Flash Before the Storm

The cross-country meet wasn't supposed to end like this. But then again, most things in sophomore year didn't go according to plan.

My calves were burning as I rounded the final bend, somewhere in the middle of the pack—which was honestly an improvement from last season, when I'd consistently placed last. Coach Miller said I had potential. I said Coach Miller needed glasses.

Then it happened: a crack of **lightning** split the sky, followed immediately by thunder that rattled my ribs. The storm had been threatening all afternoon, purple bruises of clouds gathering like unwanted drama at the lunch table.

"Everyone off the course! NOW!" the official shouted through his megaphone, his voice cutting through the suddenly electric air.

But I kept **running**. Not because I'm brave—definitely not—but because Jordan was still out there. Jordan, who'd been my friend since kindergarten, who knew I hated lima beans before I could spell them, who was currently leading the girls' varsity race because she was basically a machine.

I spotted her near the finish line, hands on her knees, chest heaving. Rain started falling, those big fat drops that soak you instantly. I grabbed her hand, her **palm** sweaty against mine, and we sprinted toward the gymnasium.

We burst through the doors just as the sky opened up completely. The whole team was there, damp and breathless, watching the storm through the windows. Jordan leaned against the lockers, that half-smile she always got when something went wrong but kind of amazing.

"You didn't have to come back for me," she said, squeezing water from her ponytail.

"Yes, I did," I replied. "That's what friends do. Also, you still owe me five bucks from that time you made me eat that spinach wrap at Chloe's party, which was basically a hate crime against my taste buds."

She laughed, and it was the best sound in the world, better than the thunder, better than the crowd cheering when she crossed the finish line first.

Some moments stick with you—not the big ones, but the small ones. Standing there in the gym, surrounded by the smell of rain and teenage sweat and whatever they clean the floors with, I realized something important: friendship isn't about the perfect moments. It's about showing up when things get messy, when you're soaked and exhausted and the world feels like it's falling apart.

"Next time," Jordan said, "I'll carry you across the finish line."

"Deal," I said. "But you're still paying me that five bucks."