Black Alley Read Online Free

spring, clenching your fists. You felt free when you ran: you moved forward, usually with your eyes closed, trying to express the person you knew you were but that no one else knew anything about. Your mouth always tasted like blood. At the finish line, a circle of students formed around Serge as he waited for you, his stopwatch in hand. We ran towards you, good job, Marcelo!, and we slapped you on the back, man, you run fast! You caught your breath, your hands on your hips, your head lowered. You’d run your best time, Marcelo, can you imagine! Serge came towards you: yes, your time was even better than Yuri’s. He hugged you with a smile: nice performance, champ!
    So, the team would be the same as the year before. So much the better, it was such a good team. We talked about the order they should run in, about each member’s strengths and weaknesses.
Most of the boys were quiet, hurt about being left off the team again. Just a second, Serge cut them off, there’s still the new boy. They looked around for him, where had he gone? Alone, under the colourful maple leaves in the middle of the playground, he was observing you and biting his nails. Serge motioned for him to come over, and, since he wasn’t wearing gym clothes, asked if he’d prefer to run another day. No, he’d rather do it right now and, without being asked twice, he went nonchalantly towards the starting line. They all looked at their watches: after this, it’s recess, so hurry up, new kid!
    Cléo’s take-off was so clumsy and slow that you, Marcelo, thought he’d probably never sprinted. He had no technique, raised his head way too high, needlessly thrust out his chest. But, Dios mío , once he got going, once his legs warmed up, he sped up so much that, one after the other, each head turned towards him. He stubbornly kept his eyes fixed on the sky and smiled as wide as he could. Still, he was paying so little attention to where he was going that he changed lanes. After a little while, he was running like you’d never seen anyone your age run. Several students, who had already lined up on the stairs, came back down, openmouthed. How could anyone explain it? It was unbelievable! He was so small and looked so harmless!
    When he finished his run, he came back towards you, an apologetic smile on his lips, as if asking to be forgiven for his achievement. Your eyes ate him up, but you didn’t dare come too close. Serge announced that he was, surprisingly, the fastest boy in grade five. Half-stifled ohs! and whoas! rose from the group. You made your way over to the new boy: there, he was right in front of you. How could you be jealous of a boy who’d only shown you who he really was? You put out your hand, the other boy shook it, his eyes laughing. The ice was broken: Cléo received an avalanche of pats on the back. Boys took him by the arms and raised them over his head. He laughed with excitement. We teased him: did he eat spinach like Popeye in order to run that
fast? No, he hated spinach, he shrugged his shoulders and again gave in to naïve mirth.
    Suddenly, Sylvain got angry with Serge: why wasn’t he saying anything? The new kid had left his lane! In a real competition, he would have been disqualified, obviously! Serge remained quiet another minute, then, remember his reprimanding tone: who did he think he was to talk to him like that, disrespectful brat! It was just that, the new boy wasn’t disqualified because it wasn’t a real competition! And he’d better not forget, Serge was the teacher! He gave a long blast on his whistle, class was over, it was time for recess. Serge was too fond of winning, he knew he’d be taking no chances with Cléo. In the middle of the playground, Sylvain, his arms crossed, stubbornly stared at you and Cléo. When you walked past him, with controlled anger, he shouted, “Go back to your own country, goddamnit . . .” At that moment, your