There’s something you should know about me: I’ve spent my whole life leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

Well, replace leaping with hurdling.

And replace tall buildings with hurdles.

And replace my whole life with the last three years.

Still, I feel like Superman—or Superwoman—standing here at the starting line. This is it—this race is the one that will or will not qualify me for the Virginia State Track and Field Competition, or “states” as it’s called by most of my teammates. I’m lucky that the county track meet is at Molesworth High School, my home school, because I know this track better than I know a lot of my friends. I certainly spend more time with it lately than I do with them.

As a rule I don’t really get nervous, but clearly my opponent does. She’s pouring sweat like there’s a prize for Heaviest Perspirer. I turn to face the track and gaze out at the hurdles. The first one is fifteen yards from my feet, this line, and the sweat-soaked girl next to me. It’s nothing new or different, but the distance is always worth acknowledging. Just like how I have to greet each of the hurdles. Since you have to shake hands with your human rival, I figure you should recognize your real opponents on the track. In high school, there are eight hurdles over the course of three hundred meters. An hour before every meet, I walk the whole track and give a little nod to each and every hurdle. Once they’ve been acknowledged, they can be dismissed.

I’m a sprint hurdler. To me, the distance races are sort of a yawn. It’s like the difference between taking a shortcut versus the scenic route, and when the destination is states, I’d like to get there as quickly as possible. But first I’ve got to wait for the jumpers to get their highs and longs on. Once they finish leaping over their tall buildings, I can get back to mine.

I look over at the bleachers on the sidelines. My parents are sitting on their favorite bench in the third row. Dad says it has the best angle for the video camera, which is currently trained on me. When Mom sees me, she elbows him, points at me, and they both wave manically. They’re wearing matching Molesworth polo shirts, and my mom has spirit ribbons woven through her blond braid. Even from here, I can tell that they’re holding hands. My parents have been together since they met here at Molesworth High almost twenty years ago. It’s the kind of love story you’ve seen in a dozen romantic comedies—Mom was head cheerleader, Dad was the quarterback of the football team, they were king and queen of their junior and senior proms, and they were voted Cutest Couple in the yearbook.

On all sides of my parents are cheering, excited fans. It’s hard to believe how many people actually came out for the meet today. Girls’ track has become such a big deal at Molesworth that the varsity cheerleaders were recruited from boys’ basketball to give us some encouragement. I glance over at the long line of girls decked out in black and gold-that-isn’t-really-gold-but-actually-just-dark-yellow and notice a streak of blue breaking up the school-spirit rainbow. My boyfriend, Tommy Lawson, lead guitarist of our school’s hottest jam band, has stolen a set of pom-poms from one of the sophomores. The sparkly accessories clash with his vintage Aerosmith T-shirt and ripped jeans. The girl—Jenny? Mary?—giggles and swats at him as he pretends to do a cheer. He just grins at her and dashes down the line, bopping each girl on the head with a pom-pom along the way. All the girls—and I mean all the girls—turn to give Tommy a smile or a wink or a flirty little wave. This is what I get for dating one of the hottest guys in school. The competition is fierce—and it’s wearing spandex and eyeliner.

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?