while a group of girls dance to samba rhythms that Salvador bangs out using two broken broom sticks and a metal trash can.
We leave the field, Mara bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet, me in a complete head-spinning daze, Mara chirping like a baby bird calling for food, proud of how great I did, me wondering how bad I just made my life, Mom’s life, wondering if we would have to move again, hide again, leave everything behind again, Mara yelling out to every passing car or person on the street, bragging to them how her friend just broke the record, even though she had no idea what record it was, me wanting to disappear, hide my face from their eyes, and sink into the earth. Mara can’t understand why I’m not excited. Today I wish I never woke up, never left home, never visited Mara, never listened to Mara’s mom, and just ran away, far, far away as soon as I laid eyes on the course.
In the dusk we pass the shanty people gathered around piles of burning wood, singing songs and talking about nothing. After climbing the steep earth steps up the side of the mountain, I leave Mara at her shanty, smiling and beaming up at me, and head for home. Dread blankets me like a wet wool sweater shrinking as it dries, pulling in tighter and tighter the closer I come to my shanty, the closer I come to having to break the news to Mom.
I sweep the shanty’s hard-packed dirt floor with a broken broom, unroll my bed mat, lie down and squeeze my eyes down tight in the black darkness.
“Gabriella, what’s wrong? Why are you so quiet?”
I stay silent for a while, listening to the wind blow through the large openings in the sheet metal then, bursting into tears, I release it all in one breath, “Mom! I screwed up bad this time!”
“Mija, Mija, what happened?”
She quickly lies next to me clutching me close as I squeal, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry Ma! I ran a race and I was so fast. too fast. I’m sorry! Everyone knows. They made phone calls. Important people want to see me! I’m so sorry! It was the boys! I just wanted to shut them up! To show them! Now they will find us! We just got here now we are going to have to hide again! And where will we go?”
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