Lightning Strikes the Bull

Maya adjusted the brim of her new fedora, hoping the hat would make her look as confident as she felt fake. The county fair humed around her—cotton candy sweet in the air, bass from the main stage thumping in her chest. Her Golden Retriever, Buster, tugged at the leash, nose twitching toward the funnel cake stand.

"Chill, Buster," she muttered, but her stomach did its own nervous flip. Tyler and his crew were by the livestock pens. Tyler, with his stupid perfect hair and galaxy-brain takes on everything.

She'd spent all summer taking vitamin D supplements and reading self-help articles about "projecting confidence." Yet here she was, still paralyzed at the thought of saying hi to the guy who'd sat behind her in chemistry since freshman year.

Then came the crack—thunder-sharp, impossibly close. Lightning struck somewhere behind the grandstands, and everything went white-silent for a heartbeat before the air itself seemed to inhale.

Then the screaming started.

A massive bull had broken through the fence near the petting zoo, snorting and tossing its head. People scattered. A little girl froze near the empty ice cream stand, eyes wide and locked on the charging animal.

Maya didn't think. She dropped Buster's leash, shouted "HEY!" and waved her arms like she'd seen in documentaries. The bull skidded to a halt, confused, as Tyler and his friends scrambled away like cowards.

The little girl's mom grabbed her child, sobbing thanks. But it was Tyler's reaction that hit Maya like the lightning itself—impressed, finally seeing her as something other than "quiet chemistry girl."

"Dude," he said, jogging over. "That was—"

"Bull," Maya said, cutting him off with a laugh. "Literally and figuratively."

She adjusted her hat, realizing she hadn't needed it after all. The confidence hadn't come from some accessory or vitamin regimen. It had been there all along, waiting for lightning to strike.