Tony always spent a long time warming up before a race. His distances were the quarter mile and the half mile, but before he even stepped to the starting line, he would have jogged two miles and run a dozen sets of wind sprints. His teammates thought he carried the warm-up to far, especially when he sweated so much that he always needed to drink before he ran, which to them was a sure prescription for a cramp. His stomach didn't seem to mind. He favored a particular brand of lemonade that came in eight-ounce clear plastic cartons that could be purchased only at gas stations. Jogging toward the ice chest in midfield, he felt exceptionally thirsty. The sun had the sky on fire.

" How do you feel?" Neil asked, sitting beside the ice chest. He came to all the track meets. He helped keep stats, measured the shot put tosses, and reset the high jump and pole vault bars. He was a big fan, though on this particular afternoon, he was only one of many. Today's track meet was the biggest of the year. Over half the stadium was filled.

"Are you referring to my mental or physical state?" Tony asked. Three days after Joan had put on her homemade Bozo outfit--much to the delight of the entire senior class, which was catcalling Joan to this day--and the day after he had received the chain letter from her, a not unexpected ad had appeared in the paper.

T.H. Come Last Next Races

The meat was against Crete High, which was tied with Grant High for first place in the league. If he did not win both the quarter mile and a half mile, Grant would probably lose the title. Coach Sager had already penciled in the sure ten points to the final score. Tony could not lose, it was as simple as that.

He was getting a crick in his neck guarding his back.

"Both," Neil said, hugging his knees to his chest. He did not seem so down today, and Tony was glad.

"Great." Tony smiled, flipping open the chest, reaching for his lemonade. There were four cartons on ice, all for him--no one else could stand the stuff. He tore off the tinfoil cap and leaned his head back to finish it in one gulp. Neil stopped him. "Let me taste it. You never know."

"Are you serious?"

Neil plucked it from his hand. "Just a sip, to be sure it's kosher." He took a drink, rolled it around inside his mouth and made a face. "It tastes sour."

"It's lemonade, for godsake." Tony took the carton back and downed it quickly. Reaching for another container, he hesitated. Was that an aftertaste or what? He decided he was the victim of suggestion. He didn't, however, take any more. "Where are the others?"

"Keeping their distance. They're afraid the earth's going to open up and swallow you." Neil laughed. "Not really. Kipp and Brenda were here a few mimutes ago. I told them you like to be by yourself before a race. They're in the stands somewhere. I hope you didn't mind me speaking for you." He added, "I told Alison the same thing."

Although his friend was acting nonchalant, Tony could hear the tension in his last line. He had told himself he wouldn't do this to Neil, and he had gone right ahead and done it just the same. He was an SOB, why didn't he just accept the fact and have the initials tattooed on his forehead so he wouldn't be able to fool anyone else? The problem was, Alison was the first girl he had found who made him feel important without having to swell his already bloated ego. Quite simply, he was happy around her. But these feelings, they seemed to totter on a balance: Add a gram of joy to the side and you had to put a pound of misery on the other side. That is what he had been trying to tell Alison that night in the car. I feel guilty, baby. He would have, except it would have been like stealing a piece of Neil's pride, and he would never do that.

"I should have told you I went out with her," Tony said. "I meant to."

"That's OK. You better keep stretching. The starter is . . ."

"It's not OK. I stabbed you in the back. But . . . I didn't even intend to ask her out. I just did, you know?"

"Did you have fun?" Neil sounded genuinely curious.

He hesitated. "I did."

"Are you going to go out with her again?"

Tony sat down on the ice chest and yawned. The sun must be getting to him; he felt like he'd already run his races and was recovering. "Not if you tell me you don't want me to."

"If you had fun, why not?"

"Neil . . ."

"I would never tell you what to do."

I wish you had, Tony thought, a year ago. Almost involuntarily, he found himself searching the stands for Alison. Dozens of people waved to him but none of them looked like her. One of the reasons he was defying the Caretaker, petty as it sounded, was so that he could show off in front of her. "When are you going to get that leg fixed?" he asked, as if that were relevant to the topic.

"Soon. Why?"

"So we can run together."

"I could never keep up with you."

"You wouldn't have any trouble today, I don't feel so hot."

"But you said you felt great." Neil reached for an empty carton. "The lemonade! Maybe there was something in it."

Tony laughed. "Would you stop that! I mean, I don't feel so hot because of what I did to you. I think it would help if you'd at least get mad at me."

Neil was hardly listening. "Another time, maybe." He pointed to the starting line, where a half dozen young men in bright colored track suits were peeling off their sweats. Crete High had a quarter miler who had not lost this year. Tony could see him pacing in lane two, a squat, powerfully built guy. Tony knew he would snuff him. "You better get moving," Neil said.

Tony stood. "Will you cheer for me?"

Neil grinned. "Only if you win."

While the other contestants fought with the starting blocks, Tony stood patiently inside lane one behind the white powdered line, taking slow deep breaths, wanting to be mildly hyperventilated before they took off. Blocks had never helped him in a sprint as long as the quarter mile and he doubted they would be helping anyone else in the race. Being in lane one, he had the disadvantage of the tight turns but he always opted for the position for it gave him a clear view of the other runners. This fellow from Crete High--Gabriel was his name, Tony remembered--would feel him on his heels until the last turn. That is when he would blow past the guy. He would rely on his kick. He had to save himself for the half mile. He wasn't feeling any surplus of energy at the moment. Yawning, he pulled off his sweat pants and put his right foot a quarter of an inch behind the starting line.

"We'all go at the gun, gentlemen," the starter said, a short fat man with a cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He pulled out his black pistol and aimed at the sky. "Set!" Tony took a breath and held it, staring at a point ten yards in front. He thought he heard Alison shout his name and smiled just as the gun went off. The distraction cost him a tenth of a second before he could even begin.

Gabriel was either a rabbit or else he was extremely confident of his endurance. Tony was two strides in back of the guy's stagger going into the first turn. And he was working. No matter how hard he trained, some days he was simply flat, and he knew this was one of those days as he reached the first quarter-lap white post. He was not unduly concerned. He had such faith in his superior physique that he was still positive he would win.

Yet when they straightened into the backstretch and he saw that he had failed to gain ground on Gabriel's stagger, which he should have done automatically, he began to worry. His breathing was ragged and he couldn't seem to get his rhythm. He would have to gut this one out. Driving his arms, he willed the gap between them to close.

The final curve was agony. The quarter mile, which required as much strength as speed, was never easy, but this was ridiculous. Each gasp squeezed tighter a red hot iron clamp around his lungs. He must be coming down with something, he thought, a heart attack, maybe. Hitting the straightaway, he finally managed to draw even with Gabriel, which is exactly where he wanted to be at this point. The problem was, he couldn't get in front of the dude. His legs were--in the words of the sport--going into rigor mortis. All the way to the tape, which he had never approached so slowly, he thrashed with his arms, the only thing pulling up his knees. Five yards from the finish, he had somehow managed to slip a body width behind. He had no choice. He threw himself at the line. The tape did nothing to break his fall. Nevertheless, it was a relief to feel it snap across his chest. He had won.

The cigar-puffing starter helped him up and slapped him on the rump, congratulating him on a thrilling victory. His teammates jubilantly pumped his hands and Coach Sager went so far as to hug him. Tony recieved the gratitude in a hazy blur of oxygwe n dept. But he distinctively heard his time--49.5. He had run 48 flat last week and had finished waving to the crowd. He had to be sick. He couldn't be getting old.

The half mile was in half an hour. Normally, he jogged steadily between the two events. Today he staggered about unable to find his sweats. He had another lemonade from the ice chest and had to struggle to keep it down. His digestive tract felt like it was digesting itself. Had this not been such a crucial meet, he would have called it a day.

"You looked like you were running in mud," Neil said unhappily, popping out of nowhere, holding his sweats. Tony took them but felt too weak to put them on. "Are you OK?"

"I've felt better."

"You've looked better. I'm glad you won but don't you think you should forget the half?"

He leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, shaking his head, which seemed to be coming loose. "We need the points."

"Then at least get out of the sun for a few minutes. Go sit under the stands."

That sounded like good advice. "I will."

Neil turned away. "I'm going to help at the pole vault. I tell you again, don't run if you're sick. It's not worth it."

Tony dropped his sweats and stumbled toward the seats. Several people, mainly girls, shouted his name and he answered with a vague wave. By sitting down he was running the risk of tying up, but he felt he had no choice. He found an unoccupied spot in the shadow of the snack bar and plopped to the ground, leaning his back on the cool concrete wall, closing his eyes. He wouldn't have minded just sitting there for the next eight hours.

He might have dozed. The next thing he knew, Alison was kneeling by his side. She had on a green T-shirt and sexy white shorts that showed her legs to the point where his imagination could comfortably take care of the rest. Green was one of Grant High's colors and the green ribbon in her curly black hair was the best piece of school spirit he'd seen all day. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

"You were wonderful." She smiled.

"I stunk." Sweat dripped off his arms. "I still do."

"But you won."

"But I should have won easily." He rested his head on his knees. "I feel like a space cadet."

Alison put her arm around him. Her flesh was cool like the wall, soft like he remembered from their kisses in the car. "I'll walk you to your car. You should get home, take a shower, and lie down."

"I have to win the half," he mumbled.

"You have to run again? That's crazy, you're exhausted. You've done enough." She paused. "Are you doing this to show the Caretaker?"

"To show you." This was a fine time he had picked to pour out his feelings. He felt like he might throw up.

"I don't care how many races you win."

He had expected her to say that, and still she had surprised him. She had said it like she had meant it. He sat up, saw her concern. He was still playing the game of trying to impress the girls. "I know you don't," he said, taking her hand, seeing past her to center feild where Joan and Kipp were rampaging the ice chest. Unlike Neil, they were not helping put on the meet and did not belong out of the stands. "But I have to run. For the team's sake of my Algebra II grade. Remember, Sager is also my math teacher." He went to stand and without her help he would have had trouble making it.

"But how can you possibly win like this?"

He smiled. "I was born under a winning star, don't worry."

He spent the next ten minutes plodding up and down the football field, searching for his legs. A tall lanky fellow in Crete High colors, loosening up near the starting line, caught his attention. Tony groaned; he recognized him--Kelly Shield. The guy was traditionally a miler, very strong. Crete High must be dropping him down, hoping for an upset. Tony leaned down and massaged his knotting calves. This was going to be harder than the last one.

The fat starter called his number and Tony found himself being placed in and two. Kelly Shield was at his back and that bothered him more than it should have. He did not feel the perspiration roll in his eyes but his vision blurred and he assumed it must be from stinging sweat. His usual routine of mild hyperventilation started to make him dizzy and he had to stop it.

"Set!"

Tony crouched down, swaying slightly. The bang of the gun made him jump up rather than forward. Like before, he was off to a bad start.

Naturally, the pace was not as frantic as the quarter mile and he did not feel as quickly winded. On the other hand, he didn't feel very swift, either. Starting down the first backstretch of the two-lap race, he was amazed to find that Kelly Shield had already made up for his stagger. Going onto the second turn, the guy had the nerve to pull slightly ahead. This time, Tony did not press the pace. Mr. Shield was making a mistake. He would go through with the first lap like a hot dog and die on the second lap. Then Tony glanced to the fourth lane, where his teammate Calvin Smith was running, and began to have doubts. Taking into account the varrying staggers, Calvin was also ahead of him, and Calvin normally couldn't have beaten him on a motorcycle. Could they all be off pace?

You just keep telling yourself that, buddy.

Passing the timer, Tony heard numbers being called out that he hadn't heard since his freshman year when he'd run a race with a sprained ankle. By then, however, the clock was not necessary to tell him that he was out of it. The entire pack was in front and pulling away with what seemed like magical ease. Kelly Shield would romp. It struck Tony then with complete clarity, just when his mind started a headlong dive into a fuzzy gray well, that the Caretaker had gotten to him. If he'd had double pneumonia, he wouldn't have felt as he did now: trapped in slow motion, his chest filling with suffocating lactic acid, hopelessly out of control. He had probably been poisoned, maybe even hexed.

I won't quit, he swore. His last place was assured but what was left of his fading mind and will wanted a morsel of satisfaction. He would lose but he wouldn't be beaten.

But it was not to be. He was a hundred yards from the finish line, weaving over the brittle reddish clay, wandering in and out of lanes, when his right knee buckled and he hit the ground. The last thing he saw was a crowd of anxious people running toward him. One of them was probably the Caretaker.