The Orange Shoelace Revolution

I'd been running from Marcus's crew since freshman year. Literally and figuratively. My cross-country times were solid, but whenever the varsity quarterback bull-ied me into the cafeteria corner, I basically curled into a human pretzel.

Then came the day I showed up wearing these ridiculously bright orange shoelaces I'd thrifted for two bucks. Mom said they looked like traffic cones. My little brother said they looked like cheese sticks. But I felt weirdly bold, like I'd finally stopped color-inside-the-lines-ing my entire existence.

"Nice laces, freak," Marcus announced at lunch, loud enough for half the junior class to hear. His friends snorted like they'd rehearsed it. I gripped my tray so hard my knuckles turned the same shade as my shoes.

"Actually, they're blaze orange," I heard myself say. "For visibility during my morning runs. Safety first, you know?"

The table went silent. Marcus blinked like I'd just spoken fluent Klingon.

Then this girl Jordan, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since she'd defended that weird kid in English last month, slid into the seat across from me. She pointed at my shoes with her chip. "Those are sick. I've been looking for laces that pop."

"Trade you?" I blurted, and immediately wanted to dissolve into the floor.

Jordan just grinned. "Pass me the parmesan, orange lace boy."

Marcus never messed with me again after that. Not because of any dramatic showdown or because I suddenly became cool. I think he just realized that the day he'd chosen to mess with me, I'd already decided to stop running from everything. The orange laces weren't about the color—they were about finally being the person who'd wear them anyway.

Jordan and I started running together before school. She's faster than me, which is annoying. But she says my laces make me easier to spot in a crowd, so I guess that's something.