The Mask

The mascot head smelled like stale dreams and 2019. Or maybe that was just Trey's gym socks talking.

"Dude, you're actually gonna do it?" Jay asked, eyes wide as I hauled the fiberglass bull head from the equipment closet.

"Someone's gotta be the bull," I said, trying to sound chill even though my stomach was doing cartwheels. "Coach said if nobody volunteers, they're picking from detention list."

Truth was, I'd been kind of obsessed with this idea all summer. Me, the guy who sat in the back of every class, who'd mastered the art of being invisible, who my older sister called "sly as a fox" because I could slip out of any conversation unnoticed—I was about to become the most visible person at Northwood High.

The first football game of junior year. Standing room only crowd. My chance to finally be someone.

"Your hat," Jay said suddenly.

"What?"

"Your lucky hat. You always wear it for big things."

I touched the beat-up Dodgers cap that had practically fused to my head since eighth grade. It was my armor. My shield. Without it, I felt naked.

"Can't wear it with the mascot head," I said, even as my fingers hesitated at the brim.

Jay just looked at me. That look that said, I dare you.

I pulled off the hat. My hair did something embarrassing that I chose to ignore. Then I lifted the bull head and everything went dark and muffled, my breath loud in the enclosed space.

Something happened in there. In the dark. Without the hat. Without my name.

I burst onto the field and I wasn't me anymore. I was ENERGY. I spun, I high-fived little kids reaching through the fence, I accidentally body-checked a cheerleader and recovered with a moonwalk that made the student section go wild. Through the narrow eye slits, I saw people laughing, cheering, reaching for their phones to record whatever THIS was.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't the quiet kid. I wasn't "sly as a fox" fading into the background. I was the bull—unignorable, unapologetic, completely ridiculous and fully owning it.

Afterward, back in the equipment closet, sweaty and exhausted, Jay just stared at me.

"What?" I asked, reaching for my hat.

"Don't," Jay said. "Seriously. You don't need it anymore."

I looked at the Dodgers cap sitting on the bench. Then I looked at my friend, who was already pulling out their phone to show me the video of me moonwalking in a bull costume. Me. The guy nobody noticed.

I grinned. "Yeah. I think I'm good."

My phone buzzed—three new friend requests. Someone had tagged me in the video captioned: "WHO is our mascot?!

The bull, it turned out, was who I'd been all along. Just needed to take off the hat to meet him.