Read Who is Mackie Spence? for Free Online Page A

my teammates, I maneuver into a swarm of thirty-five varsity runners as we position ourselves within the wide start box. I suck in a big breath and let it out when the horn sounds. I’m running the first straightaway. This race is mine to win!
    â€¢ • •
    I cross the finish line in what seems like slow motion, pushing against the air. Heat sears my lungs and muscle contractions shoot through my legs. Ugh! My legs. They’re like two burning sticks of lactic acid. I know that I’ve run a much-better-than-average time. At just over seventeen minutes, it’s a full thirty seconds lower than my former best. Panting, I coast over to Ryan, who breathes hard but somehow still manages to move fluidly.
    â€œHow’d you do?” I gasp. He puts up an index finger. Ryan brought us a first-place finish! That will be really great for our standing in the team tally. And of course, he’s pulled out a big individual win for himself, too.
    â€œYou?” he asks.
    Grinning from pain and happiness, I gasp out my time, “17:10.02.” Ryan whistles and raises his fist for a bump. He knows what shaving thirty seconds off my best time means to me, and to the team.
    As I search for our jersey colors in the crowd, I notice Brody doubled over, his hands on his upper legs. He looks ready to puke. We usually run close in our placement, though I didn’t see him during the race.
    Coach approaches Brody with a First Aid kit in hand. He sprays some disinfectant on Brody’s leg above the front of his ankle. So Brody probably got spiked. Too bad.
    I walk back to where our drivers’ chairs are clustered and fish around in my gear bag for a water bottle. Others from the team drift over, looking spent, like there is nothing left in their leg muscles to keep them upright. I catch Ben’s eye, and he gives a thumbs up. He must have done okay. Cole hangs with some girls just a little beyond the registration table. He travels with an entourage even at this hour of the day? If he’s hit his average time or better, our team has a shot at the top spot.
    Coach urges Brody to move. When he motions for help, Ben and I hurry over, put our shoulders under Brody’s arms, and help him. If he can’t walk it off, he’ll stiffen up and feel even worse.
    â€œWhat happened?” I ask, eyeing the four-inch square bandage just above his ankle.
    â€œWhat does it look like?” Brody snarls, but I don’t take the bait.
    Ben and I haul him around until Coach waves us over to join the team.
    â€œWe did very, very well.” Coach reads our unofficial times out loud from his clipboard. “Very nice numbers, gentlemen. Very nice! I’ll have the postings when the finals are certified.” Then he turns serious.
    â€œOn the down side, Brody got spiked on the last turn. I want everyone to stay here while I get the decision.” He starts to leave, turns, and adds, “Start hydrating now, if you haven’t already.” With that, Coach hurries off to the officials’ table.
    Ben turns to me. “I heard what happened,” he says in a low voice. “At the beginning of the fourth turn, Brody was making his move in a pack. He was behind someone from Lakewood and actually ran into the guy’s spikes. I think if he gets disqualified, it’ll be for what he said after he was nailed.”
    All runners are tired near the end of a race, so it would have been easy enough for Brody to bump into someone on a turn. Still, using foul language can be grounds for immediate disqualification. It depends on the circumstance, what was said, and who heard it.
    Coach stands with the Lakewood coach and two officials who do all the talking. Then both coaches say something to each other and shake hands. Coach has a look on his face that my dad calls “inscrutable.” This could go either way for Brody.
    â€œI have good news, and I have bad news,” Coach says, looking a lot less