“I heard that, Miss Thompson. Positive thinking is key to success.”
“Positive thinking doesn’t change the laws of physics,” she replies.
“Now,” the mayor continues, “we’ll start with basic walking, then progress to running. The key is to move as one unit.”
He demonstrates with an invisible partner, high-stepping like a show pony while making what he probably thinks are helpful hand gestures but look more like he’s fighting off invisible bees.
“Questions?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Boone raises his hand. “Which two people actually get tied together? There’s four of us.”
“Ah, good point. The official race will be Miss Thompson and one McCoy brother. You’ll need to decide among yourselves.”
All eyes turn to me, and I shrug. “I volunteer.”
“Of course you do,” Wyatt says.
Callie kneels down next to my right leg to tie the fabric strip. She’s focused on the knot, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, when I shift my weight and accidentally knee her in the shoulder.
“Ow! Hold still!”
“Sorry, I?—”
She yanks the fabric tight in retaliation, hard enough that I lose my balance and have to grab her shoulder to stay upright. This puts us in an awkward position where I’m basically bent over her, my hand on her shoulder, her face dangerously close to areas that are responding to her proximity.
“This is already a mess,” she mutters.
“Want me to stand on one leg?” I offer, trying to be helpful.
“That seems safe,” Wyatt comments dryly.
I lift my free leg, balancing like a flamingo. It works for exactly three seconds before I start tilting backward. Callie, still trying to tie the knot, gets pulled with me. Wego down in a heap, her on top of me, the fabric strip somehow wrapped around both our legs AND my arm.
“How did you even—” she starts, trying to untangle us.
“Natural talent,” I wheeze, because she’s got her elbow in my stomach.
After a solid minute of undignified writhing, we finally get properly tied together and stand up. Callie’s hair is messed up, there’s grass on my back, and we haven’t even started yet.
“Inside foot first,” she instructs.
We step. Our inside feet go forward perfectly. Our outside feet, however, have different ideas. Mine goes back for some reason, hers goes sideways, and we do this weird twisted hop that ends with us facing different directions while still tied together.
“Other way!” she yells.
“Which way is other?”
“The way that doesn’t break my ankle!”
We spin, trying to get facing the same direction, but the fabric twists more. Now we’re back-to-back, tied at the ankle, hopping in a circle like some demented folk dance.
“Stop spinning!” Callie gasps.
“You’re the one spinning!”
“We’re both?—”
THUD.
