Orange Lightning Strike

The orange Gatorade sloshed in my hand as I stood by the lockers, watching Maya laugh at something Tyler said. Again.

"You're literally staring, bro," Leo said, appearing beside me. "It's giving obsessive."

"Shut up." I chugged the lukewarm drink. "I'm not obsessing. I'm observing. There's a difference."

"You've been 'observing' since homeroom." Leo checked his phone. "Anyway, you coming to the track meet? Coach said if you're not there, he's putting you on relay anyway."

I groaned. Track. The one thing my parents insisted would build "character" and "discipline" — whatever that meant when you're just running in circles until your lungs burn.

That afternoon, the sky turned that weird greenish-gray color that means storms. Perfect. Coach was still making us warm up when the first rumble of thunder rolled across the field.

"We've got ten minutes before this hits!" he shouted. "Maya, show them the proper starting form!"

Of course Maya ran track. Of course she was naturally good at everything. Of course when she demonstrated the starting position, legs coiled like springs, I forgot how to breathe.

"You good?" she asked afterward, noticing me staring.

"Yeah," I managed. "Just. Vitamin deficiency. Probably."

What?

She raised an eyebrow. "You need a vitamin?"

"I need all of them," I said, attempting to recover. "I'm basically a medical mystery."

Then the sky cracked open. Lightning fractured the clouds in blinding white streaks, and rain dumped down like someone tipped over the ocean. Everyone screamed and scattered toward the school.

"My car's this way!" Maya yelled over the thunder. "Come on!"

We ran, slipping through grass that was already turning to mud, until we reached the parking lot. Her old Honda sat alone under a flickering streetlight.

"Get in!"

We dove into the backseat, soaked and breathless. Through the windows, lightning kept flashing, turning the inside of her car strobe-light bright then shadow-dark.

"Your mom's gonna kill you," I said, peeling wet hair off my forehead. "You still have your uniform on."

"She's working late." Maya leaned back against the door, studying me. "So. Medical mystery."

I groaned. "Please don't."

"No, I'm curious." Her phone lit up her face. "What vitamins are you missing?"

"All of them. I'm running on spite and orange Gatorade."

She laughed, and it felt like something shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. Just — the air between us felt different.

"You know," she said, "my mom makes me take these vitamin D gummies every morning because apparently I never go outside. Which is fair."

"Because you're always running?" I suggested before I could stop myself.

She paused. "Because I'm always running." Then, quietly: "You noticed."

Another lightning flash illuminated her smile.

"I notice things," I said. "I'm a medical mystery, remember? We're perceptive."

"Right." She shifted closer. "Hey, Medical Mystery. You should come to Marcus's party Saturday. I might need someone to talk to who isn't Tyler."

My stomach did that thing. "Is Tyler going?"

"Unfortunately." She rolled her eyes. "He's been texting me all week. It's exhausting."

"So you need a buffer."

"Maybe." Her knee touched mine. "Or maybe I just want someone to run away with if it gets awkward."

I looked at her — really looked at her, rain dripping from her ponytail, mascara slightly smudged, completely perfect.

"I'm your guy," I said. "I'm an expert at strategic exits."

"Good." She smiled as another lightning bolt split the sky. "Because I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot of running in my life."