The Cat Who Called My Bluff

The social pyramid at Northwood High was less like a triangle and more like a game of Jenga played by drunk giants. I was somewhere near the bottom, wedged between the kids who brought Yugioh cards to lunch and the ones who communicated exclusively in Fortnite dances.

"Dude, you coming to padel tonight?" Marcus asked, spinning a basketball on his finger like it was his whole personality.

"Can't," I said, grabbing my backpack. "Running club."

"Still? It's been three months, Maya. You're gonna burn out."

Marcus was my friend — or at least he used to be, before he discovered that being decent at padel tennis was basically social currency. Now he was sliding up the pyramid, and I was watching from the ground floor.

The running thing wasn't about running. It was about being somewhere else, moving fast enough that my thoughts couldn't catch up.

That Tuesday, something caught up with me anyway.

A cat — a mangy orange tabby with one ear that folded like a failed origami project — appeared at the edge of the track. It sat there, watching me lap everyone else, its eyes glowing judgmentally under the floodlights.

"What?" I huffed, slowing to a walk. "You think you can do better?"

The cat didn't move. It just kept watching.

"Fine."

I sat beside it, stretching my hamstrings while pretending I wasn't emotionally projecting onto a feline. "You know what sucks? When your friend discovers he's good at something and suddenly you're not good enough for the new him. That's what sucks."

The cat yawned, displaying approximately forty sharp teeth.

"Yeah, okay. I'm venting to a cat. This is my rock bottom."

"Maya?"

I jumped. Marcus stood at the track entrance, holding a padel racket like a peace offering.

"Practice got cancelled," he said. "Coach's car broke down. Can I... run with you?"

The orange cat stood, stretched elaborately, and then bolted toward the parking lot like it had somewhere better to be.

"That cat just left me," I said.

"You named it?"

"Its name is Betrayal."

Marcus laughed, and for the first time in months, it sounded like the old Marcus — the one who didn't care about the pyramid, who sat with me at lunch even when I had nowhere else to sit.

"You're still my friend, Maya," he said quietly. "Even if I'm kind of failing at showing it lately."

"Yeah, well," I said, standing up and dusting off my shorts. "You're running with me now. That's a start."

"Slowest lap wins?"

"You're on."

We ran side by side while the orange cat watched from the hood of someone's Honda Civic. The pyramid could wait. Some things were bigger than climbing.