Riding Out the Storm

Maya's palms were sweating so bad she could barely grip her phone. The group of guys by the fence had been egging her on for ten minutes, and her so-called friend Sierra was just standing there, filming with that stupid TikTok smirk.

"I'm telling you, it's not even that fast," said Tyler, leaning against the rail of the mechanical bull pen at the county fair. "Unless you're scared?"

The bull – a ridiculously large mechanical creature painted to look like it was charging – had just thrown some college guy across the padded arena. The operator, a guy with a beard down to his chest, was adjusting settings while the crowd laughed.

"I'm not scared," Maya said, even though her stomach was doing gymnastics. "I just don't feel like breaking my neck tonight."

"That's bull and you know it," Tyler shot back. "You're just punking out."

Lightning cracked across the sky, followed by low thunder. The fairground lights flickered. People were starting to pack up as the storm rolled in, but this corner was still packed with teenagers waiting for someone to make a move.

Sierra finally put down her phone. "Maya, you don't have to do this."

Something in Maya's chest tightened. Sierra was supposed to be her best friend, but lately she'd been different – more interested in content than actually having Maya's back.

Maya looked at the mechanical bull. Then at Tyler's challenging grin. Then at Sierra, who was already positioning her phone for the perfect angle.

"Yeah," Maya said, climbing through the fence. "I actually do."

She swung her leg over the bull, gripping the handle with both hands. Her palms were slippery, but she didn't wipe them. She nodded at the operator, and the machine jerked to life beneath her.

The first spin was manageable. The second sent her hair flying. By the third rotation, Maya wasn't thinking about Tyler or Sierra or the fifty phones pointed at her. She was just holding on, muscles burning, laughter bubbling up in her throat.

She lasted twelve seconds – not record-breaking, but long enough. When she flew off, she landed laughing, hair wild, knees scraped but intact.

Sierra was still filming, but Maya didn't care. She picked herself up and walked out of the pen, brushing past Tyler without waiting for his reaction.

"Wait up," Sierra called, but Maya just kept walking toward the exit, where lightning was painting the sky purple and the air smelled like rain and popcorn and possibility.

Her palms were still sweaty. But for the first time in forever, she felt clean.