A Time to Run Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Lorna Schultz Nicholson

  EPub edition copyright © 2018 by Lorna Schultz Nicholson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Clockwise Press Inc., 201 Taylor Mills Drive North, Richmond Hill, Ontario, L4C 2T5

  By purchasing this e-book you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any unauthorized information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Clockwise Press Inc.

  Published by Clockwise Press Inc., 56 Aurora Heights Drive, Aurora L4G 2W7

  [email protected] [email protected]

  www.clockwisepress.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  A Time to Run: Stuart and Sam (A One-2-One Book) ISBN 978-1-988347-09-7 (Paperback) Data available on file

  eISBN 978-1-988347-10-3

  Data available on file

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

  A Time to Run: Stuart and Sam (A One-2-One Book)

  ISBN 978-1-988347-09-7 (Paperback)

  Data available on file

  Cover design concept by Tanya Montini

  Interior design by CommTech Unlimited

  Printed in Canada by Webcom

  Author's Note

  The Best Buddies is a real program that operates in schools, including colleges, all over the world. Students with intellectual disabilities, including people with autism, pair up with volunteer peer "Buddies." They meet together, one-to-one, at least once a month to engage in fun, social interactions. They also participate in group activities. That said, this is a work of fiction. Stuart and Sam are fictional characters and I made them up. I also made up where they live, their high school, their families and all their situations. Yes, I did a tremendous amount of research so I could write this novel but, in the end, it is a work of fiction. This fiction is pleasure reading. So, please, enjoy!

  This book is dedicated to the Rossi clan.

  - L.S.N.

  CHAPTER ONE STUART

  My body vibrated. The cheerleaders bounced up and down on their toes and waved their blue-and-white pom-poms. The noise in the gym sounded like a booming bass drum and I liked it. I watched the cheerleaders as they dropped their pom-poms and ran to do cartwheels and flips. My job was to stay quiet on the bench, and give out towels and water bottles.

  More cartwheels. More cheering. More buzzing. The gym was like a video game on high speed, so many colours, all moving and spinning and changing. Our school, Sir Winston Churchill, was playing in the city finals against Woodland School. HUGE basketball game. My Best Buddy, Sam, was the team captain and one of the best scorers because he could run fast. I needed to run or do something. Right now!

  One of the cheerleaders did a back flip. I jumped up off the bench, stuck my hands up, ran forward, and did a front flip too, something I'd learned to do on the trampoline ages ago.

  When I landed, I felt a tug on my shirt. "Don't do that," whispered Cassandra, the team trainer. She tried to pull me back to the bench.

  But I wanted to do another flip. I stuck my arms in the air.

  "You're not a cheerleader," she said, still whispering, and tugged on my shirt. "You're the team manager. Sit on the bench."

  "I'm not the team manager," I said. But I liked being called the team manager better than the water boy so I sat down. Water boy sounded totally lame. Team manager sounded cool.

  Cassandra leaned over. "I like the stars you put on the water bottles."

  I looked down at the green water bottles I had filled up. At first, I had just put a star on Sam's but then he had told me to put a star on every bottle. He said a team is a team. Before every practice, we pumped our fists together and he said we were a team, meaning him and me, and I liked that because it meant I had a friend. Kids don't really like me. My mom says that's okay, that not everyone will like me. I guess I don't care that no one likes me, but then sometimes I do care. A lot.

  The cheerleaders kept jumping and cheering and they got the crowd going. The noise made my body jittery. Metal music does the same thing. Now, at home, I have to sneak into Declan's room if I want to listen to anything heavy. Declan is my biological brother. The noise in the gym got louder and louder and I stood and yelled along with everyone.

  Go Greyhounds, go!

  Go Greyhounds, go!

  There was no way I could be banned from the gym. Well, okay, I could. But not for cheering for the basketball team. I could be as loud as I bloody well wanted. The cheerleaders danced and flipped around and then…the real song came on. "We Are the Champions" by Queen. During playoffs, they play this song when the basketball team runs onto the court just before the start of the game.

  The cheerleaders moved to the side and I watched as the other team came out first and their fans cheered. A yellow bus full of kids from the other school had come to watch the game. I booed. Cassandra pulled on my shirt and told me to be quiet. I booed again.

  Then our team came flying out and the crowd revved up totally. I felt fueled, like I'd just had a Red Bull. This time Cassandra didn't say anything to me.

  Both teams warmed up by taking shots on net. Basketballs bounced on the wooden floor. Then the buzzer blew and all the players came over to the bench and that's when I started handing them each a water bottle, the one with their name on it. Now, only the referees were on the court. They stood in front of the table where the scorekeepers sat. After getting their bottles, the players gave me a high-five, but only Sam gave me a high-five and a wink.

  An announcer came on and we had to stand to listen to "O Canada." Booooring. I wished it was rap instead.

  Once the song was over the announcer spoke again and said the names of the players who would start the game. When Sam's name was announced I clapped so hard my hands hurt. He ran onto the court and took his place in the middle circle. He told me that he didn't take the jump ball because he wasn't the tallest, but Cecil did because he was almost as tall as a door and skinny like a string. His black dreadlocks were so cool.

  The starting lineup crouched around the centre circle. The gym went silent. The whistle blew, the ref threw the ball, and the players ran, and I could hear feet on the floor and a basketball bouncing. Sam was the one bouncing the ball and running down the court with it. Coach Nelson liked him taking the ball down the court—called him the guard man—because he was the best passer on the team. He was good at setting up the play.

  Sam slowed down and they set up. The ball went from player to player like a video clip. Boom. Boom. Boom. My eyes followed the ball, just like when I played video games. Back and forth. Back and forth. I watched the ball. Sometimes Sam and I played 21 together. He told me to always watch the ball. Then Sam got the ball, jumped, and swooshed it through the net. I stood, cupped my hands around my mouth, and screamed!

  The crowd screamed and my heart pounded against my skin.

  The players ran down the court again, this time the other way. But then Sam just grabbed the ball right out of the air when the other team tried to pass it across the court. Suddenly he was heading to the other team's basket—alone!

  Sneakers screeched on the floor. All the players turned to run back the other way, trying to catch him. I stood up.

  "Go, Sam!"

  Sam boo
ked it to the net. His legs stretched as he took his two steps in his lay-up and jumped way up into the air. The basketball hit the backboard and went into the net.

  "Yeah, Sam!" I yelled.

  He landed but instead of running, he fell. Like, crumpled down. Then he just lay on the ground and didn't move.

  "Sam!" I yelled. Why didn't he get up? I jumped on the bench, cupped my hands around my mouth, and yelled, "Get up!"

  "Oh, my God," said Cassandra.

  He didn't get up. He didn't. He just lay there on the gym floor. The ref blew the whistle. Players leaned over him. Cassandra sped onto the court, running like I'd never seen her run before. I had to go to him too. Help him up. I heard Cassandra tell everyone to back away. But I wanted to see Sam. I started to run over to him when someone grabbed my shirt.

  "Don't get in the way," said Angelo, a player from the team. I didn't like Angelo much.

  "Let me go," I said.

  "The coaches and trainers need space," he said.

  "Get your hands off of me!"

  "Why don't you ever listen?" He shook his head at me but still hung on to my shirt.

  "I don't have to listen to you."

  "Dude, come on. You can't go over there."

  "Just watch me," I said.

  I squirmed and squirmed, trying to get away from Angelo, but he was too strong. "Someone help me," he called out. "The kid's gonna run, again."

  No way. I didn't want two against one. Two against one sucked big time. And three was worse. I yanked my arm away from Angelo, but because I pulled so hard, I stumbled and fell. I crawled along the floor and hopped up before he could catch me. And I ran toward Sam.

  "Sam!" I screamed.

  Cassandra had her fingers on Sam's neck. Then she just started pumping up and down on his chest. "Get the AED," she yelled. "Now!"

  What was an AED? Whatever it was, it didn't sound good. My whole body started shaking and I screamed again for Sam to get up. Cassandra was hurting Sam, pounding on him like that. People all around me were moving fast.

  "Stuart, stay back," said Coach Nelson.

  "Sam!" I yelled as loudly as I could, so he could hear me. But he wasn't moving.

  I felt arms around me and by the smell of soap and the dark colour on the arms I knew it was my dad. My entire family had come to watch the game. He's not my biological dad but my adopted dad, and it's obvious he's not my real dad because I'm white and he's black. Same with my mom. He held me close, like his arms were bungee cords that had been stretched tight.

  "Stay with me," he whispered in my ear. "And stop screaming. It's not helping." I wrestled against his arms, trying to free myself, but he held on. My dad has huge biceps because he used to be a CFL football player.

  The trainer just ripped Sam's shirt off and put something right on his skin. The machine talked. And it said, "Shock."

  "They're going to hurt him!"

  "Shhh," whispered my dad in my ear.

  Sam's body jumped but then nothing.

  "Come on, Sam," said Cassandra.

  "Breathe, breathe," said Coach Nelson.

  Again, the machine said, "Shock."

  "Come on, Sammy," my father whispered.

  This time when Sam's body jumped, he made a noise.

  "He groaned," said Coach Nelson.

  I tried to get away from my dad again. What they were doing to Sam seemed wrong.

  My dad tightened his arms around me, squeezing me. A man and a woman dressed in uniforms rushed into the gym with a stretcher. It was like the world was moving on fast forward. The people with the stretcher put Sam on it and wheeled him out, running beside him. I wanted to run with them, but my dad still held onto me.

  "Why won't you let go of me?"

  "Stuart, no one can do their job if you're in the way. You'll only make it worse for Sam. Is that what you want? To hurt him more?"

  "NO!"

  "Then let the paramedics do their job."

  I wriggled some more. But my dad was still the one person who could hold me back. One day I might be big enough to get away from him, but right now I was the smallest kid my age. Finally, I gave up.

  "Where are they taking him?" I whispered.

  "To the hospital," said my father.

  "The hospital?"

  I felt like a slashed car tire losing air. My body felt floppy. I leaned into my dad. He hugged me and kissed the top of my head.

  "Is he…gonna be okay?"

  "I hope so," he said.

  CHAPTER TWO SAM

  The ball flew across the court, a pass by the other team, and I knew it was within my reach. Two quick steps and I would have it, with a perfect line to the net. I bolted forward, jumped, and nabbed the ball mid-air, feeling its rough ridges on the tips of my fingers. Hang onto it. Hang on. One dribble for control and I took off down the court, bouncing the ball in front of me, controlled bounces—no way I was letting this ball get away from me. Behind me, shoes squealed on the floor. I knew that nine players had abruptly turned to give chase. Five from the other team were out to stop me.

  Keep going. Don't stop. Legs moving. Run.

  Now I was alone, open, and heading toward the basket, feet still behind me, trying to catch me. I had to push harder, move faster. I ignored the pounding in my head, the sudden searing in my chest, only wanting the ball in the hoop. Two points on the scoreboard. Close, I lengthened my stride, took my two steps for my lay-up, steps I'd practised since I was a kid. My body lifted and…shooting pain.

  Stabbing me.

  Everything blurred in front of me. My chest burned, like I'd been branded with a hot iron. My head pounded, like it was being hacked in two.

  Where was the basket? The backboard?

  It was as if a rubber band was pinching my heart, tighter, tighter, tighter. The elastic stretching, wanting to snap. I grabbed my chest. I couldn't breathe. No air. My lungs burned.

  More blurriness. Haze. Fog. I couldn't see.

  Anything.

  But black. Black. Black.

  ****

  Where was I? I tried to peel open my eyes, but the under side of my eyelids felt like sand had been shoved in there, making them scratchy and rough.

  A siren blared. I was moving. Fast. Something covered my mouth. My ribs were on fire, pain knifing through them. My chest felt as if it was exploding.

  The pain.

  I closed my eyes again.

  More black.

  ****

  Through little slits, I stared upwards at fluorescent lights and white. My eyes felt so itchy and my mouth was unbelievably dry. I turned my head to get away from the light and saw shiny metal railings and a tube snaking out from a pole and into my hand, held into place with tape.

  "Samir," said a familiar voice. It was my mother with her thick Bosnian accent.

  I didn't answer because I couldn't. I just stared at her. She touched my face, lightly with her fingers, then she pushed a strand of hair off my forehead.

  "Samir," she repeated my name. "You awake?"

  I swallowed and closed my eyes, not able to answer her. I could hear her breathing beside me. I slowly peeled my eyes open again, this time a little quicker, and it almost felt as if I was ripping a band-aid off my skin.

  "He awake," I heard her say. She leaned over the starchy white bed I was in.

  Now my father leaned over the bed too. "Oh, this so good," he said. He sounded as if he might cry. My dad? Cry?

  "What's…wrong…?" I could barely get the words out.

  My dad looked at my mother and neither of them spoke. Then my mother put her hand to her chest and said, "You talk. This good."

  "…with me?" I had to finish my sentence, my thought.

  "They run test," said my father.

  "What?"

  "Heart test," said my father.

  Heart test? I inhaled and closed my eyes again, but this time I closed them so I could think. A blank page was all I could see. Nothing. I lay still. Then…I thought I remembered playing basketball in the gym
with Stuart.

  "Basketball." I mumbled. I rolled my head and saw the white cup on a metal tray beside the bed. "I'm thirsty."

  My mother picked up the white Styrofoam cup, bent the straw, and put it on my lips. I sucked at the straw, the water a small relief.

  "What you remember?" my mother asked.

  "Basketball," I said. I didn't want to answer questions. As I sipped the water, a nurse came over to my bed.

  "He remember," said my mother to the nurse. "He talking." Then she turned back to me.

  I shook my head. I'd been in and out, and I remembered being wheeled through the hospital. But before that, all I could remember was being with Stuart.

  "Game?" I managed to squeak the word out.

  "The game was cancelled," said my father.

  I tried to think. Cancelled? What was cancelled? Why couldn't I remember?

  The nurse smiled at me. "We're running a couple of tests on you," she said. "An echocardiogram and an electrocardiogram. I'd also like to ask you a few questions."

  Next thing I knew I was telling her my name, what my birthdate was, what school I went to—all questions I actually could answer. But I was hazy on what exactly had happened. I could only remember playing basketball with Stuart in the morning.

  Once I'd been prepped with gel, electrodes were stuck to my chest. I'd had an EKG before, so I knew the drill. And the echocardiogram was an ultrasound, again more gross gooey gel. Finally, they cleaned me up.