That realization could throw me into a deep, dark depression that I can’t afford to wallow in today. So, drawing on years of pre-race psychology experience, I shove those thoughts into the back of my mind.
And just in time, too.
“Racers, to your positions,” Coach Lenny—referee of the day— calls.
The five girls from the Academy and I line up in our box. The girls from Lyceum Olympia, Academia Athena, and HestiaSchool line up in theirs.
Coach Lenny holds up the starting pistol and my heart jumps.
Then he fires the go shot and everything else fades away.
Halfway through the eight kilometer—five mile—race I’m in the lead pack with four other girls. Jackie Lavaris is a few paces ahead of me.
My eyes are trained on her back. I’ve read her number—thirtyseven—about a million times. At least once for every step since we left the starting line.
I turn it into my mantra.
Thir-ty-sev-en.
Over and over and over again.
Thir-ty-sev-en. Thir-ty-sev-en. Thir-ty-sev-en.
If someone asked me my age right now I’d tell them thirty-seven.
I wish I could know what Jackie is focusing on. She’s like a machine. Same rhythm, same pace over every terrain. Every slope. Every turn.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be able to catch her.
One mile from the finish line I hit the wall.
My legs feel like melted Jell-O. Every breath I manage to suck in sends sharp pain through my lungs and radiating out to the rest of my body. I can’t feel my feet anymore.
But my eyes are glued to number thirty-seven.
Thir-ty-sev-en.
Jackie is only two paces in front of me now. The other girls from the lead pack faded half a mile ago, so we are alone in the lead. In the four miles I have been watching her, Jackie hasn’t shown a single sign of weakness. No slip or stumble. No surreptitious glance over her shoulder to see who’s close.
Nothing.
The only sign that she’s actually exerting herself is the sweat soaking her shorts and tank top. That keeps me going—at least she’s working hard.
But I can feel myself weakening.
Like I’m using the very last of my energy reserves and am not going to have anything left for a strong finish. In fact, I might not have anything left at all.
Suddenly, Jackie moves ahead three paces.
No, she doesn’t move ahead. I drop back.
I’m fading.
Crap! I’ve worked too hard the last three weeks—my entire life— to lose now. All those extra hours and lack of sleep weren’t in vain. I won’t let it be for nothing.
And I’m not letting four miles worth of thir-ty-sev-ens go to waste.
Digging deeper than I’ve ever dug before, I scrape up the last shreds of my energy from the furthest reaches of my soul and—just as I pass the four-and-a-half-mile mark—step up my pace a notch. I close in two paces.
I feel myself burst through the wall, demolishing it with a mental sledgehammer. Energy—or adrenaline or endorphins—flows through me and all my pain fades away.
My leg muscles tighten for a second to let me know they’re back in action. I feel my feet pound the dirt path. My lungs fill with oxygen and I’m not racked with crippling pain anymore. It’s like I’m just starting the race instead of almost finishing.
I’ve pushed through the wall before, but it’s never felt like this. Like I’m racing fresh. Fully recovered.
We pass the four-and-three-quarter-mile mark.
I close in another pace.
Only one pace separates me from victory.
I can see the finish line—and the small sea of people waiting—in the distance. It’s a straightaway from here.
The onlookers catch sight of Jackie and send up a cheer.
Spurred on, I close in another pace. We’re neck-and-neck. For the first time in the entire race, she glances to the side. I grin at the shocked look on her face—until she speeds up and I have to match her pace to catch her.
The finish line is closing in, so I turn up the fire and try to take the lead. Jackie keeps my pace easily. I give it more. So does Jackie. I can’t get ahead.
I take a deep breath and—for a split-second—close my eyes. I think of my dad, wanting to win this race, like every other one, for him.
When I open my eyes I’m ahead.
I don’t look to see where Jackie is. I’m ahead and I’m not going to lose the lead.
Thinking of Dad, I put every ounce of my being into closing the last hundred yards. I see everyone cheering for me—Coach Lenny, Mom, Damian, Stella (yes, even Stella), Troy, Griffin, Nicole, and—
Oh my god!
Nola and Cesca are standing at the finish line.
A bright glow surrounds me as I pound the dirt. Something’s not right, but my mind is mush and all I can think about is getting to the finish line—first—before collapsing. My best friends and my new friends are all there waiting for me and I have to get there or die trying.
Then, all of a sudden, I’m across the line.
The crowd around me is cheering.
Everyone rushes me, surrounding me, hugging me. I struggle to breathe and remain upright. The endorphins are failing me now.
The last thing I remember before collapsing is Troy’s smiling face and that’s when I know. I didn’t win this race without help.
Which means I didn’t win at all.
Chapter 11
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you guys are here,” I repeat for, like, the millionth time, as we walk back across campus. After my race, we had stayed to watch the boys run. Griffin won by nearly two minutes and, even though he was a sweaty mess when he met Nola and Cesca, they were suitably impressed. It feels so good to have my girls at my side.