Spinach Teeth and Track Meets

The bull that lived in my house — aka my older brother, Marcus — had spent the last three weeks telling me I'd never make varsity track as a freshman.

"You're delusional, Lil," he'd said, slamming the fridge door. "Varsity's for actual athletes, not dreamers."

I'd glared at him, my new pixie cut still feeling weirdly exposed against my neck. Mom had taken me to get it chopped the day before school started — my "bold new beginning" hair that I wasn't sure I was brave enough to pull off. Marcus had immediately dubbed me "Peter Pan," which he thought was hilarious. I did not.

So when the track tryouts finally came, I was running on pure spite. The coach had us doing 400-meter repeats, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, but I kept pushing. I'd show Marcus. I'd show everyone who thought the quiet girl with the weird hair couldn't compete.

But then came the lunch incident.

I was sitting across from Ryan Torres, who'd been on varsity since sophomore year and who I'd definitely been lowkey staring at during English, when he suddenly said, "You have something in your teeth."

I froze. "What?"

"Spinach," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "From your salad. It's... pretty noticeable."

I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to go back to my old hair, my old invisible self, the version of me who didn't try things and didn't get spinach stuck in her teeth while talking to varsity runners.

But Ryan just smiled. Kind of. "My freshman year, I showed up to cross country practice in dress shoes because I misread the email. Coach thought I was messing with him."

"Seriously?"

"Swear to god. Everyone has a moment." He paused. "So, you trying out for track?"

"Yeah," I said, my face still burning. "Varsity, if I can make it."

"Cool." He nodded. "See you at practice then."

The roster went up two days later. I scanned the list, my heart hammering. And there it was — my name, under Varsity.

Marcus was waiting at the kitchen counter when I got home. "So? Did you survive tryouts, Peter Pan?"

I pulled up the roster on my phone and shoved it toward him, not even trying to hide my grin.

"No freaking way," he said, and for once, the bull in my house looked genuinely impressed. "You're actually gonna make me eat my words, aren't you?"

"Someone's gotta," I said, grabbing a handful of baby spinach from the salad bowl and eating it defiantly. "Get used to it."