CHAPTER 11
It was slightly uphill from the Fancy Freeze parking lot to the sidewalk.
Mackie was standing on the pedals and trying to crank them as hard as he could, but it felt real weird, and way too difficult, like he was trying to ride up Mount Everest. He was barely able to get the bike to move forward.
Finally, he made it up to the Magnolia Street sidewalk at the entrance to Fancy Freeze. He jumped off the bike and checked the rear v-brake to make sure it wasn't rubbing against the wheel and screwing something up, but the brake looked fine.
He hung a left toward school, but even though the sidewalk was flat, it didn't get much easier to pedal. What this felt like, he thought, was when you tried to ride your bike on the beach in the really thick sand that was furthest away from the water. It was basically impossible.
He stopped after going just a few yards.
What the heck was going on here?
And then he realized it: the front tire was flat. He could see the rubber flattened out and spread wide where it met the pavement.
Still, he thought, you can ride with one flat tire in an emergency, can't you?! I've done it before.
He reached around and felt the rear tire, and a terrible, sick feeling hit him smack in the middle of the stomach.
"Dang it!!" he said. "No!!"
Mackie stood there straddling Jimmy's broken down bike, and a million thoughts rattled around in his head in about five seconds.
He thought about how much he hated running, that he was probably the worst runner in the 8th grade, and how on those torturous days when Mr. Gustaf made them run the mile, he had to walk almost all of it.
He thought about Bo and Jimmy trapped in that awful bathroom, and how they had put their faith in him.
He thought about how nice it would be to just crawl into his bed and get some sleep, and make this bad dream go away.
He dropped the bike and took off in a full sprint toward school.
By the time he got to the corner and crossed the street, he started slowing down. He couldn't help it. He was still madly churning his legs and swinging his arms, but his body simply was not working very well.
As he reached the second intersection, Mackie was pretty sure now he wasn't going to make it. He felt a burning in his lungs every time he inhaled, his feet were not stable, and he was starting to get dizzy.
He crossed B Street and visualized the rest of the route. He had a short block to Fairview, then a long block to C Street. Then half a block to school, and then through the main yard to the office, tucked back behind the gym.
He knew it was getting extremely close to five o'clock, but he decided not to look at his watch. What for? Knowing the time wouldn't change anything--he couldn't possibly go any faster.
It was that last block before C Street that finally got him. The corner looked so far away. His legs were numb. He was furiously sucking in air but could not get enough oxygen. He stopped and reached out for a lamp post and put his head down.
Mackie had read stories about what people could do when they were in extreme situations.
He remembered one about a guy stuck in the desert, who walked over a hundred miles to a town. He knew the human body was capable of more, a lot more, than your brain told you it could do. He thought about this for a few seconds.
He let go of the lamp post and started walking. He was limping, but at least he was moving again. When he got to the little house with the dog in the yard that always barked at everyone, he could suddenly see the top of the gym in the distance.
This gave him hope.
He took one huge inhale and broke into a run again, though it was the hardest thing he ever did.
As Mackie entered the Hillcrest school grounds, in front of him was the big outdoor clock above the entrance to the main building. He thought it said 5:00 right on the nose, but his glasses were so fogged up he wasn't sure. Anyway, that clock was always a little off--by a minute or two either way.
He tried to flat-out sprint the last fifty yards to the office, not quite sure anymore who he was or what he was doing.
He slammed into the office door and it flew open. Right there in front of him, standing alongside the attendance desk, were Mr. Riggins and Miss DePiazza, the school clerk.
Sitting on the desk, all by itself, was the talent show sign up sheet, clipped to a silver metal binder.
Mackie started to wobble, and then he doubled over, catching himself from falling by squeezing his elbows into his knees.
"Yes, may I help you with something, Walter?" asked Mr. Riggins.
Mackie couldn't answer.
"Perhaps you are intending to register for the talent show?"
Mackie nodded, unable to look up.
"Walter, I'm sorry to inform you that entries officially closed two minutes ago. The time is now 5:02."
"Please, Mr. RIGGINS!!," Mackie called out in a hoarse whisper.
"These are explicit regulations, Walter," Mr. Riggins said. "I know you--as well as anyone--understand the logic. If an exception were to be made for one individual, then exceptions would need to be made for all individuals."
With that, Mr. Riggins snapped shut the metal binder and put it under his arm.
"Please...!!" was all Mackie could say, his voice barely there.
"Mr. Mackie, I must tell you this discussion is now over. Any further dissent will result in a 2-day suspension, effective immediately."
Mr. Riggins turned and headed to the back office.
"You don't look too good, hon'," said Miss DePiazza. "You really don't. Can I get you some water or something?"
Mackie shook his head and staggered out of the office, still not standing up straight.
Off to his left, in front of the science room, were three low bushes, spread out.
He leaned over the top of the first bush, used it for support, and threw up. He wasn't sure if he felt any better. After a minute, he picked himself up.
When he got to the second bush, he threw up again.
He thought he was done, was sure he had nothing left, but when he got to the third bush, BOOM, he threw up one more time.
