Sphinx on the Track

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could barely grip her phone. Standing outside the high school gym, watching Marcus — the absolute fox of the junior class — laughing with his friends by the bleachers, she felt like she was about to face down the actual Sphinx.

"You got this," said Jazz, her best friend since seventh grade. "Just ask him to homecoming already. What's the worst that happens?"

"He says no and I die of embarrassment," Maya texted back, though her thumbs were shaking so bad she almost typo'd "die" as "die of cringe."

The track team's coach blew his whistle. "Last call for anyone running the 400-meter qualifying!"

Maya wasn't even on the track team. But Marcus was. And suddenly, before her brain could process what a terrible idea this was, she was signed up, standing at the starting line in sneakers that had seen better days.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as the starter pistol cracked. She took off, legs pumping, everything else falling away — the fear, the overthinking, the way she'd spent three weeks crafting the perfect text to Marcus only to delete it every single time.

She wasn't winning. Definitely wasn't winning. But as she rounded the final curve, lungs burning, she caught Marcus watching her. Actually watching her, like really seeing her.

"Nice form!" he called out, and Maya nearly tripped over her own feet.

Afterward, collapsed on the grass while Jazz fanned her with a cafeteria napkin, Marcus wandered over. Maya's palms started sweating again immediately.

"You're crazy fast," he said. "You should join the team."

"I literally almost died," Maya wheezed.

Marcus laughed, and it was better than any track medal. "So, homecoming's coming up. You running with anyone?"

The Sphinx's riddle solved itself: sometimes you don't need to be clever like a fox. Sometimes you just need to run toward what scares you.

"Not yet," Maya said, and for the first time in weeks, her hands stayed dry. "But I'm open to suggestions."