Gcse English Language Paper 1 - Explorations In Creative Reading And Writing

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GCSE English Language
Paper 1 Explorations in creative reading and
writing
This extract comes from the end of a short story called 'She Wasn't Soft' by T Boyle. In the story, Paula is a
long distance runner, who is running a triathlon with her boyfriend Jason spectating- she is expected to
come second, beaten by her rival Zinny, and Jason has made a plan to sabotage Zinny's race by giving her
a cup of spiked juice as she runs past.
He found a knot of volunteers in their canary-yellow T-shirts and caps and stationed himself a hundred
yards up the street from them, the ice rattling as he swirled his little green time bomb around the lip of the
cup. The breeze was soft, the sun caught in the crowns of the trees and reaching out to finger the road here
and there in long slim swatches.
He’d never tell Paula, of course, no way, but he’d get giddy with her, pop the champagne cork, and let her
fill him with all the ecstasy of victory.
A cheer from the crowd brought him out of his reverie. The first of the men was cranking his way around the
long bend in the road, a guy with a beard and wraparound sunglasses—the Finn. He was the one favored to
win, or was it the Brit? Jason tucked the cup behind his back and faded into the crowd, which was pretty
sparse here, and watched the guy propel himself past, his mouth gaping black, the two holes of his nostrils
punched deep into his face, his head bobbing on his neck as if it weren’t attached right. Another guy
appeared around the corner just as the Finn passed by, and then two others came slogging along behind
him. Somebody cheered, but it was a pretty feeble affair.
Jason checked his watch. It would be five minutes or so, and then he could start watching for the Amazing
Bone Woman, tireless freak that she was. He fingered the cup lightly, reminding himself not to damage or
crease it in any way—it had to look pristine, fresh-dipped from the bucket—and he watched the corner at
the end of the street till his eyes began to blur from the sheer concentration of it all.
Two more men passed by and nobody cheered, not a murmur, but then suddenly a couple of middle-aged
women across the street set up a howl, and the crowd chimed in: the first woman, a woman of string and
bone with a puffing heaving puppet like frame, was swinging into the street in distant silhouette. Jason
moved forward. He tugged reflexively at the bill of his hat, jammed the rims of the shades back into his eye
sockets. And he started to grin, all his teeth on fire, his lips spread wide: Here, take me, drink me, have me!
As the woman drew closer, loping, sweating, elbows flailing and knees pounding, the crowd getting into it
now, cheering her, cheering this first of the women in a man’s event, the first Ironwoman of the day, he
began to realize that this wasn’t Zinny Bauer at all. Her hair was too long, and her legs and chest were too
full—and then he saw the number clearly, No. 23, and looked into Paula’s face. She was fifty yards from
him, but he could see the toughness in her eyes and the tight little frozen smile of triumph and superiority.
She was winning. She was beating Zinny Bauer and Jill Eisen and all those pathetic jocks laboring up the
hills and down the blacktop streets behind her. This was her moment, this was it.
But then, and he didn’t stop to think about it, he stepped forward, right out on the street where she could
see him, and held out the cup. He heard her feet beating at the pavement with a hard merciless slap, saw
the icy twist of a smile and the cold triumphant eyes. And he felt the briefest fleeting touch of her flesh as
the cup left his hand.

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