Mascot Confidential

The mission was simple: spy on Jake. My parents thought he was sneaking out to parties, but honestly? My brother was about as exciting as unbuttered toast.

I tail him to the school gym Friday night, peeking through the gym doors. There he is—my stoic, AP-class-crushing brother—dressed in the school mascot bear costume, doing the Macarena at a peewee basketball game.

I should've felt embarrassed for him. Instead, I watched this goofy, enthusiastic bear high-five toddlers and do victory dances, and something clicked. Jake wasn't boring. He was just different kind of brave.

Saturday morning, I'm nursing my own embarrassment. Mom caught me taking my 'special vitamins'—those stupid hair-skin-nails gummies everyone's obsessing over because someone on TikTok said they changed her life.

'You're perfect just as you are,' she says, and I want to believe her, but middle school had other plans.

Jake finds me in my room, still bear-free and red-faced.

'You saw me, didn't you?' He's not even mad. 'The bear gig pays twenty bucks an hour. I'm saving for a car.'

'Why didn't you tell anyone?'

He shrugs. 'Same reason you're hiding those vitamin gummies. We all think everyone's judging us, but nobody actually cares that much.'

Sunday night, I walk into the kitchen and pop my vitamins in front of everyone. My dad doesn't laugh. My sister doesn't make weird faces. Nobody cares.

Jake winks at me from across the table.

Monday at lunch, I sit with the new girl instead of my usual spot. She's reading alone, and I remember Jake as that bear, making a crying kid smile by juggling three basketballs.

So I take a breath. I channel my inner mascot energy. I say, 'Is that manga any good?'

She grins. 'Want to share?'

Sometimes being brave isn't about big dramatic gestures. Sometimes it's just putting on the costume—or taking it off—and letting yourself be seen. Bear mode: activated.