Always Last on Sports Day

The last Sports Day race is the eight hundred meters. Zane stands on the line with eleven other runners. The sun is bright. The grass smells of summer.

He is not fast. He knows this. In every race since he was nine, he comes last. His mother says it does not matter. His friends say it does not matter. He does not say anything.

A teacher lifts her hand. "Ready," she says. Then a loud pop. The race begins.

The other runners go away like leaves in the wind. In ten seconds, Zane is alone at the back. He hears feet on the track. The sound grows small.

He keeps running. He breathes in. He breathes out. His shoes make a soft, steady beat on the track.

On the first turn, he sees the crowd. Parents sit on the grass. Children shout names. A man holds up a sign. Nobody shouts "Zane." That is fine. He watches the crowd anyway. He feels like a man at a train window.

At the second turn, the leaders cross the line. The crowd gets loud. People jump up. A girl in a red shirt lifts her arms. Zane hears the shouting, far away, like the sea.

He is still running. His legs burn. His mouth is dry. He looks at the white line. He follows it.

By the third turn, the crowd looks away. People start to stand and talk. Some walk to the food table. A boy opens a bottle of juice. A baby laughs. The last runners cross the line, one by one. Each crossing makes less noise.

Zane thinks: this is the quietest part of the race. He likes it more than he thought.

He hears his own breath. He hears a bird in the tree beside the track. He smells the grass again, and the warm dust. His legs do not hurt now. They only move.

He thinks about his grandfather. His grandfather says a long road teaches more. Zane never understood it before. Now it feels a little true.

On the last straight line, he looks up. The finish line is far away. A few people stand near it. They talk to each other. Most of the field is empty.

Then he sees someone. A girl stands at the line, very still. It is Chiara, from his class. She has a stopwatch around her neck. Everybody else has gone to the food table. She waits.

She sees him. She picks up the end of the white ribbon. The other helper let it fall long ago. Chiara holds it high with both hands, like a gate.

"Come on, Zane," she calls. Her voice is not loud. It is clear.

Zane's legs find a little more strength. He runs the last twenty meters with his head up. The ribbon is a white line against the blue sky.

He pushes through it with his chest. The ribbon stretches, then falls to the grass.

Chiara presses a button on her stopwatch. She looks at the numbers. Then she looks at him and smiles.

"Your best time," she says.