Mrs. Brown in particular doesn’t talk much, but when she does it’s usually something judgmental like “Get a haircut!” She’s best friends with Ms. Bea—in fact, all of the Oldies are pretty tight. Unless they’re at work or just stepping out quickly, they usually travel in packs, and despite being liked enough by people around town, they never have visitors. Well, except Grandma Jane that one time . . . I make a mental note to ask her for details the next time I see her—maybe tonight at dinner.
I wonder if Grandma Jane has any of her own ideas about the Oldies. Whenever Dad and I used to talk about it, she didn’t chime in.
My mind runs through all of the theories I’ve spent hours researching online, from ghosts, to aliens, to day vampires.
But on the other hand, what if Mike’s right? What if there’s a simple explanation for all of this?
Maybe I was just really tired this morning and my eyes didn’t see what they thought they saw. Maybe Mr. Brown wasn’t really going that fast, maybe it just seemed that way because Mike and I were so busy fooling around and not going our usual speed. Maybe I got the scar wrong. Maybe there was no scar.
Or maybe it’s all real.
Mike’s theory about the Oldies’ surgeries can’t explain how Mr. Brown is suddenly able to sprint, when just last week he could barely walk. It also doesn’t explain why he now has legs identical to my father’s. And what about Ms. Bea and her ageless face—bandaged one day, fresh the next?
I bet if I sat here long enough, I could think of strange things about all the other Oldies, like how Ms. Attwood seems taller than a month ago, and how Dr. Smith is able to move large boxes every Saturday from his car to his garage. And why doesn’t anyone seem to know how old they all are? How did they all come to live on the same street?
I start to bounce in my chair: I want to talk to Mike, to recap what we saw this morning, but the only class we have together is science. Today, Mrs. Carey shows us a documentary about the human body, so we aren’t able to properly speak until after school at track practice.
“I have to talk to you,” I whisper on the field. I make pointed eyes toward my shoelace, and as I bend down to retie it, Mike takes a large step away from his circle of friends, before bending down and pretending to tie his own shoe.
“What’s up, Parker?”
“Are we being ridiculous?” I whisper.
“You might be. I know I’m not.”
“Seriously,” I urge. “Did we really see what we thought we saw? Was Mr. Brown really sprinting?”
Mike’s face turns serious. “He was most definitely sprinting. Come on, Parker. You know something is up. We just have to find out what. My money’s still on some type of experimental old people’s surgery . . .”
Before I can reply, Coach barks at us: “Parker! Warren! Get back to your teams. It doesn’t take that long to tie a shoe, for crying out loud.”
We both jump up at the same time, bonking our heads together in the process.
“Ow!”
“Ugh!”
“You need to look out—”
“That was your fault—”
“Parker! Warren! Quit clowning around and get moving!” Coach hollers.
Mike and I exchange looks before rejoining the action.
Coach immediately pairs Jess and me together. She’s the best one on the team. She’s the reason I get up early every morning and run before school on drill days. As much as I like her, I still want to beat her, and I know we’re both trying out for team captain next year. We’re cool and everything, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends. I think we’re too competitive for that.
“Now listen,” Coach explains, “I want to time you girls for the one-hundred-yard dash.”
Ugh! I hate sprinting, and my legs still feel wobbly from this morning. “But, Coach, I thought it was a drill practice now,” I say, my tone much more whiny than I intend.
Coach frowns at me. “What’s that, Quinn? Are you saying you can’t? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“No, Coach. I can.” Coach has this rule that anyone who says “I can’t” has to drop and do an unspecified number of push-ups right here on the track.
A drop of sweat trickles down my nose. He narrows his bushy eyebrows and nods. “That’s what I thought. Now get yourselves ready, I’ll give you the signal.”
I see Jess stiffen beside me before we march down to take our places.
“Ladies, take your marks.”
Jess and I set ourselves up on the starting blocks. I make a conscious effort to control my breathing, to concentrate, to ignore the cheers from our teammates looking on. I pretend I don’t hear Mike’s voice ring out and call my name.
“Set. Go!”
We dash into a wall of heat—and for about two strides I’m actually in front of Jess! I can do this, I think. I can beat her. And within a blink, I am blinded by my own sweat—I feel it stinging my eyes and choking my throat, and the next thing I see are Jess’s calves pounding down in front of me. I’m reminded of Mr. Brown. I’m reminded of my father, of the familiar Florida-shaped scar that I used to stare at each morning that we ran together as I followed behind him down Goodie Lane. Get it together, Quinn, I tell myself. But it’s no use—it feels like I’m running on a treadmill, going nowhere. I push, and push, and fall farther and farther behind.
And then it’s over. I spin onto the ground. Jess and Coach lean over me.
“You OK, kid?” Coach asks, concerned. His face looks like a black circle, a blind spot from the beaming sun behind him. “Quinn?”
The dizziness sets in. I’m floating. I’m on a boat. I’m on a cruise. I’m anywhere but here.
Someone puts a bottle of water in my hand and instinctively I chug. Mom’s words ring in my ears: We’ve had a handful of cases of dehydration at the hospital because the kids just didn’t drink enough water. I chug some more while Coach coaxes me to take deep breaths. “I’ve never seen her like this,” I hear him say.
I hear the assistant coach’s voice ask if they need to call the nurse. Or an ambulance.
At this I wave my hands. “I’m fine.”
“Quinn.”
Their faces come back into view. Coach, the assistant coach, Kaylee, and Jess are huddled around me, with all of my teammates looking on from safe distances.
“Is she OK, Coach?” Mike asks, stepping forward.
“She will be,” Coach says. “Mike, take her home, but not until you stop at the nurse’s office and get the all clear.”
Mike nods and pulls me to my feet. “Come on, Parker. Time to go.”
Still dizzy, I lean on him for support during the walk up the hill, ignoring the chorus of oohs and ahhs from our teammates.
“Sorry,” I mumble when we reach the building, afraid to meet his eyes.
“Too hot to run anyway,” he says. “Let’s go see the nurse and get you home.”
“This is overkill. I just need some water.”
“So drink it in the nurse’s office. I’m not about to get yelled at by Coach for not taking you.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I let him lead me down to Mrs. Rushall’s office, where we sit in ice-cold air-conditioning for twenty minutes, drinking water and sharing orange slices while Mrs. Rushall checks my vitals and deems me fit to walk home with Mike, but only after she calls my mom and the two of them have a forever conversation about the importance of hydration.