Prologue

The dream took place at my high school track, a quarter-mile oval shimmering in the heat. Its rough rubber boiled beneath me as I slipped on a pair of spikes and scanned the bleachers.

An unusually large crowd filled the stands, and I didn’t find it remarkable that they were all mothers, rows and rows of mothers, as if our entire town had been emptied of its maternal core, which was now gathered at my high school and awaiting this, the greatest race of my life. They waved and shook hands with one another, flashed nervous smiles, then moved into position to watch us run.

Jeanette Riley was putting her spikes on beside me. In real life, Jeanette had been my most dreaded rival, and I had never beaten her. In my dream, she sent me an amused, sympathetic wink, as if to applaud me just for trying. Four hundred yards of hurdles stretched before us, and the winner would have a ticket to the state meet in Jefferson City. In real life, Jeanette had been there three times. I had only dreamed.

I stood behind my blocks, stretching my legs and flopping my arms around like Jeanette did. Her mother hovered as close as the officials allowed, in line with Jeanette behind the low spectator fence. She held her stopwatch and yelled, “Come on, Jeanette, concentrate. Don’t drink that water— put down the water.” Jeanette put her cup of water down. “Wristwatch! Wristwatch!” her mother yelled. Jeanette trotted over and let her mother remove the watch. Mrs. Riley rubbed her daughter’s arms and whispered something that cast a shadow over Jeanette’s pretty face. They stared at me with a united, steely expression.

My mother entered stage right, behind Jeanette’s mom. Her purse was slung over her arm, big Jackie-O sunglasses perched on top of her head. She greeted a succession of other mothers and gave a special wave to my best friend’s mom. Then she made her way trackside and scanned the crowd of coaches and athletes milling about. When she located me at the starting line, her face relaxed into a smile. Mrs. Riley came then, as she always did, and planted herself beside my mother, who lowered her sunglasses and offered a terse hello. A serious-looking man with a starter’s gun approached, and he gave us the usual pre-race instructions. Six other girls were there, but in my dream they were faceless. Only Jeanette mattered.

I crouched down in the blocks and felt my heart drop. We waited, gun raised, poised on our fingertips, eyes fixed down the lanes. Mom gripped the fence as the gun went off, and I hurled myself forward. Jeanette and I were airborne together over the first hurdle, left leg straight, right curled flat behind us.

Just as in real life, she pulled ahead. Jeanette’s mother screamed and shrieked and hollered. Side by side, my mother and Mrs. Riley watched. In the stands, all the other mothers leaned and stretched as we took the hurdles; they strained and shouted, willing us forward.

Jeanette’s mother’s screams would not stop. They rocketed through the air like a fire alarm. I sped up between the fourth and fifth hurdles and miraculously took the sixth in step with Jeanette. Her shocked expression gave me hope. I sped up a little more.

“Jea-nette! Move it!” Mrs. Riley shrieked. “Faster, Jeanette! Faster!”

Jeanette’s long legs pumped harder until she came even with me for the next hurdle. Her elbow swung left, striking my ribs as we landed. I stumbled, and, as happens only in dreams, a collective gasp escaped from the crowd. My mother lifted her sunglasses and gave Mrs. Riley a cold stare. I stayed on my feet, now two strides behind the pack of faceless girls and yards behind Jeanette. As we approached the last curve with only a hundred yards left before us, my mother’s alto suddenly came booming across the field, stunning Mrs. Riley into silence.

“Run, Caroline!” she shouted. “Run.” My legs responded with a magical burst of speed, hurling me past the pack, hot on Jeanette’s heels. When we passed in front of the spectators, I was matching her stride for stride.

“Goddamn it!” yelled Mrs. Riley.

“Run!” yelled my mother.

The other mothers raised their voices, too, in a united, desperate chorus, cheering in symbiotic accord with their fleet of daughters, flying madly down the lanes. We were living marionettes, tied by blood to our counterparts bordering the track. We were their younger legs; we ached beneath them like grieved phantom limbs. Our finish line was their victory.

I was a step ahead of Jeanette and then two. My mother knew it before I did, and her jaw dropped in proud amazement.

Jeanette shrieked once, and then I clipped the tape, arms raised.

I was doubled over and panting when Mom came to me, hopping effortlessly over the fence. The other mothers came pouring onto the track, too, finding their own daughters, who had appeared from nowhere, materializing like ghosts, all of us gasping for air.

In my dream, my mother hugged me tight. Her eyes were wide and intense. Alive.