The Mascot Incident

Tyler's life officially peaked at 3:47 PM on a Tuesday, which coincidentally was also the moment he died of pure, unadulterated cringe.

He'd been **running** for sophomore class president on a platform of "actually functional water fountains" and "cafeteria pizza that doesn't taste like sadness." His campaign video—eleven seconds of him awkwardly staring into his phone camera while his yorkipoo, Buster, **dog**-whined in the background—had already racked up three hundred views and exactly zero comments that didn't use the word "yikes."

"Dude," his best friend Marcus said, sliding onto the bench next to him. "You went full cringe. You don't go full cringe."

Tyler buried his face in his hands. "I have to **bear** this humiliation for approximately two more years until I can legally change my name and move to a different continent."

"Or," Marcus said, "you could lean in."

Tyler looked up. "What?"

"The fall assembly. You know how we always need someone to wear the Bull costume?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Come on! You'd be legendary. The Bull! It's perfect!" Marcus was practically vibrating with energy. "You'd own it. Instead of being Cringe Campaign Guy, you'd be That Guy Who Became The Bull. It's a whole vibe."

Tyler stared at him. And then—because sometimes you make decisions based on a mix of desperation, exhaustion, and the fact that your best friend is grinning like he just won the lottery—he said yes.

Three days later, Tyler stood center stage in a polyester bull costume that smelled like every previous occupant's regret. The assembly had already seen two failed proposals, one choral solo, and a principal who kept saying "yeet" unironically.

He took the microphone.

"Hey everyone," he said, muffled by the bull head. "So apparently I'm running for class president now. Again. But this time I'm literally **bull**-ish on the future of our school." He paused. "That was a joke. My sister wrote it. Please vote for me, or I'll be forced to continue attending pep rallies in this costume."

Someone in the back yelled, "WE LOVE THE BULL!"

And then—the impossible happened. People cheered. Actual, genuine cheering.

Later that night, Buster curled up next to him on the couch as Tyler's phone lit up with notifications. He hadn't won the election—he'd come in third, behind Emma "I Actually Have A Platform" Chen and whoever had written "FREE TACOS" on a napkin.

But Marcus texted: dude. you went viral. 2k views of you as the bull. you're welcome.

Tyler smiled, scratching Buster behind the ears. Maybe this whole high school thing wouldn't be so bad after all.