Sweaty Palms and Spinach Smoothies

My palms were sweating through my jersey again. Dark patches blooming under my arms like I'd been running a marathon instead of just standing at the edge of the cafeteria, watching Marcus laugh with his new lacrosse friends.

"You're literally staring again," Maya said, appearing beside me with her usual eye roll. She'd been my best friend since kindergarten, back when the biggest problem was who got the blue marker. Now? Everything felt like walking through a minefield of social dynamics I didn't understand.

"I'm not staring," I lied. "I'm... observing. For anthropological purposes."

"You're being creepy," she corrected, but gently. "Just go talk to him already. Or don't. But standing here looking like you're about to puke isn't helping anything."

I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaving dark streaks. The problem was, Marcus and I had been friends too. Until his grandmother got sick last year and he transferred to St. Jude's, and now he was basically a stranger with better hair and a varsity jacket.

My phone buzzed. Mom: Spinach smoothie for dinner again? Your cross-country meet is tomorrow.

Gross. But necessary. Coach had been on my case about nutrition since I'd bonked hard at regionals last month. Apparently running 10K on Pop-Tarts and anxiety wasn't sustainable. Who knew?

"I dare you," Maya said, reading my screen over my shoulder. "Go over there and invite Marcus to your meet tomorrow."

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"Do it. Unless you're scared."

I was scared. But worse, I knew she was right. I'd been orbiting around my old friend for weeks, too chicken to actually bridge the gap between who we were and who we'd become.

So I marched over there, my heart doing that fluttery thing it did before races, before first kisses, before anything that actually mattered.

"Hey," I said, my voice cracking spectacularly. "Marcus."

He looked up, and for a second I saw the same kid who'd shared his chicken nuggets with me in third grade when I forgot my lunch. But then his face smoothed over into something polite and distant.

"Hey! Alex, right?" He stood up, clapping me on the shoulder like we were casual acquaintances. "Long time."

"Yeah." My palms were sweating so bad I could practically feel them dripping. "So, I have this cross-country meet tomorrow, and I thought maybe... if you wanted to come? It's actually pretty cool. There's food."

The table went quiet. One of the lacrosse guys snorted.

Marcus looked at me for a long second, and I prepared for rejection, for the kind of embarrassment that makes you want to transfer schools. But then he smiled—really smiled, the way he used to.

"Actually," he said, "I've been meaning to come watch one of your races. Nana's doing better, so... yeah. Text me the details?"

"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, absolutely."

I walked back to Maya on shaky legs. She held up her hand for a high-five.

"See? That wasn't so bad."

"My palms are literally still sweating," I admitted. "And I think I might throw up."

"Good thing you've got that spinach smoothie waiting," she grinned. "You're gonna need it for tomorrow."

And she was right. Tomorrow I'd be running, really running, with my oldest friend in the crowd cheering me on. Sometimes the scariest steps are the ones worth taking.