Lightning in the Arena

Marcus had been talking bull all week—claiming he could ride anything at the county fair, but when we actually got to the rodeo grounds, he looked like he was about to puke.

"You good?" I asked, though it was pretty obvious he wasn't.

"Just nervous, bro. It's whatever." Marcus adjusted his snapback for the twentieth time.

The air already had that heavy, electric feel that meant a storm was rolling in. Most of the crowd was grabbing their stuff and heading for cover, but Marcus kept staring at the mechanical bull like it was some kind of destiny.

The operator, a guy with more tattoos than teeth, yelled over the thunder, "Last ride before we shut down! Who's got guts?"

Marcus stepped forward before his brain could talk him out of it. His knuckles were white as he gripped the handle.

"Go Marcus!" I screamed, though my stomach was doing backflips.

The bull started slow—jerky side-to-side motions that made Marcus's face contort in panic. Then it kicked into high gear, bucking and spinning like it had a personal vendetta. Marcus lasted exactly three seconds before flying off and landing in the sawdust.

But he was grinning.

Then lightning cracked across the sky—close enough that I could taste ozone in the air. The whole arena lit up like a flash photograph, and in that split second, I saw something on Marcus's face I'd never seen before: pure, unfiltered joy.

"We gotta go!" I grabbed his arm, and we started running through the rain that had just started pouring.

We sprinted all the way to the parking lot, soaked and breathless, Marcus laughing so hard he could barely keep running. And I realized that sometimes the bull you're scared to ride isn't the mechanical kind—sometimes it's just being brave enough to look stupid in front of everyone you know.

"Next year," Marcus panted, leaning against my car. "I'm gonna last five seconds."

"You lasted three," I said. "That's three more than anyone else from our school."

"Lightning round," he said. "Rematch. You and me."

I should've said no. Instead I just nodded, because that's what best friends do—they talk bull and make terrible decisions together, especially during lightning storms when the world feels like it's ending and beginning all at once.