I stood at the starting line, the cold air biting my arms and legs. Morgan and I stood behind the other five girls on our team in the varsity division race. My face was still red and puffed around the healing cut on my cheek; I just hoped there wouldn’t be a scar.
A whistle rang out, indicating a 60-second warning. “You ready?” Morgan asked as she shook out her arms. I bounced on my toes, trying to keep my legs warm. Whoever decided tiny, form-fitted shorts and tank tops were adequate running attire in a pack that has a half-year cold season was crazy.
“I think so,” I answered her. Morgan grabbed my hand and squeezed.
“The only difference between this and JV is the busybodies out front. Just stay with me; I’ll pace,” she smiled.
“I guess as long as I am not last, it won’t be so bad,
