The Day I Couldn't Run Away

I'd been running from my problems since seventh grade. Literally. Cross country, track, anything that kept me moving so I wouldn't have to deal with the awkward silence that followed me everywhere. At sixteen, I'd perfected the art of the strategic exit.

"Hey Marcus, wait up!" Jessica called from behind me. My stomach did that thing where it simultaneously wanted to escape my body and also just dissolve completely. Jessica, who had that effortless vibe I'd spent three years trying to replicate. Jessica, who probably didn't even know my name until yesterday when I accidentally knocked over her water bottle in chemistry and it spilled all over her limited-edition sneakers.

I pretended not to hear and kept walking toward the school parking lot. The afternoon sun was already turning everything golden and nostalgic, like a coming-of-age movie I wasn't cool enough to star in.

A dog—a chaotic, fur-covered missile of golden retriever energy—burst from between two cars. It didn't bark. It just decided that I was its new best friend and launched itself at my legs with an enthusiasm that would be concerning if it wasn't so wholesome. My carefully maintained chill evaporated as I stumbled backward, directly into a puddle.

Not just any puddle. The kind of puddle that exists only in high school parking lots, filled with mysterious substances that have been marinating there since before kindergarten.

The dog sat. It looked at me with what I can only describe as judgment, as if my lack of coordination had personally offended its entire bloodline. And then Jessica was there, laughing so hard she was practically wheezing, while I stood there dripping wet and metaphorically dead.

"You good?" she asked, wiping actual tears from her eyes. "Because I was gonna invite you to this party tonight, but now I'm worried you might fall into a swimming pool."

"I'm good," I said. "I'm great. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Cool," she said, still grinning. "Pick you up at seven? Don't bring extra changes of clothes. The embarrassment builds character."

The dog chose that moment to shake itself off, spraying us both with water droplets that caught the sunlight like tiny, ridiculous diamonds.

"See you at seven," I said, and for the first time in years, I didn't run away from something that made me nervous. I just stood there and let myself be awkward, and it turns out that's actually okay.