Summer of the Bull and the Bad Hair Day

My hair was doing that thing it does when humidity hits ninety percent—basically a frizzy halo of rebellion. I tugged at my ponytail, watching the papaya smoothie congeal on the counter of Tropical Treats, wondering why I'd thought a summer job at a fruit shack was better than lifeguarding.

Then HE walked in. Jesse Martinez, varsity baseball captain, wearing his jersey like it was second skin. My stomach did that annoying flip thing.

"One papaya smoothie, extra ice," he said, and I may have spent three seconds staring at his eyelashes before my brain rebooted.

"Coming right up." I whirled around, elbow crashing into the display of tropical fruits. Papayas everywhere. Literally rolling across the floor like escape artists. I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering them like I was collecting my dignity.

Jesse laughed, but not mean. He crouched down to help. "Rough day?"

"You have no idea."

That's when we heard it—lowing, snorting, the unmistakable sound of Something Large. A bull. An ACTUAL bull had wandered through the open back gate and was now staring at us like we were the intruders.

The bull huffed, steam rising from its nostrils. Jesse grabbed my hand. "Run."

We bolted out the back door, crashing through the parking lot until we hit the creek behind the strip mall. Without thinking, I jumped. Waist-deep in water, fully clothed, with a baseball player I'd been secretly crushing on since seventh grade.

Jesse looked at my hair—now a soaking wet disaster. "You know," he said, grinning, "it actually looks better like this."

I stared at him. "My hair looks like a drowned rat."

"Nah." He squeezed water from his jersey. "It looks real. Plus, you just outran a bull. That's kind of epic."

We sat there until sunset, talking about everything and nothing, while somewhere in the distance, I could hear my manager yelling about escaped livestock and missing inventory.

Best worst day of my life.