Finding Your Pack

Freshman year hit me like a freight train made of insecurity and bad haircuts.

I'm chilling at lunch, dolo because my middle school friends scattered like roaches when lights turned on. Too loud for the quiet kids, too quiet for the loud kids. Classic no-man's-land situation.

Then I notice Sam — senior, varsity jacket, effortless swag. Their family runs that pet rescue out on Route 9, the one everyone volunteers at for college resume points. Sam's surrounded by their pack, laughing at something I can't hear from my lonely table by the trash cans. I want that. That effortless belonging.

My chance comes when I see a flyer: volunteers needed for the weekend adoption event. I show up Saturday morning, rocking my vintage flannel like it'll magically make me interesting. Sam's there, coaching me on how to handle this massive, terrified rescue **cat** that's been hissing at everyone else.

"You're good at this," Sam says, and my chest does this embarrassingly gymnastic flip. "We need more people like you."

But here's where it goes sideways. Sam's friend Chloe shows up, all cool confidence and sharp eyeliner, and suddenly I'm lowkey competing for attention like it's a sport. I try too hard to impress them, volunteering to walk this enormous **dog** that's basically a furry tank on a leash.

The **dog** drags me face-first into a mud puddle. Everyone sees. Sam and Chloe crack up — not mean, just genuine belly laughs. I'm mortified, ready to yeet myself out of there, when Sam offers me a hand up.

"Bro, you took that like a champ," they say. "That's Tank. He's taken down three football players. You're the first freshman who didn't let go."

Chloe nods, actually looking at me now instead of through me. "Yeah, actually. That was kind of sick."

Sam grins. "You should hang with us. We're doing Taco Tuesday after the shelter closes."

Later, sitting at that sticky booth with salsa everywhere, I realize something huge about high school: it's not about fitting into someone else's pre-made pack. It's about finding the one where your particular brand of weird — even if that means literally eating dirt sometimes — is exactly what's needed.

The whole mascot **bull** thing at school games? Honestly, same energy. We're all just animals trying to figure out which herd we belong to.

Well, metaphorical herds. Though I was literally in mud three hours ago, so whatever.