UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,14
a distance runner, because she knows how to pace herself for the long haul. It’s the way she lives her life. The way she survives. “Slow and steady wins the race,” the old adage goes. But Brooklyn is never expected to win, just to show. For her it’s “slow and steady takes third place.” That’s always been good enough to keep her whole. At least until now. Right now she’s made the cut on the headmaster’s list—but she’s still too close for comfort.
She pushes hard through the push-ups, but with sixty-three, only takes fourth place. Even though she about splits her gut, her fifty-nine sit-ups only get her a fifth place. Then, while glaring at the scoreboard, she catches sight of Risa in the stands with her usual pack of friends
What is Piano Girl doing here? Why isn’t she practicing for her own testing this afternoon?
Risa laughs at something her friends say, and hot shame courses through Brooklyn. Is she talking about her? Making fun of her? Did she see that Brooklyn only made fourth and fifth rankings?
As if Risa could feel Brooklyn staring at her across the field, she meets her angry look. But then, that far away, she wouldn’t be able to see the expression on Brooklyn’s face. Brooklyn tries to put Piano Girl out of her mind, but now she’s wedged in like a song you can’t stop playing in your head. A distraction that Brooklyn definitely doesn’t need.
As they line up on the track for the two-mile run, she sees the major staring at her from the stands as well. She meets his gaze for a moment, before leaning in to the starting stance. Nervously she checks the light on the transponder clipped to her belt. Still showing green, still streaming biometrics. At the sarge’s whistle, she leaps forward.
On the first lap she’s last in the pack. She fights her desire to glance into the stands, where the major—and Risa—will be watching. Beginning in last doesn’t matter; all that matters is where you finish.
On the second lap, halfway through the two-mile run, a good portion of her squad is flagging. She passes one, then two of her teammates.
She finishes the third lap in the middle of the runners. Then, in the last lap, she kicks into high gear. She catches up to Logan, who’s not doing well. Beet red and sucking air like a beached walrus, he weaves as he runs. Sweat pours off him. He doesn’t notice when she passes him.
Then Risa intrudes on her thoughts again, and it infuriates Brooklyn—but she realizes it’s a fury she can use. She will not allow Miss Perfect to see Brooklyn be an also-ran in this race.
Brooklyn powers past the next three in her squad. Now there are only two more in front of her. When she reaches Kip, he shoots her an astonished look. Then his jaw clenches. They run side by side, Kip straining as much as she is, refusing to be bested by a girl. And then a miracle. Kip goes down! Almost shaken by her good luck, she crosses the finish line just four strides behind the boy in the number one spot.
Second. She placed second in her squad! She immediately looks for Risa in the stands, but her eyes are bleary, and she can’t find her. Did she leave? Did she not see her place second? Trying to catch her breath, Brooklyn manages a smile at Logan, who almost fells her with his congratulatory shoulder slug. She peers over his shoulder to look for the major, but he also seems to have disappeared.
“Fifteen minutes,” Logan crows. “You did it in fifteen minutes!”
“And four seconds.” She tries to act casual, but she can’t help smiling big. It’s her new personal best, and she’s sorry that she’s missing Thor’s reaction to the streamed data back at the StaHo complex.
That’s when she sees Kip and the sarge huddled on the grass in the center of the track. Sarge looks unhappy, and Kip’s clutching his ankle. So what? Toughen up, dude. Competition sharpens a soldier. Pain makes you stronger.
The shooting range is a long trek, at the very edge of the StaHo grounds, nearly half a mile away. She heads toward it with the rest of her squad. Thirsty, she inhales a third of her canteen and then pours a third over her head. It feels good dribbling down her neck.
She doesn’t notice the clot of boeufs in front of her slowing down or the ones behind