Electric Hoedown

Chloe's mom called her a fox when she sneaked out in her cutoffs and flannel, but honestly? She felt more like a fraud. The FFA dance was tonight, and she'd spent three hours curling her hair for someone who'd barely glanced at her since freshman year.

The gym already thumped with bass when she arrived, smelling like cheap body spray and desperation. She spotted Jake immediately—stupid, gorgeous Jake, who made her stomach do that annoying flip thing. He was talking to Brittney, of course. Brittney with her perfect Instagram feed and her dad's brand new truck.

Chloe bear-hugged her embarrassment to her chest and headed for the punch bowl. That's when she saw it: the mechanical bull they'd rented for spirit week. The line stretched halfway across the gym, but somehow she found herself at the front, handing her five bucks to the sophomore running it.

"You got this, Chloe!" someone yelled. Maybe it was genuine. Probably sarcastic.

She swung her leg over and grabbed the strap. The operator gave her this look like she was about to bail, but she just nodded. The machine lurched forward, and suddenly she was holding on for dear life, flailing like a desperate idiot while half the school watched. Jake was watching.

Then it happened—lightning struck somewhere outside, the lights flickered, and in that split second of chaos, something clicked. She wasn't doing this for Jake anymore. She was doing it because she wanted to. She leaned into the spin, threw her hand in the air, and actually screamed something that sounded like a laugh.

The bull spun her one last time and dumped her in the inflatable mat. Her hair was wrecked. Her dignity was gone. But as Jake pushed through the crowd to ask if she was okay, she just smiled and said, "That was sick."

And okay, maybe Brittney was shooting daggers at her, but for once, Chloe didn't care. Sometimes you have to get thrown off a bull to figure out who you actually are.