Thunderdog Summer

The first week of sophomore year, I started stealing my mom's collagen vitamins because I read on TikTok they'd fix my awkward smile. They didn't. But that didn't stop me from crushing three pills every morning with my generic orange juice, praying my social anxiety would dissolve along with them.

Then I found the dog behind the Quick Mart—a mangy golden retriever mix with one ear that stood up like a question mark. I started calling him vitamin because he was literally the only thing making me feel better.

"You're actually talking to that stray?" Maya asked, watching me slip him half my turkey sandwich. We were sitting on the curb, her new Nike kicks scuffing the asphalt while lightning streaked the sky behind the 7-Eleven sign. Maya had transferred in from LA and somehow made being effortlessly cool look, well, effortless.

"He's not a stray," I said, even though he totally was. "We're just vibing."

"You're, like, secretly soft, aren't you?" She grinned, and my stomach did that embarrassing flip thing. "It's kinda cute though."

A massive lightning crack shattered the sky, and Vitamin bolted. I took off after him without thinking, Maya calling after me. We chased him through three backyards until I cornered him in someone's garage, shaking and soaked.

"Gotcha, buddy," I whispered, and the dog collapsed against me like we'd known each other forever.

Maya appeared in the garage doorway, breathless. Her perfect eyeliner was running down her face. She looked at me—really looked at me—and for the first time since I'd started popping those useless vitamins, I didn't want to disappear.

"Your lip gloss is smeared," she said, then stepped closer and wiped it off with her thumb. "Your dog has garbage on his head."

"He's not my dog."

"Yeah, okay." She smiled, and lightning flashed again, briefly turning the garage into something golden. "Whatever you say, vitamin boy."