Dorkina

And then I almost crash into a cheerleader.

"Watch it, dorkina! She says.

I stagger to one side to let her pass. Breathing hard, I lean against the folded-up bleachers and try to get the vision back. But it's like trying to return to a dream after you're fully awake. It's gone.

Crap. No one's ever called me a dorkina before. Derivative of dork. Not good.

"No stopping," calls Mrs Schwartz, the PE teacher. "We want to get an accurate record of how fast you can run a mile. That means you, Clara."

She must have been a drill sergeant in another life.

"If you don't make it in less than ten minutes you'll have to run again next week," She hollers.

I start running. I try to focus on the task at hand as I swoop around the next corner, keeping my pace quick to make up some of the time I've lost. But my mind wanders back to the vision. The shapes of the trees. The forest floor under my feet strewn with rocks and pine needles. The boy standing there with his back to me as he watches the fire approach. My suddenly so-very-rapidly-beating heart.

"Last lap, Clara," says Mrs Schwartz.

I speed up.

Why is he there? I wonder, not closing my eyes but still seeing his image like it's burned onto my retinas. Will he be surprised to see me? My mind races with questions, but underneath them all there is only one:

Who is he?