Chasing Bull

So there I was, literally hiding in the janitor's closet because Jared — the walking red flag of the sophomore class — had started rumors that I'd ghosted his ex at Maya's rager.

I'm spiraling when I notice the janitor's cat, this orange tabby I've secretly dubbed Professor Paws. He's watching me with those judgment eyes like, 'Really? This is your crisis?'

Then I hear footsteps.

I bolt out the side door near the gym, running like my life depends on it. Which, honestly, it feels like it does. Social death is still death.

I end up behind the old factory by the creek, chest heaving, trying to figure out how to survive Monday morning. And that's when I see it.

The bull.

Actual full-on bull, just chilling by the creek like it's NBD. In suburban Colorado.

I freeze. It looks up. We have a moment.

Then Jared bursts through the trees, panting, probably ready to deliver more torment. But when he spots the bull, his face goes sheet-white.

'Dude,' he whispers, 'is that...'

The bull rises. Massive.

We both take off, sprinting through the woods, Jared shrieking like he's not the toughest guy in school. We run until we hit the 7-Eleven parking lot, collapsing against the brick wall.

Jared looks at me, then at his scuffed Vans. 'I'm sorry,' he mutters. 'About the rumors. I was just... insecure about me and Maya.'

I look at the guy who's made my life miserable for two weeks, now just sweaty and human and shook.

'Did I mention the cat?' I say, starting to laugh. 'Professor Paws saw everything.'

He laughs too. And somehow that's it — we're cool now. Not friends, but the bullying stops. And when high school drama gets too much, we catch each other's eye and mouth 'the bull' and it's fine.

Some days you run from rumors. Some days you run from actual bulls. The important part is knowing when to stop running.