Indian Summer Read Free

finger and thumb aligned along the start line. She briefly looks over at the other girls. She knows most of them, but there are a few unfamiliar faces. Can she beat them? It seems like the whole town is watching the race from the sidelines. As usual before a race, her stomach flutters and her heart pounds in her chest.
    The starter begins.
    “On your mark,” he shouts. Marcie holds herself still in the starting position.
    “Get set.” She comes up onto her hands and the balls of her feet.
    “Go!” The starting gun explodes! Marcie pushes off with her feet and starts pumping with her arms as she rises up. In the beginning of a race all movement is slow motion. Like you are in one of those dreams where you are trying to run but can’t because your legs are made of stone. Then suddenly she starts to go. Her fists are clenched. Arms reaching up and pulling back, up and back. Legs pounding—knees up, heels back, up and back,up and back. Kick, kick, kick. Faster, faster—she feels herself pulling away. Go, go, go, go!
    She focuses on the finish line, feeling the fluid rhythm and power of her body. She imagines that she is pulling herself along a rope with her arms and kicking herself forward with her feet. Just a few more yards! She crosses the finish line first, a few steps ahead of the pack. Yes!
    A volunteer with a gold banner across her chest runs toward Marcie, lifts her arm in the air and shouts, “First place!”
    “Congratulations!” she says to Marcie. Sara’s arm is held by a volunteer wearing a red banner that reads T HIRD P LACE . Marcie gulps for air. The volunteers lead the winners over to the scorer’s table and give them water bottles. Paula, another girl from the track team, has won second place. They give each other the team “high five.” “Great job, Marce,” says Sara between breaths, “but you always win.”
    Marcie feels a tug on her shirt. Looking down she sees her younger brother, Drew. “Great race, Marce, you were speedy,” he says. Drew is seven and just finished first grade.
    “Thanks, Drewster,” says Marcie as she ruffles his sandy brown hair. “Mom!” she says as her mom comes up and gives her a hug.
    “First place again!” her mom says smiling, the corners of her eyes crinkling into familiar laugh lines. Her strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and freckles were passed on to Marcie, but otherwise they don’t really look alike. Marcie doesn’t really look like either of her parents. More like a blending of both of their features. “Did you see your dad?” She winks at Marcie.
    “Of course—he’s by the monument waiting for his race.” She indicates the direction with a nod of her head. They reach the scorer’s table and Marcie turns to give her name to the woman seated in front of her. The woman exclaims to her mother, “Well hello, Jill. Is this first place winner your daughter?”
    “Yes, this is Marcie.” Turning to Marcie she says, “This is Abby Swyndall. Her husband is the new President of the university.”
    “Nice to meet you,” replies Marcie. She feels a trickle of sweat run down her back between her shoulder blades and wishes she had something to wipe the sweat off her face.
    Mrs. Swyndall asks, “Aren’t you going into seventh grade in the fall?” Marcie nods. “My daughter Kaitlyn is in your grade. Do you know her?”
    “Yes, she’s in a couple of my classes.” Marcie does know her, but after starting school last fall, Kaitlyn moved easily into the “popular” group, so they didn’t socializemuch. She is momentarily distracted by Drew pulling on her shirt again to get her attention and tell her about the prizes he won that afternoon.
    Over Drew’s excited chatter, she hears her mom and Mrs. Swyndall talking. “Oh, yes, we’ll be up at the lake this summer. Our summer house is finally finished, so we want to enjoy it,” Mrs. Swyndall is saying. As she talks, her hands flutter in the air with a swirl of bright coral nail polish and the