Thunder and the Underdog

The bass from Marcus's basement rattled my chest like a second heartbeat. Senior house party. My first. I'd spent forty-five minutes psyching myself up in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing casual leans against doorframes, but now that I was actually here, I mostly stood near the snack table clutching a red Solo cup like it contained the antidote.

Then Jordan spotted me.

"Yo, Maya!" He weaved through the crowd, his grin already predatory. "What's up, I didn't think you'd actually show. You gonna stand there all night or you gonna actually _live_ a little?"

His friends snickered. A few months ago, Jordan had decided I was his new favorite punching bag—quiet girl, easy target. He'd lean against my locker and make up rumors, spread rumors about my family, whatever got him laughs.

"I'm good," I said, staring at my cup.

"Bull," Jordan said, stepping closer. "You look terrified. Should've stayed home with your _dog_ and your—what is it? Botany club?"

My dog. _Actually_ my emotional support animal, prescribed after my dad died last year, but Jordan just knew I had a dog and that was enough ammunition.

_Something snapped in my chest._

Outside, a massive crack of _lightning_ split the sky, followed instantly by thunder that shook the windows. The party noise dipped for half a second.

"You know what's funny?" I said, my voice coming out steady and weirdly calm. "You talk so much shit about other people, but I noticed something last week."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"In English, when we had to write those personal essays about who we admire?" I stepped toward him now. "You wrote about your older brother. How he's your hero because he's _actually_ confident, doesn't have to tear people down to feel big. You called him your _lightning_ rod—said he takes all the attention so you don't have to."

Jordan's face went still.

"And then," I continued, my voice rising now, people turning to watch, "you wrote about how you're scared you'll never be as brave as him. That you're just pretending. That you're full of _bull_—literally, those were your words, Jordan, 'full of bull'—and you hope nobody notices."

Dead silence. The bass thumped in the background.

Jordan's mouth opened, closed.

"So yeah," I said, setting my cup down on the table. "I have a dog. His name's Barnaby. He's a rescue who was abused, so he's scared of loud noises and sudden movements. But he's also the bravest thing I know because he keeps trusting people anyway. Maybe you could learn something from him."

I turned and walked out the back door, into the warm summer night, as another flash of lightning illuminated the whole backyard like a camera flash.

Behind me, someone started clapping. Then someone else.

I didn't look back.