Running with Strays

I'd never been a runner until Jasmine decided I should be. That's the thing about having a friend who's genuinely good at everything — suddenly you're trying out for cross-country because she said, "It'll be so fun, Maya, we can bond over it." I spent the first two weeks wheezing like I'd smoked a pack a day since kindergarten while Jasmine glided alongside me, her perfect ponytail swinging, not even breaking a sweat.

The cat found me before I found it. I'd ducked behind the gym after practice, hiding so Jasmine wouldn't see me cry — again — because she'd made varsity and I hadn't even made the development team. That's when I heard it: this low, rattling growl from the dumpster. I expected something scary. Instead, this calico with half an ear and one eye swollen shut glared at me like *I* was the intruder.

"Yeah, same," I whispered.

I started bringing it those gross tuna packets from the cafeteria, the ones nobody actually eats. I named it Dumpster, because I'm original like that. Jasmine caught me on the third day, squatting behind the gym, talking to a cat that looked like it'd seen some things.

"You've been sneaking back here?" she asked. "I thought you went home."

I shrugged. "Just feeding the local wildlife."

She sat next to me on the asphalt, and for the first time all season, she didn't mention her splits or her PRs or how the coach thought she had state meet potential. She watched the cat — the cat that was basically me, honestly, all scrappy and pissed off at the world — and said, "I've been running from my house since freshman year."

"What?" Jasmine, whose Instagram looked like a curated museum exhibit of perfect teenage life?

"My parents," she said quietly. "They care so much about the running stuff. I'm not allowed to quit. I'm not even allowed to be bad at it." She reached toward the cat, who actually let her touch its head. "I keep doing it because it's easier than telling them I hate it."

I looked at her — really looked at her — and saw how tired she was. We'd both been running, just in different directions. Me, running *toward* a version of myself that wasn't me. Her, running *away* from something she couldn't admit.

The cat rubbed its face against both our hands, purring like a tiny motorcycle engine.

"We should stop running," I said.

Jasmine laughed. "What, cross-country?"

"No," I said. "Like, in general. From stuff." I thought about it for a second. "Also maybe cross-country, though, just to be clear."

She laughed — actually laughed, not her perfect polite laugh — and leaned her head on my shoulder. "Yeah. Screw cross-country. Let's just be people who feed cats behind dumpsters."

Dumpster bit my thumb. It hurt. It was perfect. We both were going to be okay, probably, eventually. We had a cat now. That counted for something.