The Mascot's Secret

The bear head smelled like sophomore year and regret. Probably because the last person to wear this mascot costume was literally a sophomore, and my entire life right now was basically a walking regret.

I lumbered through the gym during the pep rally, sweating through my clothes while the student body went wild for "Barnaby the Bear." Nobody knew it was me inside—Leo, the guy who sat in the back of algebra and said maybe three words per semester. That was the point. This was my spy mission, my undercover operation to experience high school spirit without actually having to, you know, PARTICIPATE as myself.

Then I saw her.

Chloe, standing near the bleachers, looking like she belonged in a music video with her perfect curls and that effortless cool-girl energy. She was laughing at something her friends said, tossing her hair like it was a performance art piece.

I should have walked away. Instead, being the absolute genius that I am, I tried to do a cute little mascot wave.

My giant bear paw knocked over an entire table of spirit ribbons.

Chloe's friend shout-whispered, "OMG, Barnaby just face-planted!" and the entire gym turned to watch as I tried to recover while my bear head tilted at an impossible angle. Through the mesh mouth, I could see everyone filming. This was it. My social life, already operating on life support, was officially dead.

But then Chloe was there, helping me up, giggling but not in a mean way. "You okay, Barnaby?"

I couldn't speak. Mascots didn't speak. I gave a thumbs-up with my fuzzy paw.

"You know," she said, lowering her voice, "I was mascot last year. The head gets super gross inside. I hope you're bringing dry shampoo."

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Anyway," she whispered, "you're doing great. Don't let the freshmen get to you." She winked and walked away, flipping her perfect hair like the protagonist of every teen movie ever.

Later, safe in the locker room, I finally removed the bear head. My hair was plastered to my forehead, sweat dripping down my face. But for the first time all year, something had happened that wasn't terrible. Chloe Miller had given me advice. She'd noticed me—even if she didn't KNOW me.

Maybe tomorrow in algebra, I'd say four words instead of three.

Baby steps.