Running in the Wrong Shoes

The hat was my brother's — a beat-up leather thing that smelled like peppermint tobacco and bad decisions. Wearing it made me feel like I could pull off anything, even though I was just running cable through Mrs. Gable's attic while her grandson Liam watched.

"You're like a fox," Liam said, looking up from his phone. He meant it as a compliment, but I just snorted. Foxes were clever. I was just tired.

"Your grandma's internet is from the Stone Age," I muttered, sweat dripping down my neck. The cable kept tangling, mocking me. Everything tangled these days — friendships, grades, expectations. My dad wanted me at community college. My friends wanted me partying. I wanted to disappear.

That's when I heard it — a low, guttural sound from the window. I froze. We were on the third floor.

"Is that a bear?" I whispered, though bears didn't live in suburban Chicago. That was the thing about fear — it made you stupid.

Liam burst out laughing. "It's my ringtone, genius. I soundboarded it from a nature documentary."

I should've been relieved. Instead, I felt weirdly exposed. Like the hat wasn't enough camouflage anymore.

"You know," Liam said, surprising me with his seriousness, "my brother says you've got to stop running from everything. He says you're good with computers. You should do something with that."

The words hit harder than I expected. Running. I was always running — from conversations, from expectations, from myself. Even now, I'd taken this job because it meant hiding in attics instead of facing my guidance counselor's questions about my future.

I looked at the cable in my hands, suddenly seeing it differently. It was just a connection waiting to happen. Like me.

"Your brother said that?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Jason had graduated last year. I figured he'd forgotten I existed.

"Yeah. He also said tell you to lose the hat. It makes you look like you're trying too hard."

I pulled it off, feeling lighter immediately. The air in the attic didn't seem so thick anymore. I wasn't a fox, and I wasn't a bear, and I wasn't whatever my parents wanted me to be. I was just someone who was good with computers, who maybe didn't have to run anymore.

"Thanks, Liam," I said, and for the first time in forever, I meant it.