Orange Stains and Cross Country

The Cheetos dust on my fingers matched the ugly orange carpet in the counselor's office perfectly. Mrs. Patterson adjusted her glasses like she does every time she's about to drop wisdom that's supposed to change my life.

"Mia, cross country could be good for you. You've been spending too much time alone since the move."

"I have Bear," I protested, gesturing to my phone wallpaper. "That's company, right?"

"Your cat is not the same as human connection, honey."

Bear, my chunky tabby, was honestly better company than most people at Northwood High. He didn't ask why my voice sounded different or why I always wore hoodies even in September. He just demanded food and occasionally headbutted my laptop while I was doom-scrolling.

But here's the thing about Mrs. Patterson — she's relentless. Two days later, I'm awkwardly jogging beside this junior named Leo who's literally on the track team and somehow still has enough breath to talk.

"You're not bad," he says, somehow not even winded. "Your form's kinda clunky but you've got endurance."

"Thanks," I wheeze. "I think."

"Try this vitamin water next time. Helps with cramping." He points to my bright orange bottle. "Though honestly, the color's kind of aggressive."

"It was on sale."

"Mia, I'm gonna be real — you run like you're escaping something."

The words hit harder than they should. Because he's not wrong. Every morning when I lace up these ridiculous shoes, I'm running from the memory of everyone staring when my voice cracked during freshman orientation introductions. Running from the three months I spent practically mute in my room, communicating mostly through shrugs and nods.

"Maybe I am," I finally say, and something in my chest loosens.

Leo shrugs. "Whatever works. We've all got our stuff." He checks his watch. "Want to do one more lap? I won't tell anyone if you walk part of it."

"Deal."

Bear is waiting on the windowsill when I get home, judging me with that terrifyingly intelligent look cats have. I open a can of tuna and sit on the floor, my legs actually feeling good for once.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "I think I might actually go back tomorrow."

He headbutts my hand and purrs like a tiny motor, and somehow, the orange Cheetos dust on my fingers doesn't feel so ugly anymore.