The Vitamin K Incident

Marcus's mom swore these neon-orange gummies would change his life. "It's the vitamin K deficiency," she'd insisted, pressing the bottle into his palm like it was contraband. "Trust me, sweetie, you'll feel different."

He doubted it. Mostly because Marcus's problem wasn't nutritional.

It was his hat.

The beanie—faded blue, slightly fuzzed at the crown—had been his dad's. Same one his dad wore in every single baby photo of Marcus, back before everything fell apart. Back before the divorce, before his dad moved to Seattle and sent cards instead of showing up. Marcus wore it everywhere now, including seventh period, including during track practice, which was technically against Coach Miller's rules but whatever.

"You gonna wear that thing during the meet Friday?" Jordan asked, falling into step beside him. Jordan, who could run a 4:42 mile and made it look effortless. Jordan, whose hair always looked perfect even after wind sprints.

"Maybe," Marcus muttered, adjusting the brim.

"Coach is gonna throw a fit."

"Let him."

They were running cool-down laps, the spring air still crisp enough to see their breath. Marcus's legs burned, but not in a good way. Not in the I'm-getting-faster way. In the why-am-I-even-on-this-team way. He'd joined to prove something—mostly to himself—that he could push past discomfort. That he could be someone who finished things instead of quitting when it got hard.

Instead, he was consistently JV. consistently average. consistently almost-good-enough.

Thursday night, Marcus stood in the bathroom staring at himself. The beanie on the counter. The vitamin bottle beside it. His reflection, eyes dark from staying up too late scrolling through posts of people living lives he'd never have.

Something cracked open in his chest.

He grabbed the bottle and downed three gummies without thinking about the serving size. Then he grabbed the beanie and shoved it to the back of the drawer. Then he grabbed his phone and texted Jordan: I'm doing it.

Doing what?

Everything.

Friday arrived gray and drizzly. Marcus's stomach churned as he pinned his number to his shirt—no hat, no hiding. His hair was stupid. His ears stuck out. He looked like a twelve-year-old who'd gotten dressed in the dark.

Jordan double-took when he saw him. "Whoa. You look..."

"Like myself," Marcus said, and the words felt terrifying and electric.

"Yeah," Jordan said slowly. "Yeah, you kinda do."

The starting gun cracked.

Marcus didn't win. He didn't even place. But somewhere in the second lap, lungs screaming, legs pumping, something else screamed too—a feeling so raw it almost knocked him over. He was running. He was really running. No armor, no hiding, no ghost of his dad wrapped around his head. Just him, the track, the rhythmic slap of sneakers against rubber.

He crossed the line bent double, gulping air, everything spinning. His time was personal best. Not by much. By eight seconds.

Eight seconds that belonged entirely to him.

Jordan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Dude. That was—"

"I know," Marcus said, straightening up, rain matting his stupid hair against his forehead. "I know."

Later, he'd realize the vitamins were probably placebo. Later, he'd call his dad and leave a voicemail that didn't sound angry, just... real. Later, he'd learn that growth wasn't about becoming someone else.

But right now, breathing in the silver air, Marcus felt like he was finally waking up.