The Spinach Incident

I'd been dodging gym class for three weeks. Not because I hated exercise—I played basketball every weekend—but because Coach Miller had announced the swimming unit, and there was no way I was getting into that pool in front of everyone.

The bear inside my chest—the anxiety that had been hibernating since middle school—had woken up growling. Social situations weren't usually my thing, but stripping down to swim trunks while everyone judged? That was my personal nightmare.

"You coming, dude?" Marcus asked, already halfway to the locker room. He'd been my best friend since seventh grade, back when we both thought wearing mismatched socks was cool rebellion.

"Yeah, just... forgot something," I lied. Again.

The cafeteria incident happened fifth period. I'd grabbed what looked like a decent salad, but apparently "organic spring mix" included enough spinach to fuel a small army. By lunchtime, I'd become that person—the one with green stuff stuck in their teeth while trying to talk to Hannah, the girl I'd been lowkey crushing on since homecoming.

She'd just stared. I'd just wanted to disappear. The bear in my chest roared.

But then came sixth period. Pool time. And I realized something worse than embarrassment: everyone was already in the water, and Coach Miller was watching me like a hawk.

I could walk away. Again.

Or I could just... not.

The water hit me like ice. I pushed off the wall, stroke after stroke, while everyone else actually focused on their own laps for once. Turns out, nobody was watching me. They were all worrying about themselves—their own bears, their own spinach-filled moments.

When I surfaced, Hannah was at the edge of the pool. "You got something in your teeth," she said, then smiled. "Kidding. Nice backstroke, though."

Maybe the bear wasn't so scary after all. Maybe it just needed to go for a swim.