Take the Bull by the Horns

My mom's got this giant blue bottle of vitamin gummies on the kitchen counter, shaped like little bears. She swears they help me focus. I pop two every morning like they're actual medicine, even though they just taste like artificial grape and disappointment.

The real problem isn't focus. It's Casey, who sits behind me in third period and won't stop making comments about my hair. It's been three months since I buzzed it all off, and she's still acting like I committed some crime against femininity. "You used to have such pretty hair," she says, fake-sympathetic. "What happened? Did you lose a bet?"

"Running happened," I tell her, which is technically true. I'm the fastest girl on the track team, and long hair gets annoying when you're doing 400-meter intervals. But the whole truth is more complicated. Sometimes you need to shed something to see what's underneath.

The meet on Saturday is huge—sectionals, with college scouts watching. Coach Miller has been riding me all week about my start. "You're thinking too much," he says. "Just run."

Easy for him to say. He's not the one whose mom just started dating someone new, whose dad moved to Denver last year, who's supposed to act like everything's normal.

Friday night, I can't sleep. I end up on the porch around 3 AM, staring at the dark, when I hear something crashing through Mr. Henderson's pasture behind our house. At first I think it's a deer, but then I see it—a massive bull, snorting and pawing at the ground, probably escaped from the farm down the road.

My heart hammers against my ribs. The bull is terrifying, all muscle and rage, trapped between the fence and the woods. For a second I think about running inside, locking the door, hiding.

Instead, I grab the wire cutters from the garage and inch toward the fence. My hands shake, but I know what to do. I've been practicing for this my whole life—not with bulls, but with everything. The expectations, the comments, the weird feeling of being sixteen and not knowing who you're supposed to be.

The bull watches me. I watch back. Then I cut the fence.

"Go on," I whisper. "You're free."

He charges past, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. I don't move. I don't even breathe.

At the meet next morning, something shifts. When the gun goes off, I don't think about Casey or my dad or who's watching. I just run. My feet know what to do. The wind rushes past my ears where my hair used to be, and I feel lighter than I've ever felt.

I win by three meters. A scout from Stanford hands me a card. Casey doesn't say anything when I get back to school Monday.

That night, I take my vitamin gummies. They still taste like fake grape and impossible expectations. But for the first time, I don't mind.