Three Seconds of Air

My dad says cross country builds character, but mostly it builds blisters and the overwhelming urge to hurl. I'm dead last at every meet, running through suburban neighborhoods that all look the same, my lungs screaming like they're trying to escape my chest.

Then I see him.

The new guy, Mateo, sitting on a retaining wall near the papaya tree his mom probably planted because she's "that kind of Pinterest mom." He's eating the fruit like it's normal, orange juice dripping down his wrist, totally unbothered while I gasp for air like a dying fish.

"You good?" he asks, like he's not watching me have a near-death experience.

"Never better," I wheeze. "Just enjoying the scenery."

He laughs, and it's annoying how good it sounds. "I'm Mateo. Nice jogging form."

"I'm Maya. And this isn't jogging, it's slow-motion dying."

After that, I start "accidentally" running past his house. Every. Single. Day. We talk about nothing while I pretend to stretch – music, teachers, how his pet goldfish Goldie Hawn has survived three near-death experiences because his sister keeps trying to "play" with her. He tells me I'm funny. I tell myself this is friendship, even though I Instagram-stalked him until 2 AM and found his SoundCloud where he posts songs that are actually decent.

The day before regionals, Mateo's waiting with two papayas. "Good luck charm," he says. "My mom swears by them."

"Your mom thinks fruit is a performance enhancer?"

"She also thinks mercury is in retrograde, so."

I eat the papaya. It tastes like responsibility and hope. At the meet, I don't win – obviously – but I PR, and Mateo's there at the finish line, holding a sign that says "GO MAYA GO" in glitter letters that took definitely too long to make.

"Post-race papaya celebration?" he asks.

"Only if you promise not to watch me eat it."

"Deal."

My dad says cross country builds character. He's right. Just not in the way he thinks.