Chasing the Finish Line

Maya's legs burned as she pounded the pavement, each step a rhythmic protest against her decision to join cross country. Running had seemed like such a good idea over the summer—get in shape, make new friends at her new high school, maybe even catch the attention of a certain someone whose smile made her forget how to breathe.

But here she was, dead last in practice, her lungs screaming while everyone else finished their cool-down stretches like it was nothing.

"Hey, Maya!" A voice called out. She looked up to see Jamal jogging back toward her, his orange jersey bright against the gray sky. "You good?"

She nodded, unable to form words through her gasps. This was it—the moment he'd finally notice her, and she looked like a dying fish.

"You're pushing too hard," Jamal said, falling into step beside her. "My coach says pace yourself. Like, you're literally sprinting a marathon."

They ran together in silence for a minute, Maya hyper-aware of everything: her heavy breathing, her messy ponytail, the sweat dripping down her back. Meanwhile, Jamal looked like he'd just stepped out of a hair commercial.

"Want to split this papaya?" he asked suddenly, pulling a piece of fruit from his gym bag like it was the most normal thing in the world. "My mom's obsessed with them being 'superfoods.' I've got like three at home."

Maya almost stopped running. Papaya? Who carried papaya to cross country practice?

"Sure," she managed, and between breaths, she actually smiled.

"Cool." He handed her half, their fingers brushing. "Tomorrow, I'll show you my secret route. It's got this killer hill but the view's insane."

"Bet I'll beat you to the top," Maya said, surprised by her own confidence.

Jamal laughed. "You're on, Martinez. You're on."

As they finished their run, Maya realized something: maybe she hadn't found her stride yet, but she'd definitely found something better.