Gummy Bear Mutiny

The vitamin gummies weren't even mine. They were Maya's — her mom's latest obsession, mango-flavored and shaped like tiny bears. But there I was, sprinting down the hallway, clutching the stolen bottle like it contained nuclear codes.

"THAT'S MY LUNCH MONEY," Maya shrieked, actually kinda impressed despite herself.

"Consider it interest," I called back, already winded. Running had never been my thing — I was the girl who got excused from gym with "asthma" that suspiciously only acted up during laps. But freshman year was supposed to be different. New me. New reputation. Definitely not the girl who lost her phone in a toilet on day three.

Buster, my golden retriever, waited by the back door, tail thumping like a metronome set to chaos mode. He'd developed this habit of escaping lately, probably sensing my own restlessness. Last week he'd shown up at school during third period, trotting through the cafeteria like he owned the place. Now everyone knew me as "Buster's human," which was honestly better than "toilet phone girl."

We made it to the creek behind the old elementary school, me gasping for air, Buster already belly-deep in the water, looking triumphant. Maya caught up, waving a singular flip-flop she'd lost somewhere mid-pursuit.

"Okay," she said, collapsing onto the grass. "But why steal them?"

I flopped down beside her, fished out a gummy bear. "Because I heard Danny Torres say he's tired of girls trying too hard. figured if I stopped caring about my hair and started stealing supplements, I'd become mysterious."

Maya stared at me. Then she started laughing. Like, actually crying laughing. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

"Danny Torres thinks mysterious means you read poetry in the quad. Not that you commit vitamin-related crimes." She paused. "Also, he failed math. He's not exactly a prize."

Buster shook himself off, spraying us both with creek water. And just like that, we were both laughing, soaked in gross river water, eating gummy vitamins that definitely weren't FDA-approved for outdoor consumption.

"New plan," I said, wiping dog hair off my face. "I embrace being the weird girl with the escape-artist dog and terrible judgment calls."

Maya grinned. "Sounds exhausting. But honestly? Better than being Danny-approved."

We lay there watching clouds, Buster snoring between us, and I realized freshman year might not need a new me after all. Just maybe new friends. And definitely better running shoes.