Running From Orange Skies

The bull in the hallway wasn't literal—just Jason, three years older, built like a vending machine, with a smile that promised nothing good.

"Nice shirt, Loser," he muttered, and I practically melted into my locker. This was my life now. Eighth grade. The bottom of the food chain. My mom said it would get better. She'd been saying that since sixth grade.

I grabbed my backpack and bolted. Running was the only thing I was good at anyway. Cross country, track, escaping awkward situations—same skill set.

Outside, the sky was doing that thing where it turned this ridiculous orange, like someone had set the clouds on fire. Pretty, but also kind of dramatic for a Tuesday. I was halfway home when I heard it.

Whining.

Behind the dumpster behind Mr. Henderson's garage: this dog. Not a cute one. A matted, terrified, definitely-not-supposed-to-be-here dog. It looked at me with these eyes that said, "Please don't let me die in a dumpster." And yeah, maybe I was projecting.

"Hey buddy," I whispered.

It growled.

"Okay, fair."

I sat there for twenty minutes while it decided if I wasmurderer material. Slowly, it inched toward me. Then it licked my hand. My heart did this embarrassing flutter thing.

"You're just scared, aren't you?" I said. "Same."

The dog—orange collar, no tags—let me pick it up. It was heavier than it looked. I carried it home, my arms screaming, my heart pounding harder than when Jason cornered me at lunch.

My mom cried when she saw us. The dog, not me. "We can't keep it," she said, while simultaneously making it a bed out of old towels.

"Just tonight," I said. "He's scared."

"We'll see," she said, which meant yes.

That night, the dog slept at the foot of my bed. For the first time in forever, I didn't lie awake replaying every embarrassing thing I'd said that day. I just listened to it breathing.

Wednesday morning, Jason caught me at my locker again.

"Hey Loser, I was—"

"His name is Barnaby," I said, surprising myself. "And I'm not scared of you."

Jason blinked. Actually blinked.

"What?"

"The dog. His name is Barnaby. He's sleeping at my house because he had nowhere else to go. And I adopted him last night. So. There's that."

Jason stood there, mouth open. The bell rang. I walked to class, not running, not even fast.

Behind me, Jason said, "Cool name, actually."

The orange sunset caught me walking home that day. I wasn't running anymore. Barnaby was waiting. And for the first time, eighth grade didn't feel like something to survive.

It felt like something I might actually be good at.