Survival Mode

First week of sophomore year and I was already running on fumes. Between cross-country practice at dawn, AP Euro, and my mom's new "wellness phase," I was practically a **zombie** by third period. My eyelids felt like they'd been weighted with lead sinkers.

"Marcus, you good?"

I jerked upright, nearly knocking over my water bottle. Lena from my history class was giving me this look, half-concerned, half-amused. The whole back row was definitely watching.

"Yeah," I lied, pulling my hood up. "Just tired."

Coach Barker had been lecturing us about nutrition all week. Something about "fueling your machine" and "championship performance." So when I staggered into the cafeteria after afternoon practice, starving enough to eat literally anything, I made the mistake of trying to be responsible.

I grabbed a **papaya** from the fruit section—bright orange and alien-looking—and a scoop of wilty **spinach** from the salad bar. The cashier gave me this skeptical look as she scanned my tray, like she knew I was about to make a terrible life decision.

The papaya was mushy and weirdly musky. The spinach tasted like depression and dirt. I was poking at it with my fork, contemplating the existential crisis that was high school athletics, when Lena slid into the seat across from me.

"That papaya looks tragic," she said, nodding at my tray.

"It's fueling my machine," I deadpanned.

She laughed, and suddenly something clicked. We spent the rest of lunch talking about everything except school—her disastrous attempt at veganism last year, my mom's obsession with quinoa, how both our coaches were obsessed with "macro-nutrients" like we were training for the Olympics instead of JV cross-country.

"Tomorrow," she said, getting up as the bell rang, "bring actual food. I'll show you what's actually edible in this place."

I watched her walk away, then stabbed my mushy papaya one last time. Maybe sophomore year wouldn't completely suck after all.

At least I'd survived lunch. Sort of.