Just Like the Movies (2 page)

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek and bend down to tighten my laces. I need to stay focused on my body and this race, not on Tommy's habit of flirting with every girl within a five-foot radius. I re-pony my ponytail, making sure each blond strand is tucked into my hair elastic. As I start stretching my hamstrings for the umpteenth time, I see Coach Mason crossing the field. When he gets closer, he gives me a double thumbs-up.

“You got this, Marijke. You know you do,” he calls out.

I agree. I know I do. But I just smile.

Then Coach gives me his trademark “air high five.” He's really afraid of touching students, even via the high five, which is possibly the lamest of all physical contact. We slap air, keeping our hands a foot apart, before he hurries off the track toward the sidelines.

Just then, there's a fuzzy crackle over the loudspeaker and the announcer calls for hurdlers to move to their lanes. Sweaty McSweaterson and I take our marks and get into position. I focus on the track in front of me and force myself to concentrate. I'm not thinking about my opponent shaking off like a wet dog, perspiration flying in all directions. I'm not thinking about the pressure to win, which has weighed heavy on my shoulders like a chain-link blanket for the past several weeks. And I'm certainly, absolutely
not
thinking about my boyfriend flirting with cheerleaders while I prepare to compete in the biggest race of my life.

The shotgun fires and I almost hesitate. Almost, but not quite.

There are two Marijkes right now—the one who is back at the starting line worrying about Tommy, and the one who is already past the first low hurdle. As I fly over one after the other, I forget everything.

This is the only time I'm ever really alone—out here, running, racing with nothing but my body to answer to.

I'm not a part of a couple or a family or a team.

I'm just me.

As my feet hit the pavement, it's almost a rhythm. All my senses are on high alert. I can feel my opponent's footfalls next to me, vibrating the track. I can smell the freshly cut grass as I inhale through my nose and exhale from my mouth. My body knows how to do this. It gets its butt into gear and it drives me forward toward my goal. This is the time when I'm most relaxed, which is sort of ironic, since every part of me is taking action. Still, I feel at home in this moment. And it always passes me by way too fast.

I'm past the last white line before I even recognize what it is. By the time I've stopped, I'm a dozen yards past the finish. Coach is screaming his head off and my team is swarming onto the field and racing toward me. For a second, I think I've done something wrong.

Then I realize that I've won—that
we've
won. Molesworth girls' track is going to states.

“That wasn't even close!” Beth, our team captain, is breathless and gleeful. “Your competition's stutter step threw her off before she even got to the first hurdle. Girl didn't have a chance against you!”

I feel a little bad when I see my sopping-wet opponent, who seems to be dripping tears this time instead of sweat. But as my team raises me up onto Beth's shoulders, I can't help but feel thrilled. We've worked so hard for this.
I've
worked so hard for this. It's the spring semester of my senior year and finally, FINALLY, we're going to states.

I shield my eyes and see my parents hopping around on the outskirts of the crowd, spraying Silly String at each other. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. Mom and Dad lack that chip in their brains that tells them certain behavior isn't normal for adults. They have water-balloon fights. They order kids' meals at restaurants. All the high scores on the Wii are theirs. On more than one occasion I've caught them half-dressed, making out on the couch.

So. Gross.

Still, when Beth finally sets me down, I hurry through the throng of well-wishers to hug them.

“You go, girlfriend!” my dad calls out. “Rock on with your bad self!”

I roll my eyes. “Dad, your attempt at teen slang is so totally out of date.”

“Don't be hatin'!” he says. I look over at Mom, but she just grins back at me.

“Have you guys seen Tommy?” I ask, craning my neck to look over the crowd.

“Oh, he's around here somewhere,” my mom says, clinging to my arm. “Honey, we're just so proud of you!”

I let them shower me with compliments for a few more minutes until I see Tommy at the opposite end of the bleachers. I pry myself loose from my mother's grasp.

“Tommy!” I call out, breaking into a jog. My legs ache in protest, but I ignore their complaints.

Tommy turns around with that sexy smile only he can give—all lips, totally luscious. His dark hair is rumpled and he's got that five-o'clock shadow that makes him look more like a man than a boy. I love the way his blue eyes crinkle up at the corners when he sees me. It's like I'm the only girl in the world when he looks at me like that.

And then I notice the three girls sitting on the other side of him.

“Hey.” I reach out and grab his hand. He doesn't seem to mind as he pulls me into him. “Hey Jenny. Millie. Nina.” I nod at each girl and think of the hurdles. Acknowledge and dismiss.

“Hey Marijke,” Millie drawls, a sugary smile spreading across her bronzed face. “Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks.” I snake my left arm around Tommy's waist, then tilt my head up and smile at him.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Anything for you.” He leans down to kiss me, and it
feels as good as always—wet and miraculous and oh-so-hot. I can't help but bat my eyelashes at him. When I'm around Tommy, I always feel totally love-struck. Sometimes when I look at him, it's hard to believe that we've been together over a year now.

“Well, we'll let you two celebrate,” Millie says. All three girls stand and smooth down their too-short skirts.

“Bye Tommy,” Nina says, giving a wiggly finger wave that makes me want to break her hand.

“How about you get your own, Nina?” I mutter under my breath as she heads down the bleachers behind her friends. She doesn't hear me, but Tommy does; he elbows my side lightly.

“Be nice.”

“Why should I? She clearly wants you.”

Tommy laughs and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

“You, my love, are just jealous.”

“Maybe,” I grumble.

There's that word: “love.” I wish it didn't affect me so much when Tommy says it, but it does—mostly because he says it a lot, but never with “I” before it and “you” after it. There's lots of love in our relationship. There are e-mails and texts signed with “love.” But no actual “I love you.” Not yet.

“So, how does it feel to be a state champ?” he's asking me. I smile and shake my head.

“County.
County
champ. States are two weeks away in Salverton.”

“Right, right. So, how does it feel to be a
county
champ?” he amends, tugging my ponytail. He places a hand at the small of my back, and I start feeling that warm, gushy sensation invade my belly.

“You know what?” I say, grinning. “It feels pretty damn good.”

High above our heads, the loudspeaker crackles to life. I squint up at the press box, where our new athletic director, Mr. Saunders, is standing at the microphone.

“Marge-uh-kuh? Marge-uh-kuh Monti?”

“It's MA-RAY-KUH!” I yell up to him. “And that's me.”

“Well, Ma-ray-kuh,” he says slowly, emphasizing every syllable, “a young man offered to clean the boys' locker room for a month if I played this song for you.”

The speakers buzz and I glance around, confused, as the music starts. It takes me a minute to hear the low, husky voice through the static; when I finally do, I'm totally shocked. I turn to face Tommy.

“That's you singing?”

“Yup.”

“You had them play a song for me?”

“Yup.”

I throw my arms around his neck. “I can't believe you! This might be the sweetest thing you've ever done!”

He sweeps me into his arms and pulls off an improvised, if sloppy, waltz to his band's song “Blue Morning.” It's times like this when I know that my obsession with three little words is just silly. It's obvious that Tommy loves me. I mean, he wouldn't have done something this romantic if he didn't, right?

I don't know what I was thinking when I said I could come to school on a Saturday. I am
such
a sucker.

Spread out in front of me are two county maps, a list of bus drivers as long as my arm, and at least six hundred children's books. When I told the Student Government Association I'd spearhead our MobileStories Bookmobile initiative, I didn't think that would translate to mapping routes, organizing drivers, and boxing books by myself over the weekend.

“This is what I get for volunteering,” I say aloud to the empty room. “It's not Meagan or Courtney who are sacrificing their cheerleading engagements for the sake of a good cause.”

I look up at the wall clock. I've been here for more than four hours now and I'm still not done. My mom always says I
need to learn to rely on other people for help. I'd say she's right if there
were
any other people to rely on around here.

“SGA secretary doesn't equal whipping boy, Lily,” she'd said this morning as I poured myself a second mug of coffee.

“It does when you're trying for a full ride to Virginia University.”

Mom sighed. “You've been accepted—that's the first step.”

“It will look good on internship applications,” I said between sips of my favorite French roast. “And my résumé. And . . . you know . . . other stuff with lists.”

“Right. Because you need
more
volunteer work on your applications and your résumé. You might be the only student in history to have a separate page attached just for your philanthropy.”

“And
you
might be the only parent in the world who discourages her daughter from giving back.”

Mom shook her head. “I'm not saying you shouldn't give back, honey. I'm just saying that you already give so much—I can't help but worry that there won't be anything left for you.”

“Yeah, I feel the same way about some of the dates you've been on lately,” I muttered under my breath.

Now, though, I'm still thinking about her words as I run my rainbow of highlighters over the three different
bookmobile routes. It's not like I'm
always
the one in charge. When it comes to the dances and the pep rallies—well, I leave those kinds of hype jobs to my peppier counterparts, SGA president, Courtney, and her VP, Meagan.

Let's be honest, if we're trying for sheer numbers of people or quantity of enthusiasm, I'm not the best representative of our senior class. Last week, two girls in gym asked me if I was a new student. When I reminded them that we'd had math together—in middle school—they looked at me suspiciously, like I was making the whole thing up. The only reason I even got to be SGA secretary was that there was a last-minute opening and no time for new elections. The principal just pulled my name from a list of students with high GPAs and no discipline record. What's worse than being excluded? Being included by default, courtesy of school administration. There's nothing like a principal's endorsement to solidify one's unpopularity.

There are some advantages to flying under the radar like I do. By working behind the scenes, I never get a lot of credit, but I also don't have to field the blame. When people hated last year's Honky-Tonk Hoedown theme for the fall dance, I didn't have to answer for it. When Vegateens, the vegan students' association, complained about the portrayal of poultry in our “Don't Chicken Out—Come to the Student-Teacher Basketball Game” slogan, I let Courtney handle the fallout.

Of course, sometimes it would be nice to get a
little
credit. It's kind of weird to be such a big part of things but not a part of things at all. At least not enough to be recognized. Most of the time, I just try to convince myself that I don't care.

I pull myself up to standing and stretch my legs. A tangle of black curls flops over my forehead and I repin it with a clip; the unruliness of my hair always feels a little ironic, considering how quiet I am and how unrestrained my curls are. They demand attention. I demand bobby pins.

I'm about to start boxing up the last of the books when, through the half-open window, I hear the roar of a cheering crowd. I'd almost forgotten that the county track meet was today; it was part of the reason I'd been saddled with this big job by myself. Courtney, Meagan, and the rest of the cheerleaders had to be there, but most of the student government representatives wanted to go too. As for me, I could count on one hand the number of sporting events I'd been to in high school.

Or, you know,
ever
.

The cheering continues, and I move to the window to squint out toward the lower sports fields. From here, the trees block most of the track and what I can see is fuzzy. I'm sure I'll know soon enough if the Molesworth High girls' track team made it to states. Then there will be more pep rallies and posters and fund-raisers for spirit T-shirts.
With every winning moment comes more work and more planning.