Skull of the Zipa PREVIEW CHAPTERS - Chuck Chitwood (good books to read for women .txt) 📗

Oh, was she ever mad. And why was she so mad? Because the greatest guy in school, her former boyfriend, was asking me to the prom – no gimmicks or cutesy stuff, just a straightforward question and no doubt expecting my reply to be Yes.

I remember seriously thinking about whether or not I should jump up and down and shout abso-freakin-lutely! But, no. I decided to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, as I refused to reek of desperation I said, “Sure, it sounds like it could be fun. But we need agree upfront that it’s a friend sort of thing . . . after all, I wouldn’t want to make anybody angry.” I nodded in Courtney’s direction.

“Courtney? Forget her. She’s always angry. But if that’s the way you want to do it. Sure. No strings. It’ll be just a couple of friends having a nice dinner and doing a little dancing.” He leaned against the field house and tilted his head.

Still playing it cool, I went to lean against the field house but stupid me I underestimated how close I was to the wall. “Exac—whoa!” Misjudging the distance by half a foot, I fell bumping the side of my head on the cinder block wall. Chance grabbed me, steadying me. His strong hands gripped my shoulders to keep me from falling down completely.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little nervous about the race I guess. I’ll talk to you on Monday about it some more. Uh, sorry, I’ve got to bolt now or coach will ream me out.” I turned to head back to my friends, staring heavenward hoping Chance would think of my stumble as ‘cute’ instead of ‘totally klutzy’.

“No problem. Lots of luck, Haddie.”

“Thanks.”

I walked back to Stacey and Morgan and saw that Courtney, the cheer demon, had left the vicinity. Maybe she knew she’d totally lost any chance with Chance and she was now dateless for the prom. I couldn’t help but snicker and think, Good riddance.

We watched our fellow Providence High Minutemen Track Team members compete in a few events until it was Stacey’s turn. Stacey anchored the 400-meter relay. I felt bad for her because the two middle links were weak. I thought she would never have a chance at a gold medal and there was nothing she could do about it. But Morgan and I weren’t going to do anything but shout and scream for her. Going into the final hand-off of the baton, Stacey was a good twenty meters behind. Then it was like Stacey decided to kick it into overdrive because she closed the gap and came in second by only three steps. She medaled! Everyone was thrilled for the relay team because second in the whole state is nothing to sneeze at. But Morgan and I were ecstatic for Stacey because she was the one who really won that race.

Then it was my turn. My race. I did a group high-five with my girls before I headed to lane three. 

Showtime. I stretched a few more times as the freshmen boys’ team set up the hurdles on the track. I hoped the little red-haired guy in my lane knew what he’s doing. But seeing him struggle trying to carry the hurdles for my lane didn’t leave me feeling confident. Just line them up on the marks, genius.

I looked into the stands and spotted my father in the front row. My dad; ever the professor. He never missed a race even if he had to cancel his class, which I’m sure his students didn’t mind one bit. As a tenured archaeology professor and the author of a dozen best-selling books, the university let him do pretty much anything he wanted. Heck, he could probably cancel class all semester or show up in footy pajamas and his boss, Dr. Julian Waters, the dean of his department, wouldn’t say a thing to him. Apparently, higher education has its own rock stars, but it’s a little like being “king of the nerds” as my dad would say.

My dad my looked stiff in the stands but at least, he wasn’t like Stacey’s dad who was wearing a T-shirt with her picture screen-printed on it and stretched out over his ample stomach. No. My dad just sat there like a nerd in his glasses and sport jacket. His blue eyes, the only thing I inherited from him, sparkled as he looked at me. Funny, when I think of all those nasty looks people give me in the airports, I do get a thrill out of looking up at them with my big blue eyes.

Why do people do that? Why do they think it’s okay to judge someone just because their skin is darker, no matter what shade of dark it might be? If I was more like my mother, I’d go straight up to those people and smile just like she would have and then something like, “Is there something I can help you with? You seem interested in me. Is it my shirt? I got it at the mall. Or maybe it’s my shoes?”

My mom always did that sort of thing. She called it ‘Socratic Confrontation’. She approached people with questions that forced them to answer one of two ways, politely and apologetically or they would be dumbstruck and not be able to answer. In that instant, standing at the blocks staring at my dad I thought of how rough the past two years must have been for him sitting there in the stands watching me without her by his side. Both our lives changed in an instant because some idiot swerved into her lane. She’d gone out to get some ice cream for dessert and never came back. And just like that—she was gone.

My life was never the same again. I thought I would never be happy again. But after two years, there have been moments of happiness like winning my races because I could hear her in my head urging me forward. Of course, I felt pretty happy when Chance asked me out. And looking in my father’s blue eyes, made me happy, too. They’ve always inspired me and make me feel safe. His eyes and the memory of my mother’s never give up, never give in attitude remind me I can do anything I set my mind to.

I checked my laces and placed my feet in the starting blocks. My final race as a high school student lay before me. Then that weird thing happened. It always happens when I race. All the sounds, the cheers and yelling . . . all the noise dies away. Things move in slow motion. My vision narrows on the lane. I don’t notice the competitors beside me because I stopped racing against them a couple of years ago. Now, I race against myself because of something my father instilled in me.

Unlike my mother who was always doing triathlons and raising money for the National MS Society, my father has been more of a spectator than an athlete. But he’s incredibly smart and says things like: The race is against yourself. Focus on the goal, not on others. Do your best and everything else will fall into place. I ignored his advice for a while, but not long after my mom died and I came in second place in a qualifying heat, when I should have won the race. I decided to try things his way.

At the next heat, I blocked out my competition like he said. I focused on his words. Okay Haddie, this race is against myself. I have to focus on the goal, not on others. And I heard my mom’s voice telling me to never give up, never give in and . . . I won. In fact, I blew away the competition. And that was the day I started winning for me because looking around to see where my competitors were cost me valuable time. From that day on, I never looked back.

The starter’s pistol fired. I blazed out of the block easily five meters in front of the other seven lanes. Nobody entered my peripheral vision. The first hurdle approached and looked really small. I remembered how tall the hurdles appeared four years ago when I was a freshman. I glided over the first one. Picturing myself in my mind, I was perfect. My strong leg extended straight as a board, toe pointed. My off-leg bent exquisitely behind me. Exhaling as I landed, my vision locked on the next hurdle. One down, nine to go. Forty yards to the next one.

Then something happened. As I cleared the second hurdle, my left foot grazed the top of the bar. My knee buckled and I landed hard on the track. Pain shot through my knee down to my ankle but I rolled and jumped straight up. Beth from Westwood caught up to me in lane five. I felt blood trickle down my leg but I kept running. Trying to block out the noise, I looked at the third hurdle. I clipped it, too. My leg buckled again only I didn’t fall. 

What’s going on? I haven’t hit a hurdle in years. My heart started beating faster as the runners in lanes one and two passed me.

My father’s voice echoed in my head. Focus. I glanced to the sidelines and noticed Courtney and her minions laughing and pointing at my stumble. I heard their laughs and the gasps from the crowd. I tried to force them out of my head. You can do this. Just get to the next hurdle. I narrowed my gaze on the obstacle ahead of me and that’s when I noticed something wrong with the hurdle. It was…uneven. That’s weird.

Quickly glancing at the base of the upcoming hurdle I saw a rock wedged under the right leg of the hurdle. So, when I got to it, I jumped a little harder and a little higher to clear it. On the back straight away, I picked up speed. I looked at the base of the next hurdle and saw that it was flat and I cleared it without any issues. But the next hurdle had rock under it, too.

My mind raced to figure out what was going on and then I realized what was up. That little red-haired jerk sabotaged me. Anger shot through me, giving me a burst of energy. It was a good thing, too because it took every ounce of energy I had to add an extra stutter step, throwing off my stride, to regain my rhythm just so I could add two inches to every jump. But I did it.

Heading for the last hurdle, I was neck-and-neck with lanes one and two, but Beth was three steps in front of all of us in lane five. Lucky for me though, Beth started celebrating in her mind too soon and was running out of steam. When I saw this, I tapped into something deep inside and accelerated. I ignored the pain in my knee and dug in for the final sprint.

The New Providence students screamed as I broke the tape just ahead of Beth. I was wiped out, but the last thing I wanted to do was fall down flat on my back because it makes you look weak. I told myself, Do not collapse, Haddie. Do not! Be cool. Be cool.

I walked over to Beth to shake her hand even though she was leaning over and holding her knees as she gasped for breath. After our handshake, she fell to the ground and I stood up straight, smiling to the cheering fans in the stands even though my legs were shaky and my knee hurt badly. I just kept walking as if I were fit as a fiddle.

I gave a wave to my dad. He smiled, like usual. He never jumped up or shouted. He simply nodded his head. Staying in control is another lesson my father taught me. He told me, ‘Even if you feel like