Girl on Track

2| Call me obsessed

My lessons the next morning are spent dreaming about the track. Call me obsessed, but after six months of avoiding the track altogether, it feels like I'm finally home.

It's as though a race track turns me into somebody else. It's not that I don't want to be the girl I am when I race, it's more that I don't know how to be. Without my helmet and bike, I blend into the background, just another face in the crowd. But the track gives me the confidence to want to be noticed; it's why I always go back.

At lunch, I sit with Vanessa, the girl who's been assigned by the principal to show me around. She's petite but curvy, with brown skin, curly black hair and big dark eyes, the kind of girl who is friends with everybody. We don't have a single thing in common, but I'm grateful she hasn't left me to fend for myself.

We make small talk about lunch and all of the different vegan choices, and then she dives into the cliff notes version of her life story. I'm grateful she talks enough for both of us. While she tells me about her desire to become a world-renowned surgeon, I find myself fantasizing about my own future–one that stars me as Parkwood's next champion.

It's not likely. I've been away from the track for so long that I'd never be ready in time for the race, but I can't help but dream about it, anyway. 

When school lets out, I catch the bus home. It's a twenty-minute journey from Parkwood High to my house. I spend it looking out of the window with my earphones in, losing myself to some Ariana Grande.

Parkwood is your typical small, midwestern town. It's full of long roads and open space, with not much else. The move here wasn't for any particular reason except for that we needed a change. Home reminded mom too much of the accident, of heartache and physio, and crying until the early hours. 

So, when Dad suggested we start fresh somewhere, she jumped at the chance. Mom owns an online cupcake company, and dad's an online sports writer, which means disruption to their lives was minimal. Mine, not so much. 

My phone buzzes with a text from Kianna, my best friend from back home. She tells me about some drama that happened in gym today, and I text back with feigned interest, but already I feel the strain.

Back home, I shower and change into something more comfortable before eating dinner. Mom watches me with disapproval as I shovel down lasagna at the speed of light, sending splatters of sauce across the countertop.

"I suppose you're going to the track," she says, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter.

"I won't be back late," I say.

"You might not be back at all."

I frown a little. "I'm not going there to race. There's a job going as a waitress." The relief on her face is unmistakable. "But even if I did race, I know what I'm doing, Mom."

"So did your father," she reminds me softly, "and look what happened to him. The track doesn't care how good you are, Roxy. It doesn't care that you're my little girl, or that you have your whole life ahead of you. It will ruin your life."

I take a deep breath, placing my hand over hers. "You worry too much," I say, reaching for my helmet.

Mom beats me to it, holding it between her fingers with a far-off look. "And you don't worry enough," she says, slipping it over my head.

When I get to the track, it's as alive as ever. The sound of engines roaring is louder than the music I hear thumping from the rooftop. I park my bike and head up to the patio, searching for Alex.

She's busy serving a table but waves me over. "You made it. Head inside while I finish off this table."

I do as I'm told and make my way into the cafe, which is pretty much empty. I suppose most people come here to sit out on the patio and watch the races.