The girls arrive at school early Saturday morning, where Naomi, Alanna, and I greet them. A quick head count reveals that everyone except Anna, who’s been battling the flu, has shown up. “Our best turnout ever! You guys are awesome!” Naomi cheers. Meanwhile, Alanna and I nurse our coffees and try to appear awake. Alanna turns to me and whispers, “A few years ago, we had only four girls. It was kind of a disaster. So this is a really, really good turnout. Rhonda is going to be thrilled.”
We hand out breakfast bars and juice boxes, and after we’re sure everyone’s eaten, we usher the girls onto the bus waiting to drive us to Queens, where the race will take place.
The girls are uncharacteristically quiet on the ride over. “Are you guys tired?” I ask them.
“Um . . .” says Margarita, slouched low in the pleather bus bench.
“We’re nervous,” says Josie, with an authority that doesn’t make her seem nervous in the least.
“I can understand that,” I tell them. “This is my first time running a five-K race, too.”
“Really?” says Charity, her eyes bulging. “I thought you coaches were, like, runners. You know. Real runners.”
“Technically, we’re all real runners—you and me and everyone else here,” I tell her. “But other than gym class when I was younger, I didn’t start running until I began practicing with you guys. I don’t run races all the time like Coach Alanna does.”
“So you’re nervous, too,” says Margarita, chewing on the straw from her juice box.
“A little,” I tell her. “But excited. And remember, we just ran three miles last week at practice. That’s the same distance we’ll be running today. So I know for a fact that we’ll be just fine.”
“If you say so,” says Josie skeptically, but I can see that she’s holding back a grin.
We pull into the gravel parking lot, which is filled with buses and cars. Through the window, I see that girls and coaches and parents have swarmed the field. School flags, Take the Lead banners, and colorful tents blocking the bright April sun are propped up every few feet, making it look almost like a fair. At the base of the parking lot, I spot dozens of corporate sponsor stands offering free food, beverages, and goodie bags.
“This is huge,” I say to Naomi.
“There are supposed to be almost nine hundred runners today, including the coaches and volunteers who run with the girls,” she tells me. “But don’t worry, everything’s really well organized so the girls don’t get overwhelmed.”
“You mean so I don’t get overwhelmed.”
“You’ll be fine. Although I advise visiting the spa tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”
We make our way over to a plot of grass that’s set aside for the girls’ school. There, we arrange blankets on the ground and put up the hand-painted Take the Lead sign we made at the last practice. Several of the girls’ parents and siblings have arrived early, and Alanna, Naomi, and I introduce ourselves, making sure to tell each parent a little something about his or her daughter.
Just when I think I’ve spoken with everyone, a short, curvy woman in a kelly green sundress and high wedge heels saunters over to where I’m standing. Although not particularly beautiful, she’s striking all the same, and oozes self-assurance.
“I’m Lorelei Reyes,” she says, extending her hand to me. I smile and return her firm handshake, trying in vain to place her. Sensing my uncertainty, she adds with a laugh, “Oh! Sorry. I’m Estrella’s mother.” So this is what Naomi and Alanna were referring to. No wonder Estrella is—well, so Estrella. Even after having known her for all of thirty seconds, I can tell that Lorelei is one of those charismatic, super-confident people who couldn’t care less what others think of her. She reminds me at once of Julia.
As if on cue, Estrella spots her. “Mama!” she yells, running over to where we’re standing. She throws her arms around her waist and presses her head against her chest.
“Hello, my beauty,” says Lorelei, kissing the top of Estrella’s head. She turns to me. “Estrella has told me great things about you. I want to thank you for being such a terrific role model for my daughter.” Leaning in, she says just loud enough that I can hear her, “You’re her favorite coach, you know. I think she identifies with you.”
Fifteen weeks ago, this comment probably would not have sat so well with me. But since then, my opinion of Estrella has done quite a turnaround. “Thank you,” I say to Lorelei. “You have no idea what a compliment that is.” I pat Estrella’s arm. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you that you’ve raised an amazing young woman.”
“Aww, thanks, Coach Marissa!” Estrella says, unwrapping her arms from around her mother so she can hug me. “I like you, too. Are we going to run together today?”
“You know it, kid,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The other coaches and I make sure each girl has her race number pinned to her shirt and has had a chance to go to the bathroom. Then, before I know it, Rhonda announces over a loudspeaker that there are just ten minutes until the race begins.
“Okay, girls!” claps Alanna. “Let’s form a circle so we can get a good stretch in before we head over to the starting line.”
The girls gather round, and Naomi asks each of them to lead a different stretch. As we wind down, I feel myself buzzing with anticipation, and some nervousness, too. I say a silent prayer that everything goes okay.
Holding hands so we won’t get separated, we twist and wind through the masses until we reach the roped-in area behind the start line. Alanna leads us in a cheer, and tells the girls that the goal is to do their best. Then she reminds everyone to look for the parents and Welden teachers at the finish line. “They’ll walk you back over to our designated area. And remember, if you need anything—Band-Aids, water, snacks—tell one of the volunteers along the way. They’ll be wearing Take the Lead shirts, so you can’t miss them.” All traces of their earlier uncertainty long gone, the girls nod and yell, “Okay!” and “Yeah!” as they jump up and down with excitement.
The horn bleats and we’re off.
As she promised, Estrella stays at my side, as do Charity and Margarita—not an easy feat initially, as oodles of girls and coaches and volunteer “buddy runners” push past us. Although the crowd slows our pace, it’s a blessing in disguise; a too-fast takeoff, I’ve learned, almost always leads to early burnout. “Let me know if you need a break,” I tell our little group, and wave at Alanna as she jogs past with Layla and Josie, who are the two fastest girls at our school.
After a few minutes, the crowd thins, and the four of us are able to spread out. The racecourse takes us from the dirt path around the field onto the street, which has been partitioned off from traffic. We run past multifamily homes and churches and schools where bystanders watch, sometimes cheering, sometimes peering curiously at the hundreds of determined young girls trekking past them.
We’ve been jogging for what seems like years when we make our way to a line of volunteers holding out paper cups filled with water and Gatorade. “Yay, girls!” they holler, clapping and waving. “You can do it! You’re almost at the one-mile marker!”
That’s it? Only one mile? I think with a little disappointment, although I don’t dare utter it out loud. Maybe it’s the blazing hot sun or my jitters, but this mile has seemed so much longer than in practice.
“Only two miles to go! We are aaaamaaaaazing!” shouts Estrella, tossing her empty paper cup on the ground as the volunteers have instructed us to do. Her gusto instantly shoots down my disappointment. She’s right, of course; two more miles is nothing. As I myself told the girls this morning, we’ve been covering that in practice for almost a month now.
“We can do it!” I cheer, and another group of girls running near us with their coach shouts at me, “Yes you can! Yes you can!” They put out their palms as they pass us and we high-five them.
As we make our way around a corner, I find myself easing into a comfortable stride, even though we’re running slower than I would on
my own. Every once in a while, Margarita picks up her pace and runs ahead of us, then walks for a few minutes until we catch up with her. “You can go ahead if you want to, Margarita,” I tell her, but she shakes her head. “I want to finish with you guys,” she says resolutely.
Before I know it, we come up on the second-mile marker.
“We’re so close!” says Charity. Ever the joker, she adds, “I can see the finish line from across the field. Maybe we should cut across so we can get there before everyone else.”
“We could,” I say between breaths, “but we probably wouldn’t feel as good about ourselves as if we actually finished the race, now, would we?”
“Probably not,” she concedes.
Another loop around the field and I’m officially roasting. I wipe my brow with the edge of my T-shirt, and gladly accept a cup of water when we hit another volunteer stand.
“We can’t give up now,” says Estrella, splashing some of the water in her cup on her face.
“Nope,” I agree with a smile. “We’re so close.”
“When we see the three-mile sign, let’s run as fast as we can to the finish,” Margarita tells us.
“That sounds good to me. Sound good to you, girls?” I ask, and they nod in agreement.
But just as the finish line and the crowd of cheering bystanders behind it come into sight, Estrella doubles over in pain.
“My side,” she says, clutching at her waist. “It hurts. Bad.”
“Let’s stop for a second,” I tell her. “Margarita, Charity, you can go on ahead if you want. We’ll meet you back at the Welden flag.”
“No way, Coach Marissa,” says Charity. “We’ve come this whole way together. We’re waiting for Estrella.”
“Yeah,” says Margarita. “She’s our friend. Friends don’t leave friends behind.”
Damn skippy they don’t. “You girls are amazing,” I tell them as I pat Estrella’s back softly. Her face bright red, she huffs and puffs, and for a second I’m afraid she’s about to start hyperventilating. But she slowly walks her hands up her thighs so that she’s upright again. Letting out a big sigh, she says, “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this thing.”
I let out a little laugh. “Let’s do it,” I say. “We’ll run fast if we feel like it, but either way, we’re going to cross that finish line.”
“Okay!” says Charity, doing a little skip. “Let’s go!”
We start to jog again, so slowly that we’re practically walking. Within minutes, though, we’re back to the pace we were at before. Two hundred yards from the finish line, Margarita looks at Estrella. “How are you feeling?” she asks. “Ready to go fast?”
“I am,” says Estrella, and although I swear I detect the slightest hint of pain on her face, she hikes up her arms as though she’s about to sprint out of a starting block. “On your mark, get set, go!” she yells, and the girls start running as fast as they can toward the giant TAKE THE LEAD banner over the finish line.
I intend to stay just a few feet behind them, just in case, but Estrella hollers behind her, “Come on, Coach Marissa! Through the finish line with us!” I zoom ahead, and on either side of me, Estrella and Margarita grab my hands and lift them up as we cross the bright yellow line, to the cheers of the parents and teachers and other girls waiting.
It’s a Chariots of Fire moment, but it touches something deep inside of me, and I find myself tearing up as the girls and I grouphug on the side of the track. Like Rhonda predicted, I feel incredible. Four months ago, I could barely run a mile. Now I’ve just finished 3.2 of them, in a none-too-shabby time of thirty-five minutes and eight seconds. More important, I’ve finally learned the true meaning of what I’ve been trying to teach the girls all these months: self-esteem.
Thirty-five
Svelte sends me off with a teary if anticlimactic good-bye party. After I’ve said my last farewell and have packed up two measly boxes with my personal belongings to ship to the Take the Lead offices, I do something I’ve never done before: skip the elevator and walk down all twenty-four flights of stairs to the lobby. Then I walk a block to the F stop, calves aching slightly, and hop on the subway. I expect to feel different somehow—after all, this is the last time for the foreseeable future that I’ll do this exact commute, and moreover, I’ve literally just left a perfectly good job to do something that I’m still not convinced I’m qualified for—but as the train rumbles along the tracks, all I can think about is how I feel utterly untransformed. Somehow, though, this comforts me; I’ve done enough evolving recently to last the entire decade.
When I get home, Dave is waiting for me with a bottle of champagne. “I thought a celebration was in order, so I took off early,” he says, pulling out the cork. Golden-white bubbles spill over the side of the bottle, but Dave just laughs. “It’s good luck,” he says, filling our glasses. He holds one out to me, and I clink it with his.
“To good luck,” I say.
“And new beginnings,” he says, meeting my eyes.
After we take a sip, Dave pulls me close. “Marissa, I love you,” he says, touching his forehead to mine. Who needs closure? I think. There’s nothing better than this, right here and now.
“And I love you,” I say. “More than anything.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Really,” I tell him. “You’re my life.”
He pulls back so he can see me, and gently pushes my hair away from my face.
“Marry me,” he whispers, his eyes searching my face.
This time, my instinct isn’t to run. Because unlike when Nathan proposed so many years ago, I am not young and stupid and afraid of love. I am ready for commitment and its consequences.
I tilt my chin up and our lips meet. “Yes,” I mouth before kissing him. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.”
“That wasn’t planned,” he confesses later. We’re sitting in the swinging bench on our patio finishing off the last of the champagne. It’s one of the first warm evenings of the spring, and above us, a splattering of stars are peeking out from behind some lingering clouds. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a ring ready. I looked at a few, but nothing seemed just right . . . and I thought I’d have at least a few more weeks to search.”
“I don’t care about a ring,” I tell him. “That was perfect. I love that you did it because the moment was right, not because you had a whole elaborate thing set up.”
“Well, now that we’re doing true confessions, I didn’t actually have anything planned. I was at a total loss for how to propose. But, damn, am I ever glad I did it anyway,” he says, smiling at me.
“Mr. Bergman, are you losing your super-anal streak?” I tease.
“Future Mrs. Bergman, you’d better not be giving me a hard time. You yourself said that this turned out perfectly,” he says. He kisses me again and I bite his bottom lip playfully. Then I look at him: his wavy brown hair, the hint of freckles across his high cheekbones, his deep-set eyes, which make him look thoughtful even when he’s completely zoned out during a Saturday afternoon Xbox marathon. This is the man I’m choosing to spend the rest of my life with. It is an overwhelming but wonderful thought.
“Um, holy crap. We’re getting married,” I tell him.
“We’re getting married,” Dave says, his whole face lit up. “It’s officially the end of our youth—although I’m sure several of our friends would say that we gave that up the minute we moved in together. That’s how I knew I wanted to marry you, by the way.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because even though the past six months have been ridiculously hard, with everything that’s been going on, they’ve been the best six months of my life. I love waking up to you every morning and curling up with you every night.” He takes my hand and draws little circles around my ring finger. “So who are you going to tell first?”
My instinct is to say Julia. If this were a year ago, I would have texted her within minutes of Dave’s proposal. But it’s not, and while I love my friend, I don’t want her to
pop the blissful bubble I’m floating in with some comment about how Dave’s not the one for me.
“I think I’m going to wait to tell everyone back home. We’ll see them soon, anyway,” I tell him, referring to the fact that we’ve agreed to spend the upcoming weekend in Michigan. “We can make our announcement then.”
“Okay. But do you care if I call my parents tonight?” he asks, looking vaguely worried.
“Of course not!” I say, hugging him. “Let’s call them together. I can’t wait to tell your mom.”
“And I can’t wait to tell your mom,” he tells me with a slightly evil grin on his face. “Just wait until we tell her that we’re going to get you good and fat for the wedding.”
Thirty-six
I plan; my subconscious laughs. Despite my intention to keep the engagement secret until Dave and I are with my whole family, the minute I see Sarah I blurt out, “We’re engaged!”
“Oh my God, oh my God!” Sarah screams, bouncing up and down in the passenger seat of the Death Star. As usual, she has insisted on picking me up from the airport instead of letting Dave and me rent a car.
“Ahem,” coughs Marcus from behind the wheel. “Language, Sarah.”
“Whatever,” she scoffs. “If ever there was a time to take the Lord’s name in vain, Marcus, I think this is it.” She leans over the armrest to give me a hug. “I am so excited for you. But tell me this doesn’t mean I have to wear a Pepto-Bismol bridesmaid dress? Please?”
“Not to worry, my dear sister. Not only will there not be a trace of pastel at the ceremony, I’m not even sure that I want to have a bridal party. Although we really haven’t worked out the details yet.”
“Really? No bridal party?” Sarah says, looking slightly disappointed. Then her face brightens. “Who cares? You’re getting hitched! Just wait until Ella finds out. Now you’ll officially be Uncle Dave,” she says to Dave.
“I could get used to that,” he says bashfully, and I swear I detect the slightest flush across his cheeks.
Making our way down the highway, we pass field after field. In one green swath of land, I spot a deer and her two fawns in the distance, taking advantage of the last bit of light left in the evening. I feel a sentimental pang. I may have spent my childhood and adolescence dreaming about New York, but Michigan was home. Now, with my engagement, it’s as though I’ve fully admitted that I won’t be returning to the place that had so much to do with the person I became.
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