The Fox Who Couldn't Run

My hair is orange. Not like, cute Instagram influencer orange. I'm talking traffic cone, highlighter gone wrong, absolutely cursed by the hair gods orange. Which is exactly why everyone calls me Fox.

Like, literally everyone. Even the teachers sometimes slip up.

"Fox, could you pass me a pencil?"

I'm Maya, by the way. Not that anyone remembers.

I glance at my reflection in my phone screen, neon hair catching every photon of artificial cafeteria light. Junior year means one thing: mandatory PE electives. I somehow ended up in Cross Country. Me. The person who gets winded walking up a flight of stairs.

My cat Lucky gives me more sympathy than these people. At least he pretends to care when I'm having a bad day, chirping from his spot on my windowsill like I'm doing him a favor by existing.

Coach Martinez decides to organize a fun run—a "casual" three-mile jaunt through the park. I'm already planning my fake injury when Dylan, the guy I've been lowkey crushing on since August, starts stretching near me.

"You nervous, Fox?" he asks.

My stomach does this whole gymnastics routine. He knows my actual name.

"Terrified," I admit. "I might actually die."

He laughs, and I notice something green stuck between his teeth. Spinach. From the cafeteria's allegedly "healthy" wrap station.

"Just don't think about it. Running's mostly mental anyway."

The gun goes off, and suddenly I'm running. My legs are moving, my chest is burning, and I'm thinking about how my entire social existence is basically a performance. Being Fox is easier than being Maya—Fox is quirky, Fox is memorable, Fox doesn't have to try so hard.

But somewhere around mile two, something shifts. I'm running past this community garden and I spot it—a literal fox. It's just chilling near some overgrown spinach plants, looking at me like I'm the weird one for voluntarily sprinting through a park at 7:45 AM.

And in that moment, I realize something. I'm not Fox because of my hair. I'm Fox because I'm adaptable. I'm quick. I can navigate this ridiculous social landscape without getting completely destroyed.

I cross the finish line third-to-last, but Dylan's waiting. He's got this huge smile on his face.

"Nice job, Maya," he says.

He used my actual name. Again.

Maybe being Fox isn't so bad after all. But being Maya—that's actually pretty great too.