I love that my overactive imagination is rubbing off on him.
“Racers to the starting block,” Coach Lenny’s voice booms through the megaphone, “for the women’s long-distance trial.”
Griffin gives me a squeeze and a shove in the direction of the race.
My heart rate quadruples. People in the nothos world may not have ever heard of the Pythian Games, but in this world they’re the equivalent of the Olympics. Making the Cycladian team, competing against the best hematheos racers in the islands, is not going to be a cakewalk.
When I step into the starting box, though, my anxiety disappears. This is my home turf—literally, since we’re racing on the Academy course, but also figuratively. Distance running is my world, hematheos or not.
Coach Lenny lifts the starting pistol into the air and fires.
I turn on the autopilot, taking off with the two dozen other women competing for the three precious spots on the team. They’re all strangers, mostly older than me and from other islands in the Cyclades. There was no planning and strategizing how to beat the other racers ahead of time. This is just me, running my race. Five laps around the five-mile white course plus one around the yellow.
Tuning out everything but my feet and the course ahead, I run.
By the time I finish the fifth white lap, I can’t feel my legs. My lungs burn fire with every breath. I don’t know how long I’ve been running, but it must be over two hours. The end of my pain is just a mile and a quarter away.
As I make the turn from the white course onto the yellow, I begin to take stock of my surroundings. Not the trees and bushes and woodland critters; the other racers. There aren’t any.
Although I can’t see them anymore, I know there are two racers ahead of me on the track. Through my pain, I’d absently taken note when the two blondes had pushed out from the lead group a couple miles back.
I risk a glance back over my shoulder. I don’t see any racers behind me, either, but I can hear their footbeats on the path.
The anticipation of victory eases my pain. Third place means a spot on the team, and right now that’s all that matters to me.
When I face back to the front, there is a racer on the course. Her long brown ponytail bounces with every step, obscuring the competitor number pinned to her shirt. I blink my eyes, certain that I’m seeing things. She wasn’t there a second ago. But, no matter how many times I squeeze my lids shut and reopen them, she’s still there.
She also isn’t one of the two blondes who’d pulled into the lead. That means I’m in fourth place. There are no prizes for fourth.
“Impossible,” I mutter between gasping breaths.
Then, realizing the futility of denial, I turn off my shock. She is only about ten paces ahead of me. I can catch up with her on this final lap—maybe not easily, with my legs feeling al dente, but I can do it. When it comes to running, I can do anything.
Drawing on every last ounce of my energy, I increase my pace.
She must sense my acceleration, because she speeds up identically and keeps her solid lead.
I try again.
She matches me again.
Three times I speed up, only to watch her lead stay constant.
Finally, when I know I have next to nothing left to give, she starts pulling away. I’m getting left behind and there’s nothing I can do. Tears of frustration sting my eyes. I was so close—so close—to making the team, but my body just doesn’t have the juice to catch her.
We round the final bend in the yellow course, onto the straight-away to the finish line, and I watch her twelve-pace lead extend to thirteen. Fourteen.
“Aaargh!” I scream at myself. “Do something!”
My body responds by sending a shooting pain up my spine.
It’s so unfair. I owned this race. I deserve a place on the team.
But even as I rant in my mind, I know the truth. No one deserves to win. You have to earn the honor. And clearly the racer in front of me earned that honor today.
I focus my gaze on the finish line, intent on finishing this race with the pride that a fourth-place finish deserves. Maybe I can learn from this racer, from this loss. I’ll become a better athlete—
“What the—?”
In an instant, the girl with the long brown ponytail disappears. Not she-crossed-the-finish-line-and-disappeared-from-sight. Just . . . vanished. She glanced back over her shoulder, gave me what looked like a wink, and then evaporated. In a puff of smoke. Well, that was different.
Seconds later, I’m across the finish line. Coach Lenny is the first to rush me, grabbing me around the waist and lifting my dying body into the air.
“I knew you’d make the team, Castro,” he screams. Then, to the crowd, “This is my girl!”
“But . . . but . . .” I’m too exhausted to form the simple, burning question.
Coach Lenny drops me, nearly sending me to my knees, to record the time of the next racers to cross the finish line.
“Congratulations, Phoebola,” Mom says, hurrying to my side and placing supportive hands on my hips.
Doubled over in utter exhaustion, I manage to twist my head enough to glance up. Griffin is there, beaming at my victory. And Damian looks like he just won the lottery.
“Yes, congratulations,” he says, unable to hide a grin beneath his stuffy exterior. “You just passed your test.”
“What?” I gasp.
“That was your test,” he says.
“My what?” I manage to pull myself vertical. “My test? You mean that racer . . .”