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him.”
    Donald shrugged. “Who cares?”
    “I do. I don’t like people making fun of my friends.”
    “Your friends,” Donald said with a sneer. “I’m the best friend you ever had. Remember that.”
    “I never said you weren’t. What I’m saying is, I’ve got other friends, too. Get used to it. Things change.”

8
    Tough Competition
    T he guy seated next to Manny on the basket ball court inside the track had his eyes shut, nodding slowly to the rhythm of the music from his headphones. His shirt said NORTH JERSEY STRIDERS. Other runners were pacing the floor or stretching, all looking intense.
    The gymnasium at Fairleigh Dickinson University wasn’t quite as large as the Armory, but Manny was even more nervous for this meet. This wasn’t a relay meet; there were no teammates to help carry the load. In a few minutes, Manny would be out there for the 800-meter race with nine opponents.
    He checked his racing shoes—double—knotted with the laces tucked in—massaged his thigh, and took a deep breath. He knew nothing about the other racers, didn’t recognize any of them from the meet at the Armory. This was primarily a New Jersey event.
    “Boys’ eleven-twelve 800. Step up.”
    Manny got to his feet and bounced in place a couple of times. He was warm and loose. They’d had time to jog a full mile before the meet, and he’d been stretching ever since. The track was the same length as the Armory’s—200 meters—but the turns were flat.
    He stepped to the starting line. The runners on both sides of him were tall and leggy. Manny crossed himself and shut his eyes.
    “Take your marks,” said the official.
    Manny leaned slightly forward and exhaled hard.
    “Set.”
    He clenched his fists lightly and stared at the track.
    The gun fired and Manny surged from the line, darting to the head of the pack to avoid the jostling as runners fought for position. Coaches and teammates were shouting, but Manny’s focus was entirely on the track. He could hear the padding of nine pairs of feet just behind him.
    Pace yourself, he told himself. Hold the lead, but be smart about it. Long way to go.
    Manny’s goal was 2:18, the time Serrano had run at the Armory the week before. Who knew what Serrano would do this week; he was probably racing at the Armory again. All the results of the Armory meets were posted on the Internet, so Manny could compare his progress with Serrano’s and everybody else’s.
    “33,” came the call as Manny finished the first lap, still holding the lead. He needed to average under 35 seconds per lap to meet his goal for today. He felt strong.
    Manny glanced behind him as he raced along the backstretch. Coach had told him never to do that, but he couldn’t resist. Two runners were just off Manny’s shoulder, but the rest of the field had fallen a few yards behind. These two seemed content to let Manny lead the way.
    Each stride felt smooth, but Manny could feel his shoulders beginning to tighten. He passed through the end of the second lap at 67 seconds.
    Fast, he thought. Got to keep this up.
    Coach had told him that the third lap was often the most important one in a four-lap race. The runners were getting tired from a quick start and were saving some energy for a finishing kick. A strong runner could put away the race with a solid third lap. But the temptation was to hold back a little.
    Manny surged into the turn, testing his opponents to see if they’d stay with him. They did more than that. The North Jersey Strider runner went wide on the turn and moved into the lead.
    Don’t let him get away, Manny thought. Stick with him.
    They pounded down the backstretch in a tight cluster, but the leader surged again coming off the second turn. Manny opened up his stride on the straightaway, pulling away from the third-place runner and turning it into a two-man race.
    “1:43,” came the cry as the bell sounded for the final lap. Manny quickly did the math; that lap had taken 36 seconds. They were