The Spinach in My Teeth

I'd been **running** from my problems for three years straight—literally. Cross country was my escape, my therapist, my everything. Until the day it became my worst nightmare.

Sectionals. The biggest meet of the season. I'd been carb-loading with pasta for days, feeling ready, until my mom decided to get experimental with dinner the night before. Her "energy-boosting smoothie" turned out to be a thick, sludge-colored concoction that tasted like a **bear** had marinated old gym socks in swamp water.

"It's packed with **spinach**!" she'd said, beaming like she'd discovered the meaning of life. "Superfoods!"

I'd chugged it anyway because I'm an idiot who trusts their mom.

Fast forward to mile two of the race. I'm in third place, feeling strong, when my stomach makes a sound like a dying whale. The guy running behind me actually flinches. I try to focus, but my digestive system is staging a full-blown rebellion.

Then it happens. A burp. Not just any burp—a projectile burp. A spray of bright green slime covers the guy in front of me. His jersey is instantly transformed into a abstract art piece.

He stops. I stop. Everyone behind us stops.

"What the—" he starts, then turns around. His face goes through every stage of grief in three seconds flat. "Did you just... is that..."

I want to die. I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole. Instead, my stomach makes another noise, and suddenly I'm fighting for my life, sprinting toward the finish line with renewed (albeit terrified) energy.

The next day at school, I'm fully prepared to be a social pariah. But instead, people are acting weirdly... impressed? The guy I'd slimed—his name is Marcus, apparently—high-fives me in the hallway.

"Dude," he says. "That was legendary."

Apparently, my projectile spinach moment had become the school's favorite viral video. Someone's mom had posted it, and now I was the "Spinach Sniper," a title I never wanted but weirdly appreciated.

Marcus even brings me an **orange** at lunch. "For vitamin C," he says. "To help with your aim."

We're dating now. And I've learned that sometimes your most embarrassing moments become your best stories—and sometimes, just sometimes, running from your problems means running straight into something amazing.