The Riddle in the Dust

The third **running** lap around the track felt like my last. My lungs burned like I'd swallowed actual fire, and Coach Martinez's whistle cut through the afternoon heat like a weapon. Again.

"Pick it up, Torres! You call that hustle?"

I didn't. I called it survival. Freshman year of **baseball** tryouts was supposed to be my golden ticket to not being invisible anymore, but so far I'd mostly discovered that I was terrible at everything except running away from my problems. Literally.

The varsity players watched from the dugout like they owned the place—which, technically, they did. Maya was there, leaning against the fence with her phone, probably documenting my struggle for her story. She'd transferred in over winter break and immediately became That Girl who knew everyone and said things like "no cap" with terrifying conviction.

I stumbled through the infield dirt, praying for death or a tornado. Instead, I got Maya blocking my path.

"Yo, Torres," she called, stepping onto the field like gravity was optional. "You're running like you're being chased by something." Her eyes sparkled. "Or toward something."

My face turned the color of a tomato that had seen too much sun. "Just trying to make the team, Maya."

She tilted her head. "What's your position?"

"Currently? Humiliation."

She laughed—an actual sound, not one of those polite fake ones. "No, like, what do you play?"

"Uh, outfield. Maybe. If I survive Coach Martinez's personal vendetta against my cardio."

Maya studied me like I was an interesting specimen. "You know the sphinx riddle?"

"What?"

"The sphinx riddle. What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening?"

"That's... that's from Greek mythology, right? Man. The answer is man."

She raised an eyebrow. "You know your mythology. Nice."

"My mom's a classics professor. It was that or disownment."

"Cool." She grinned. "So what's your sphinx riddle, Leo?"

"My what?"

"Your thing. The question that keeps you up at night. Everyone's got one. Mine's whether it's better to be liked or respected." She shrugged. "What's yours?"

Coach Martinez's whistle pierced the moment. "Torres! Stop flirting and start running!"

Maya winked. "Think about it."

I ran. And for the first time all afternoon, I wasn't thinking about how much I hated running or how badly I wanted to quit. I was thinking about sphinxes and riddles and the terrifying possibility that maybe—just maybe—high school wasn't about having all the answers.

Maybe it was about figuring out which questions mattered.

I rounded third base, lungs screaming, and caught Maya's eye across the field. She was still watching. And somehow, that made everything a little less terrible.