Running in Green

The smoothie was supposed to be my masterpiece. Instead, it looked like something that crawled out of a swamp and died.

"It's... vibrant," Liam said, eyeing the murky green concoction like it might actually be alive.

"It's a papaya-spinach detox blend," I lied. "Super trendy."

"Bro, that looks like straight-up grass clippings." He cracked up, and I had to laugh too because, I mean, he wasn't wrong.

I'm Mateo, by the way. Fifteen. Convinced that if I could just find the right thing—the right shoes, the right haircut, the right weirdly colored health drink—I'd finally stop feeling like the new kid who's always two beats behind everyone else's rhythm.

So here I was: working part-time at my abuela's juice bar (code for: "free labor in exchange for 'building character'"), experimenting with ingredients nobody actually asked for, and trying out for the cross country team because apparently I hate myself.

Okay, that's not fair. I actually liked running. Kind of. Sometimes. When I wasn't gasping for air like a fish on a dock while everyone else breezed past like they were floating.

"You trying out tomorrow?" Liam asked, like he could read my mind. Or maybe he'd noticed my running shoes by the door. They were still pristine, which felt like a betrayal of how hard I'd been pretending to train.

"Yeah. But I'm probably gonna choke."

"Dude." He slid the smoothie back to me. "You made something that looks like toxic waste and actually have the confidence to charge seven dollars for it. You're gonna be fine."

I took a sip. Okay, it wasn't terrible. The papaya made it weirdly sweet, and the spinach gave it this earthy thing that wasn't completely awful. It tasted like trying something new. Like taking a chance.

The next day at tryouts, my legs burned. My lungs screamed. That weird kid who always wears a hoodie in 80-degree weather lapped me. Twice. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other, because that's what you do, right? You keep going.

Afterward, Liam found me bent over my knees, pretending death was a viable option.

"Hey," he said, sliding a cup toward me. "Made you something."

It was green. Bright, hideous green. Little chunks of something orange floating in it like tropical islands in a swamp.

"Papaya and spinach," he said. "Added some mango because I'm not actually a monster. Tried it myself. It's not terrible."

I took a gulp. It was perfect. Not the taste—the taste was still questionable—but the moment. The absolute absurdity of it.

"Welcome to the team, new guy," Liam said, bumping my shoulder with his.

And just like that, I wasn't running away anymore. I was running toward something. Even if it did taste like grass.