Sprint

The article we read in science class has the answer: behavior can change brain chemistry. I don’t read further.

Later, when the gym teacher yells, “Sprint!” I take off. My science seems sound: if my chemistry won’t let go of those memories, then a different behavior should change them.

I slam my feet into the grass, pumping my knees faster than I think they can go. “Alright, Crace!” I hear Coach yell behind me.

I force myself faster and check on the memories: hiding in the bushes while he was in there with someone else… should be changing to… perfectly pruned bushes on either side of a front door that opens up to wrapped presents and birthday cakes…

The rest of my classmates are quick to quit. My old behavior would have joined them in a jog, but I keep stomping my chemistry into new memories. My legs grow heavy and panicked. My chest fills with sharp. The more it hurts, the faster I should run, right?

The science teacher mentioned something about the brain’s reward circuit. So, the sprinting pain should change the… flash from the polaroid camera he’d use…  to new memory prizes… selfies with fast food friends where none of us can stop laughing long enough to get a good shot...

Surprised by my new behavior, a few athletic classmates keep pace with me. Their brain chemistry is accustomed to competing but when they realize there are no flirty-eyed spectators around, they slow down.

My lungs plead with my stomach, “He needs to stop. Make him puke!” New pains spread through my body: stinging stitches, nauseas breaths, cramping muscles. I run faster into the hurts. Tears and sweat blot my eyes. Everyone is behind me.

I’ve never been first, and I see why it can be addictive. Dopamine, cortisol, serotonin and all the other things the science teacher talked about should be reacting with the… wrung nightmares that leak out in fragmented smells, sounds, and images too real to be dreams… and changing into… a teenager who doesn’t need to sprint memories out of their chemistry…

I pass the goalpost, refusing to slow down. “Crace, you can stop!” I hear Coach yell behind me. I roll onto the grass and wheeze back the insides that want to come up.

Did the experiment work? Have the memories changed? Can I be like my other classmates who are now jogging past the goalpost without all their chemistries spilling out?