The Food Chain

Maya learned two things freshman year: one, the social hierarchy worked exactly like a pyramid scheme, and two, she was definitely at the bottom. Her older brother Lucas had left big shoes to fill as star of the cross country team, and now everyone looked at her like she was supposed to magically inherit his speed. Spoiler: she hadn't.

"You're Lucas's sister, right?" asked Fox, a senior with actual fox-orange hair and a smile that was 30% too charming. "Think you can keep up?"

"Absolutely not," Maya said, because honesty was easier than disappointment.

Coach González — everyone called him Bear behind his back, probably because he could roar loud enough to shake the gym windows — clapped his hands. "First practice of the season! Two miles, nice and easy. If you're not wheezing, you're not doing it right."

Running turned out to be mostly mental. Maya's legs were fine. Her lungs were plotting mutiny, sure, but fine. The problem was her brain, currently broadcasting helpful commentary like *you could just stop right now* and *nobody would even notice* and *is that what dying feels like?*

She slowed to a walk somewhere around mile 1.5, watching Fox and the popular kids — the apex predators of the high school food chain — disappear into the distance. Her sneakers scuffed against the track. This was it. This was her legacy: the girl who walked while everyone else ran.

"Hey."

Maya jumped. A guy from her English class was standing there, bent over and breathing hard. "You okay?"

"Peachy," she wheezed. "Just enjoying the scenery. Which is asphalt. And more asphalt."

He laughed, then actually laughed harder when he saw the front of her shirt. "You have something—" He pointed to his own teeth.

Maya looked down. Green. Everywhere. Massive spinach remnants from that questionable smoothie she'd chugged before practice, because the internet said "leafy greens = energy." The internet had lied.

"That's it," she said. "I'm transferring schools. Changing my name. Moving to a remote island."

"Bear has spinach in his teeth right now," he said. "Like, a lot. Nobody's said anything because, well, he's Bear. But he looks like he ate a small forest."

Maya started laughing, couldn't stop, found herself actually running again just to keep up with the conversation. They finished last together, breathless and spinach-stained, while Fox and the cool kids were already stretching by the finish line, not even looking back.

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

The pyramid didn't disappear. Bear still terrified everyone. Fox was still fast. But running turned out to be less about beating people and more about showing up. Also: never, ever smoothies before practice. Some lessons you learn the hard way.