A 70. That's all it took; one 70 on a math exam. It stared at me, making me hate myself with every second that passed. I screwed up; it was obvious to me. I can't even imagine how this could have possibly happened. Maybe someone drugged me. Or maybe I thought I was taking my Spanish exam instead. Yeah, that must be it. Because I can't think of any logical reason for me getting a 70 on my AP Calculus exam while being conscious and fully aware of what I was doing.

I knew it was over. The scholarship I was after slipped away from me because of one grade. Now Sally Anderson was going to get it, and my place in the student honor role was pushed back to 11. And she didn’t even need a scholarship, she was rich. She didn't deserve it either; she was only an average student. But that doesn't matter; she got a 74 on the final math test, so she could go to college for free.

There was no way I could show my face at home. Not after I proudly announced to my parents the week before how this torture was over. How I was finished; I didn't need to take tests anymore, my place in a good college was promised. I was wrong. I'm an embarrassment. And not because my parents would be mad, they'd never do that. They'll just tell me that it's ok, that it happens. That everything will work out in the end. That no matter what grade I get, they'll always love me. But that didn't matter to me as long as I was still stuck with that 70.

I began to clench tightly onto the sheet of the test, my nails digging into it. I started to tear it apart in full rage. I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember is pieces of paper everywhere. Good thing no one was in the classroom anymore. I shamefully bent down and picked up all those little pieces of paper, collecting them in my red, shaking hands and threw them into the trash.

I walked over to the girls' changing room by the gym, went over to my locker and took out my shorts, t-shirt and old, worn-out, grey running shoes. I got in one of the stalls, and quickly changed my outfit. I walked over to the tracks outside and started running and didn't stop until both my legs were swollen and sore. I ran 5 laps in 6 minutes. I've always been above averege in P.E., but I had no idea what I was capable of. That's when I realized; who needs math when you're swift?

It's two and a half years later and I'm squatting, one knee in the front, the other leg stretched out and both my hands on the track. My uniform had a 7, the letters USA and my last name printed on the top. My shorts matched it and my shoes were Nike. The girls next to me had fake-angry expressions on their faces. They tried to look intimidating, an old trick you learn in training, but they just looked ridiculous.

I looked up at the crowd and found my parents jumping up and down with the US flag in their hands. I licked my lips and watched the man with the gun. He was yelling short words in broken English; everyone changing position along with what he said. Soon after that, he fired a shot in the air and all 8 of us began to run. I took small steps and breathed the way I was taught by my running coach.

I never got a chance to tell my parents about my grade. That same day, I came home panting like a dog, with a red and sweaty face and they asked me what happened. So I told them about my little jog and they were hooked. The next day I was training for the upcoming race at my high school. After that, regional. Later, national. It kept getting higher and higher in rank, and I kept doing what I did two and a half years ago.

I saw number 4 trying to shove me, while making it look legit. I just saw her as an obstacle. Something I have to overcome, to pass. A test, if you will. Then I looked at her face and saw two digits in bright red spread across her face; 7 and 0. I began to sprint even though I wasn't finished with the first lap. I started panting and reminded myself I had less than 4 laps to go so I slowed down.

With every girl I passed, every step I took, I was reminded with how I got here. I tried to forget it but I couldn't. I wasn't meant to be here, I didn't belong. Half of these girls have been training at least twice as long as I have, and all of them wanted it more than I did. I never asked to be here. The only reason I'm here is because I failed somewhere else. I started to panic, and before I knew it, I was slowing down. Number 4 passed me and I could've sworn she let out a chuckle. I tried to run faster, I tried to get the adrenaline of the whole thing get to me, but it didn't work. I was taking another girl's dream and I didn't even want it. I was someone else's Sally Anderson.

My right foot didn’t land well and I tripped. I fell flat on the hard ground. I covered my face with my hands, hoping for a better landing. Both of my knees were scrapped, but I was fine. I could get up and finish third if I acted fast; there were only two ahead of me. This was the moment of truth; what was it going to be? Giving up something I'm good at, or earning something I didn't deserve?