No Time to Run

Neil Clark laced up his new running shoes--the latest New Balance design. They were gray cross- trainers with a dark blue NB on both the inside and outside of the shoe. His father had brought them home the previous night; he told Neil that these new shoes would better absorb the shock on his knees from the school's paved track, as well as help his traction on the cross-country courses. Still tired from a late-night study session, Neil's clear blue eyes were fighting to stay closed, and he was trying to remember the dream he was having before his father woke him up. It was the same thing every day and Neil felt like his life was on cruise control.

After brushing his teeth, Neil sat in butterfly position on the hardwood floor between his bed and dresser. He began the painful process of the 6 AM stretch. Every morning he endured ten minutes of stretching before the three-mile run. Forcing his chest toward the floor, Neil could hear Ben, his ten-year-old brother, peacefully snoring, enjoying his dream. Many mornings Neil wished he had Ben's disability. If he had the same acute asthma from which his brother suffered, then Neil couldn't run around the track or along the damp road and trails before the rest of the neighborhood came to life.

As Neil scuttled down the stairs in his black sweat pants and team-issued red and gray wind-breaker, he caught a glimpse of his father sitting in the black leather recliner reading the paper. This sight bothered Neil, even though he saw his father in the same position every morning when he left for his run. It was strange to him, but Neil had been having similar weird thoughts and feelings since school started.

For two weeks, Neil had this deep-gut feeling that made him nauseous when he thought of his father. Or when he thought about running. Although he was only seventeen, Neil felt like he had reached his peak in running. He was All-State the past two years for the 800 meter and he had a lot to do with his team getting first place in cross-country all three years of his high school career. There was more to life than running, he had thought time and again over those two weeks, as well as during the summer break. Neil wanted to enjoy his senior year of high school. And he didn't care about an athletic scholarship because his grades were good enough to get him an academic scholarship from one of the state schools to which he applied.

The Clark house ran smoothly on routine, the same way Mr. Clark, a small claims judge, conducted business in his courtroom. He was a man who demanded respect, competence, and discipline. Every morning, Mr. Clark would wake up at 5:15, stretch, bike the three-miles to town, buy a paper from Rocky the newsstand man, and bike the three miles home, uphill. When he returned, he would wake Neil, who would stretch, run, and go home to do fifty push-ups with Dad before each went to shower. Mom would wake up and trudge downstairs to start the morning meal. Always plain oatmeal with cinnamon and a banana. Neil looked forward to Fridays because he could opt out of the oatmeal for either two eggs or three link sausages. He always alternated.

When Ben, hair damp and smelling of soap, was finally at the table, the family would sit and eat breakfast together. Neil dreaded this time of the day the most--even more than Geometry class.

"The first cross-country race of the season is next week, son?"

"Yeah, Dad," Neil replied without feeling.

"That's always the most exciting race," said Mr. Clark. "Don't you think, dear?"

"Mmhm," Mrs. Clark mumbled, not wanting to talk with her mouth full of oatmeal.

"Well, Neil, you'll be ready," said his father. "You always are. And the scouts will really be watching you this year." Mr. Clark looked at his eldest son with a grin that Neil missed because he was looking into his bowl of mush. He wanted his father to be quiet and to leave him alone.

"Are you listening to me, Neil?" Mr. Clark asked, pulling his cloth napkin from his lips. "This is a chance for you to get a scholarship. You can really shine here, son!"

"I know, Dad. You keep telling me."

"What's your problem?" Mr. Clark pushed his chair back. The sound echoed throughout the stainless steel kitchen. He sat for a few moments with his hands resting on his lap, looking at his son's face. Neil's ice-blue eyes stayed lowered, staring into the depths of his oatmeal, wanting to sink. "Should we fight it out of you?"

"Honey, not this morning, please," Mrs. Clark implored.

"C'mon, Dad," Ben spoke up. "Leave Neil alone."

Mr. Clark stood up, grabbed Neil's arm, and yanked him out of his chair. He pushed him through the kitchen door and into the spacious living room. Nothing was out of place. Even the lines on the tan, recently-vacuumed carpet were crisp, clear. Neil moved as if he were a robot, without feeling, without thought. Then he felt the pain splash through his shoulder. His father's left fist was hard, but Neil's hands did not move. A strong punch to the other shoulder was followed by a light slap on his sunburned cheek.

Neil stood, looking through his father at a picture of himself as a boy on a jungle gym. What a great day that was, so many years ago. Neil was smiling, sitting atop the monkey bars, and the sun was shining on him. He was looking down into the camera's lens. That day he crossed the metal bars faster than any other boy on the playground. His floppy brown hair was shaped like the salad bowls his grandmother always used for Sunday brunch. Neil's teacher took the picture and gave it to his parents at the next teacher-parent conference. The proud mother got it blown up and framed.

When he was nine, Neil could play whatever; he could run wherever; he could jump however. Things were different now, as he stood in the living room with his father in front of him, jump-stepping from one foot to the other, popping his son in the arms. Mr. Clark was taller than Neil by one inch and heavier by twenty pounds, but he still looked scrawny and lanky. This sparring was his way of relieving aggression, of trying to solve problems, of showing he cared. What Mr. Clark did not know right then was that the angst inside of Neil was so awesome that he wanted to swipe his father's legs and kick him in the teeth. That way he couldn't talk for a couple of weeks and Neil wouldn't have to hear about wasting an opportunity he did not even want.

"You just going to stand there like a wuss, Neil?"

"Yeah, Dad," Neil droned. "I don't wanna fight this morning. For some reason my arms hurt." Neil felt like spitting in his father's face, but he just turned and walked away. He left his father standing in front of the thirteen-inch televison. Neil climbed the stairs to his room and got his bookbag. Without his normal "good-bye" or "see you guys later," Neil left the house.

Three weeks passed. Mr. Clark stayed on his son's back, telling him every day how important good training is--both mental and physical. And almost every day Mr. Clark would tell Neil about the chances he had to become an Olympian if he would just put his whole heart and soul into his running. By this time, Neil had run four good races with his cross-country team. On the easiest course, a wide, winding trail through a tree and shrub farm, his individual time was 26:10; this was a new personal record for Neil on that particular course. His father was proud.

The southern Wisconsin autumn had begun; the leaves were changing along the dirt trail Neil frequently chose to run for his morning exercise. Once the air started nipping at his face, he ran that trail more often. The explosion of colors on the maples and oaks was not the only reason Neil liked this particular trail. The dirt pathway, being away from the main road, was an escape from his father, who on occasion, would ride his bike next to Neil as he ran, egging him on, pushing him to be better, to run faster.

Neil deemed this winding trail through the woods a sort of refuge. A place where he could just be a seventeen-year-old boy and think about Meadow Locke, the girl who was always sneaking sideways glances at him in the cafeteria and during Spanish class. The same girl who made him perspire when he thought of holding her hand and kissing her long neck. These trees were an undercover refuge where he could walk, touch nature, listen to his heart, curse his father, yell at his mother to live her own life. Think about a future that did not include running competitively.

Neil came to a standstill one morning, his warm breath visible against the cool air. He turned his reddened face toward the pale blue sky, freckled with small white clouds. And he screamed. As loud as he possibly could. The scream began deep within his stomach, slowly making its way, inch by inch, to his lungs. Once in his lungs, the scream developed its mighty strength. Having gained power, it started to ooze up Neil's trachea like lava, past his vocal cords where the sound was added. What an eruption. The high-pitched noise resounded off fallen trees, vibrant leaves, the trail itself. Neil stood, his mouth open, releasing from his stomach, lungs, and throat, many years of frustration. And fear. He didn't want to be scared to tell his father that he didn't want to run. That his senior year--his last year of high school--was no time to run.

As the scream stretched itself along the curvaceous trail, up through the trees and into the chilled Wisconsin air, Neil's fists were clenched. His throat hurt. His legs throbbed. He was unaware that he was capable of such a scream.

Neil Clark was screaming when the timid Meadow Locke sprinted up behind him. When she saw Neil, she stopped so abruptly that her no-traction walking shoes slid on the loose dirt. And she kept sliding, right into his rear end. The massive scream was interrupted.

"What the hell!" Neil yelled, startled that someone was there; even more startled that it was Meadow; and even more startled that her face had just rammed his back-side.

Meadow couldn't stand. She had slid herself into a split, a position she hadn't been in since third-grade gymnastics. Sweat trickled from her hairline over the premature crow's feet at the corners of her brown eyes--eyes so big and wide, they appeared to be bulging. Meadow Locke was wearing a zipped-up gray sweatshirt with a hood. Her pants were the same color as the sweatshirt.

"I...uh...I," Meadow stuttered.

Neil bent down behind her and lifted her up by the armpits. Then he wiped the dirt from her knees.

"Meadow," he said, "good to see you."

"Yes, well, I, uh," she began, rubbing her hands together. "I guess I saw a little too much of you this morning, huh?"

Neil laughed aloud. He whooped and hollered.

"Sorry. But I'm just happy right now."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Neil?" Meadow asked, bending down to tie her shoe.

"Go for it."

"Are you okay? I mean, 'cause you were like screaming your head off," Meadow panted. "I thought...that you...were...I don't know...like getting killed or something." She stood up and stared at his eyes, so clear. Her breaths were heavy. "Of course, I didn't know it was you...until I got scared to death...and started running." Meadow bent over. She grabbed her stomach. Neil was watching her, the corners of his mouth raised a bit. "Damn. I haven't run like that since...uh...well, it don't matter since when, does it?"

Neil slowly shook his head; his eyes surveyed her flushed face, the small drop of snot just at the bottom of her left nostril. Her lips were chapped.

"Well?" she asked as if she'd been waiting minutes for him to answer a question. "What the hell's going on?" Meadow pulled her sleeve across her nose. Then she hocked a loogey and spat into the underbrush. "Excuse me, please, for my unladylike actions, Mr. Clark," she said with a fine British accent. "But the air here in the forest appears to be a bit nippy and has been nip-nip-nipping at my nose for some time. One must do what one must to maintain clear passages in the body." She laughed, but continued. "I assume it is safe to assume that you are right as rain on this fine morning and that you just stopped for a tiny break to let loose whatever needed freeing." Meadow reached out and touched Neil's arm, and said in her own voice, "Are you going to say anything?"

"That was great."

"What?"

"You're in drama, right?"

"So?"

"That's great, that's all." He looked at his feet, then back to her. "I don't have time to do anything but run. All the time running. It sucks."

Neil kicked a small stone out of the pathway. He smiled at Meadow, wondering why she was on the trail, thinking that he should kiss her right there in the woods among the squirrels, birds, spiders, and chipmunks. Neil felt close to Meadow, somehow, just at that moment. Staring into her bulging brown eyes had an effect on him. Remembering her shy looks and innocent brushing against him in the hallway. Neil thought of her often as he lay in bed at night. And here she was. Right in front of him. No need to ask her why because he already knew. He just figured it out. But why not ask her anyway?

"What are you doing out here at six-thirty in the morning?" He closed his mouth and folded his arms across his chest. Then quickly put his arms at his sides, not wanting to mimic his father's habit. "By yourself?"

"Running," she blurted. "Just like you."

"You always run in walking shoes?"

"Oh, like I could afford those high-tech boats on your feet, right?"

"Don't get offended, I just--"

"Save it, Clark. Really."

Well, that back-fired, he thought. Nice move, Neil, you idiot. Fix it, fix it. FIX IT!

"You can have 'em if you want 'em. Be my guest." Neil lowered his tall frame to the dirt and began unlacing his shoes.

"What? No...what are..."

Neil laughed. He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned back on his hands. Motioned for Meadow to have a seat. So she did. They sat and looked at each other, the ground, the sky, each other, the trees, a bird here and there, each other, for quite some time.

"Why you want to get rid of your shoes, Neil?"

"Why haven't you talked to me before this?" he asked, ignoring her question and changing the subject. "Except for, hi, or something like that?"

Again, Meadow stuttered and stammered her way through many incomplete thoughts. She finally admitted that she was attracted to him and scared to death to do anything about it because he was Neil Clark.

"So what?" he said. "What's that mean?"

"You're all popular and stuff 'cause you're a runner and really really good at it and lots of girls talk to you and you talk to them all the time so I never thought that you'd even give me a second glance but there've been times when you have but I wasn't sure if you were being nice or if you were even looking at me in the first place so I knew that you ran through here sometimes and I thought that I'd kinda pick up the habit and get my blood pumping and maybe run into you running and just see what happened."

When Meadow finished this speech, Neil's mouth was hanging open and he was concentrating really hard. Her words pummeled his ears so quickly that he had trouble understanding everything she had said. But, he understood enough to know that she had just poured out a whole lot of emotion.

"How 'bout we go out this weekend?" he said, getting to his feet. Then he stuck his hand out to help Meadow stand.

"Great."

With her hand still in his, Neil moved toward Meadow. Her eyes darted away from his, then found his gaze again. Neil couldn't help but stare at her. Her lips were thin and chapped, parted enough so her teeth showed. Then he leaned down and kissed her. The kiss was sweaty and dirty. But it was theirs. Meadow pulled away, looked at Neil's face. He was smiling. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face to his chest. Neil gently tugged on Meadow's thin, brown pony tail. She looked so different with her hair pulled back away from her face. His heart was rattling his rib cage. Then he kissed her again. And again. Neil didn't want to let go.

"What do you like to do when you're not studying or running?" Meadow asked.

"I like to build model airplanes with my brother."

"You into video games at all?" she asked, pulling away from him.

"Nah. Can't stand them. I think they're a waste of time and money."

"So I guess going to the arcade Friday night isn't a good plan," she said.

"Well, they've got air-hockey at the arcade, right?"

"I think so."

"That's settled, then," Neil told her. "I'll swing by to pick you up around six, we'll head to the arcade before it gets too crowded, I can beat you at air-hockey and watch you play other stuff, then we can get some ice-cream or something."

Meadow hugged Neil tightly and agreed to the plan--all except the beating her at air- hockey part.

Another three weeks passed. Neil and his team had won the majority of their cross-country races and the season was closing in on its end. Just two more races before the county competition where the state entries would be chosen. Neil's time on the toughest course of the season, Redding High's course that had forty-five degree angle slopes, rocks, sand, and two swinging bridges, was a disappointing 29:54. When his father learned his time, he pulled his son into the living room again.

"Frederick, really," Mrs. Clark called to her husband as he pulled Neil behind him. "Dinner's almost ready and Ben needs–"

"You help Ben, Meredith," Mr. Clark said wildly. "You help your baby boy, Meredith. Big boy and I have some sparring to do."

Many weeks had gone by since father and son were face-to-face like they were. But, again, Neil stood still, except to block a right hook his father was throwing at him. The punches, a bit harder than the last bunch, landed all over Neil's upper body.

"Put your hands up, son," his father coached. "I can get a good shot at your nose if you keep your hands down."

Mr. Clark, noticing his son's lack of enthusiasm, stopped prancing around. His hands dropped to his sides, then immediately he folded his arms across his chest.

"Sit down, Neil."

Neil sat down on the black leather couch. In front of his shins was a glass top coffee table that had not one nick on it. Neil could see his father's reflection in the glass. He imagined slamming his father's head through the table's top, seeing the blood splatter all over the freshly painted walls and recently vacuumed carpet.

"I don't like what I'm seeing here, Neil," his father told him. "Now, tell me. What's going on with you?"

Neil shrugged. "Nothing, Dad."

"I got a call from your Spanish teacher yesterday afternoon. In my chambers."

Neil looked at his father without turning his head. Could feel the sweat beads forming on his back. He knew what his father was going to say. What happened in Spanish was part of the plan Neil Clark hoped would get him out of running.

/	/	/

"What's up?" Meadow asked Neil, her now kind of boyfriend, one week before the after-race sparring match in the Clark living room.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Can you meet me in the woods right after school?"

"How?" she asked, squeezing her books in her arms. "You've got practice."

"I'm not going."

"Beg pardon?" Her eyes were wide.

Neil bent down so he could whisper. "I'm ditching. Meet me where we had that first kiss, okay?"

Right after school, as planned, Neil laced up his running shoes and jogged to the dirt trail near his house. The run was approximately two miles. When he arrived, Meadow was already there because she always rode her bike to school--rain, snow, sun, whatever--Meadow was on her bike, a very old and rusty ten-speed that she salvaged from a dumpster at the hardware store where she worked.

Neil immediately pulled her to him and kissed her, very passionately, very sweatily, and for a very long time. There was something burning inside of him. He could feel the lava churning in his stomach and making its way up. Neil hugged Meadow tightly. Kissed her neck. Panted in her ear. Traced her healthy figure with his quivering hands.

Meadow pulled his face toward hers. More kissing and groping. Her hands pulled at his button fly, each button easily disengaging. Meadow reached around Neil and she stuck her hand down the back of his pants. She felt his butt tighten, moved her hand along the waistband of his boxers. But Neil pulled away from her before anything really happened.

He whispered in her ear, "Another time."

Some minutes later, the two of them sat on a rotting log. Staring at each other's feet. Playing with their fingers. Through his head bounced thoughts of what Meadow had wanted to do. And Neil's confused mind wanted to tell her everything he was thinking; he had to tell someone about his plans. Plus, Meadow really knew nothing about the Clark family.

"I don't wanna run anymore."

Neil was holding Meadow's hand. She turned to look at the side of his face.

"What? You're not serious, Neil. Are you serious, serious?"

Neil simply nodded at all of her questions.

"You're like the powerhouse runner of the whole damn school, Neil. And...you want to quit? I don't believe it."

"You sound like my father a little."

There was an extended silence. Meadow wasn't sure what to say and Neil wanted to say too much. He wanted to spill out to her, as she'd done to him weeks earlier, though for much different reasons, the anger and resentment he held toward his father. But he felt restrained. It wouldn't be fair to lay all of that on her right there in the woods.

"It's my father," he finally said. "He's all the time on my back. I've done nothing but run for three years. Working on my fourth." Neil flashed four fingers in Meadow's face and squeezed her hand. "So, I have a plan. Aw, don't look at me like that. You don't know what it's like to listen to Frederick Clark bust your chops, wake you up every damn day to go do something that you lost interest in last summer."

"Can't you talk to 'im?"

"And get my head knocked off? No thanks. So I'm gonna fail some tests, not do some homework, to lower my average."

"Won't work, Neil," Meadow challenged. "Your grades are too high. A few assignments and tests won't lower your average enough to make you ineligible. Should of thought about that months ago." She performed an exaggerated shrug. "Plus, Neily-boy, you need the first semester's grades for any scholarships. Where's your brain?"

Neil looked forlorn. The muscles in his face tensed as he ground his molars. He knew she was right. But he could fail some anyway to see what was more important to his father--running or grades.

"Here's an idea, Neil," Meadow said. "Just don't run as hard as usual."

He shook his head. "That'd hurt the whole team, not just me. Good thought, though."

Neil touched the light whiskers on his chin, rubbed an eyelash out of his eye, smooshed some ants scurrying about.

"Kick my knee really hard!" he blurted. "Kick the crap out it."

"No, I will not," Meadow said with resolve. "That don't make sense, Neil."

"Why do you say 'don't' like that when you know it's not correct?"

"Jist cuz I wunta. Kay wif you, mack?" The drama student said as if she were drunk.

Neil clapped his hands together. "What else can I think of, then?"

"Oh, my God, Neil," Meadow began, sounding like a valley girl. "Like, here's the like best idea of all, okay." She was excited. "Okay, okay, like talk to him." These last three words were in her regular voice and very serious. "Maybe he'll like listen, ya know?"

"I wanna join yearbook and work in the school's greenhouse," he said, "but I can't because of running. Maybe do some volunteer work. He wants me to get to the Olympics, Meadow. It's all for him--not me. There's no time to run this year and do everything else."

Tears fell from his ice-blue eyes to the dirt. Meadow rubbed his back.

"I just want to enjoy my last year of high school." He stood up and walked in a big circle with his hands dug deep into his jeans pockets. "I wanna hang out with you after school--not a bunch of sweaty guys competing for first place."

/	/	/

"What did la maestra say?" Neil asked, looking at his father. For the first time, he noticed the small patches of silver just above his father's ears.

"That you failed a major test she knows you were prepared for. What say you about that, Mr. Neil Nicolas Clark?" His father, the judge, glared at him.

"I know?"

"I know, you know, Neil. I want to know why you failed a test your teacher says you were completely prepared to take. Better yet, why did you fail at all?" Mr. Clark sat on the edge of his recliner. "Clarks don't fail. You know that."

"I failed. So what? I'm still almost top in the class."

"So what?" his father repeated, squeezing his knees with his hands. "Did you just say, 'So what?' to me? Are you on drugs, son? You don't make sense."

Lava. Lungs. Sound!

"I don't wanna run anymore," Neil said, staring at his father's reflection in the glass by his shins. "That's why I failed." His voice was getting louder. Then even louder he said, "I'm not running track in the spring, Dad. After this season, I'm finished. Done. No more run--"

"Stop!" Mr. Clark yelled. He stood up. "I think you've lost your doggone mind, Neil. Did I just hear you correctly! Are you telling me...your father...that you are not running in the spring? Is that it?"

As his father spoke, Neil's heart gained momentum till he was sure it would explode. His back began sweating, his hands shaking. But the lava was there. Red and black. Boiling.

"That's what I said." Neil stood up. Stood tall. "Like this picture here, of me on the monkey bars. Look at how happy I was. I could just play and explore. That's what I want now!" Neil's hands were ready to block. He backed away from the leather couch and glass table, never taking his eyes from his father's--reflections of his own. "I'm sick of running and wanna do something else for a change! Lead my own life and not the one you want me to have."

Although his legs were weakening, Neil kept his footing. Mr. Clark walked toward him, slowly. Neil remained still. Wondering what would happen next. Sweep his legs and smash his face into the table, he maliciously thought. Let him know I mean what I'm saying.

"Tell me again what you're going to do," Mr. Clark spat, "and you better say that you were out of your mind just then and that of course you'll be running track in the spring and for whatever school wants you in the fall."

Without hesitating, Neil spoke up. "I-am-not-run-ning-in-the-spring. In fact, I'm hanging up my shoes after this season...for good, Dad. I'll stay active with school activities, but no more running."

Neil felt relieved to have finally stood up for himself. Even though he was scared of what would come next, at least his father now knew his feelings. He had finally looked his father in the eye and told him what he was thinking. A new feeling of confidence spread through Neil's body and he unclenched his fists. Relaxation. An unconscious smile appeared on Neil's face. Seconds later, he was lying on the floor, face down, with his warm blood leaking from his upper lip and nose. Blackness.

Four days passed. Neil was alone in the kitchen, working on Geometry, when his father came home. He'd left just after punching his son in the face. The swelling in Neil's nose had subsided, but his lip still had two stitches inside of it, which made eating and talking difficult. Mr. Clark went immediately upstairs to his bedroom. The doorbell rang soon afterwards.

"Hey," Neil said as he opened the door.

"Ohmygosh, Neil," Meadow groaned. "You're really hurt."

"Did you think I was lying?" he said with minimal lip movement. "Where were you today, anyway?"

"I went into the city with my mom to look at schools."

Meadow looked at her boyfriend with her eyes bulging more than usual. She stood looking at his face, battered and sore, shaking her head with her left hand covering her mouth. Then she moved to him and kissed his cheek.

"Don't make me smile, please. It hurts."

Both Meadow and Neil's attention was turned to the staircase. Mr. Clark was halfway down the flight of hardwood stairs.

"Young lady," he said, almost cordially. "I'd like to speak with Neil alone."

Meadow nodded her understanding; Neil's brows furrowed with disappointment and a bit of anger. He was just about to tell his father that he wanted Meadow to stay when his father surprised him by what he said next.

"But if you come back in an hour, I'd like to invite you to dinner."

Meadow looked at Neil, who looked at his father. Then Neil winked at Meadow. She said that she'd be back in an hour for dinner and that she appreciated the invitation.

Mr. Clark gestured toward the living room. There was something different about the way he was carrying himself; he was more fluid-like than his normal rigid self. Observing this, Neil drew in a deep breath and exhaled, thinking that everything would be fine. He sat on the black leather couch and his father took his usual seat on the matching recliner. Father and son sat quietly for more than two minutes. Neil felt somehow bigger, as if he had won the gold medal his father wanted him to win. The tension was no longer existent. Dormancy.

"These past four days have been hell on me, Neil, as I'm sure they've been on you. And now I've got to tell you how sorry I am for hurting you." Mr. Clark continuously laced and unlaced his fingers. "I realized two early mornings ago," he said, "the kind of man I've become, son. You have made me so proud since junior high with your accolades and perseverence. But now I realize that that dedication was not your own. I mean, for you specifically." Mr. Clark's voice was low, just above a whisper. And instead of sitting up straight and rigid, he was slouched back on the cushiony chair.

"Dad, it wasn't till the summer," Neil said carefully, trying not to move his lips too much, "that I decided I didn't wanna run anymore. You kept pushing." Tears came to Neil's eyes. "I've run for three years for this school, two years for the junior high, and have enjoyed nothing else. No time to just hang out, or get a job, or try something different. I'd like to work on the yearbook." Neil touched the tip of his tongue to the stitches in his upper lip. "This is my last year, Dad. I've had enough of running in competitions." Neil folded his hands together.

His father's mouth crinkled into a slight smile. He got up and walked to the couch, sat beside his son.

"There is no excuse for what I did." Mr. Clark, unlike his son, was fighting the tears trying to fall from his clear eyes. His clean-shaven chin quivered. "For the past four days, I've thought of nothing but what you've been feeling and how scared you were to tell me because of exactly what happened. We aren't as different as you may think. Your grandad was a professional boxer for twelve years. Imagine what I went through." Mr. Clark paused momentarily. "But, you aren't me. And you have your own life to live. So...I'm truly sorry, Neil, and I'll beg for your forgiveness if I have to."

The thought of seeing his father beg was enticing, but Neil had already forgiven him. He put his hand on his father's knee, no longer wanting to smash his face into the glass table. The anger he felt just days earlier subsided with the pain in his swollen nose. And now Neil knew, because of what his father told him, and because of the punch, that his relationship with his father would never be like it was before. With the new understanding between them, it would it be better.

"You know, Dad," Neil said, with a twinge of excitement, "in the spring, we can build that shed you've been wanting to build. We can work on it after dinner. And Ben can help, too." Neil slapped his dad's knee. "Don't worry, though. I'll have enough money from academic scholarships to pay for my first two years of school--at least."

"I'm not worried," he said. "I'm proud." Then Mr. Clark did something he hadn't done for many months. He reached out and hugged his son, tightly. Gave him little pats on his back.

When Frederick Clark pulled away from his son, he said, "Now, tell me about the young lady I invited to dinner."