Three Seconds of Thunder

The county fair smelled like fried dough and desperation, exactly how I felt. Fifteen years old, and I was hiding behind the Fun Slide because Bryce Miller had just texted me: "We need to talk."

I ran my hand through my hair—a nervous habit I couldn't break. Mom called it my "mane" and said it made me look like a young lion. I thought it made me look like I was trying too hard. Bryce probably thought it made me look like I was trying too hard.

"You gonna ride or what?" The mechanical bull operator chewed tobacco like it was his job. Probably because it WAS his job.

My palms were so sweaty I could barely grip the leather. That's what happened when you were about to face three terrifying truths in one night: You might get rejected, your hair might make you look like a fool, and you might literally embarrass yourself in front of everyone from school.

"One ticket," I said, slamming my crumpled bill on the counter.

My older brother Marcus was the county's champion bull rider until he blew out his knee. Now I was trying to fill boots that literally didn't fit me. But Bryce was waiting by the cotton candy stand, and sometimes you had to ride the bull—or in this case, the mechanical Hornet that definitely didn't look anything like a bull.

The operator laughed when he saw me climb on. "Tiny thing like you? You'll last—" He checked his watch. "—maybe two seconds."

I wrapped my hand around the rope, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My hair fell in my face. I tucked it behind my ear. Three deep breaths.

The machine lurched. My body went with it, then against it, then somehow both at once. I heard my friends shouting, heard Bryce's voice cut through everything: "GO JUAN!"

I wasn't thinking anymore. Just gripping with my thighs, leaning when the machine wanted me to fall, finding rhythm in chaos. One second. Two. Three. The operator's eyes went wide. Five seconds. I was flying.

Then came the spin—the Hornet's signature move that dumped everyone. My body whipped sideways, grip failing, and I sailed through the air, landing in the foam pit with a soft thump.

"EIGHT POINT FIVE SECONDS!" the operator shouted, genuinely impressed now.

I rolled over, hair plastered to my forehead, heart still racing, palms still sweating, grinning like I'd just won the lottery.

Bryce stood above me, holding out a hand. Their face was doing that thing where they tried not to smile but failed anyway. "That was... actually kind of impressive."

I took their hand, letting them pull me up. "So... we need to talk?"

"Yeah." Bryce smoothed down my hair with their other hand, lingering maybe a second longer than necessary. "I was gonna say—I like the hair. And I like you. And do you want to share some cotton butter and watch the fireworks from the Ferris wheel?"

The county fair didn't smell like desperation anymore. It smelled like popcorn and possibility. And my palms were still sweating—but somehow, that didn't matter anymore.