Lightning at the Bottom of the Pyramid

Freshman year existed at the bottom of the food chain—or what Tyler's older brother called the high school social pyramid. Tyler had spent the first month trying to become invisible, which worked perfectly until he accidentally signed up for cross country when he meant to check the box for video game club.

Now he was running. Everywhere. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, and his social life was non-existent because who had time to hang when you're doing 6 AM practices?

"Dude, you're literally insane," said Marcus, the only friend who'd stuck around. "You know Miller's gonna destroy you at Regionals, right?"

Miller was a senior, a state champion, and apparently the school's resident bull in a china shop. He plowed through the hallways like he owned them, teammates scattering like frightened animals. Tyler had managed to avoid him so far, mostly by mastering the art of looking at his phone while walking.

Then came the Wednesday when Miller got held back after practice for "attitude adjustments" with Coach, and Tyler found himself alone in the locker room with the guy who'd been haunting his nightmares since August.

"Freshman," Miller said, and Tyler's stomach did something unpleasant. "You're getting faster."

Tyler blinked. "What?"

"I said you're getting faster. Don't let it go to your head or anything." Miller slammed his locker shut. "But if you're serious about this sport, stop running like you're scared of it. You run all tight, like you're waiting for something to hit you. Run loose."

The lightning hit Tyler then—not outside, but inside his chest. The scary senior bull wasn't scary at all. He was just a guy who loved running as much as Tyler suddenly realized he did.

"Thanks," Tyler managed, and Miller actually nodded before leaving.

The next day, Tyler ran like lightning actually mattered. He placed third at Regionals. Miller placed first, but afterward, he fist-bumped Tyler and said, "See you at state."

The social pyramid was still there, Tyler knew. Some things never changed. But maybe—just maybe—he didn't have to stay at the bottom forever.