“Live your dream, Nicole,” she says, but for the last decade, my dream has been her dream. I pretended to be happy and didn’t let her see me cry, but now, less than a body length behind Greta at the 1000-meter mark, I feel so duped. My sister is in the stands with her diamond ring and a growing hint of softness to her face and arms, and I want to let my speed fling me off the tight curve of this track and up to where she’s sitting so I can shake her until she makes sense again. Or at least ask her what to do—not that I’d trust her answer anymore.
This unfamiliar uncertainty seizes my chest, and I lose my rhythm in a way I know Coach McMillan can see, and I wonder what I’m doing here, wonder about all the laps I’ve run since junior high school, how much of my life I’ve dedicated to this arbitrary thing. Maybe my sister is right to hang up her spikes and step off this hamster wheel.
The ringing bell of the last lap snaps me back into the race and my dismal position not only three meters behind Greta but also behind Melody. A part of me wants to stop, put my hands on my knees, lean over to catch my escaping breath, let the rest of the runners flow by me. Laying everything out there on this red track is raw and ragged, a searing discomfort, and doubt makes the whole endeavor too painful. By our time, I know Greta’s tears have not affected her performance in the least, and I don’t know how I can manage to negative-split this last lap.