Undercover at the Cross Country Meet

I felt like a zombie. Three straight nights of AP Bio cramming will do that to you. My hair was doing that thing it does when I've forgotten to wash it for two days — sticking up in the back like I got electrocuted, which honestly wasn't far from the truth given how much caffeine I'd consumed.

"You good, Maya?" Chloe asked, eyeing me sideways as we stretched at the starting line.

"Totally," I lied. "Just channeling my inner athlete."

She snorted. "You look like you haven't slept since the Bush administration."

I didn't tell her that part of my exhaustion came from my new extracurricular activity: operating as an amateur spy. For the past week, I'd been documenting my school's social hierarchy for an anonymous TikTok account. It was stupid, reckless, and honestly kind of sociopathic, but for the first time in my high school existence, people were actually engaging with something I created. Even if they didn't know it was me.

The gun went off. Running used to be my escape — just me, the pavement, and whatever playlist I'd put on repeat. But now it felt different. I was always watching, always cataloging. That's Tyler from lacrosse, probably going to text his ex again. There's Jordan, allegedly studying but actually vaping behind the portables.

Around mile two, my legs turned to jelly. I was that scene from every zombie movie where the undead shuffles forward despite missing limbs. I considered just lying down and letting the cross country officials deal with my corpse.

Then I saw him.

Ryan, leaning against a tree near the finish line, holding a Gatorade. Not for me — obviously not for me — but still there. The guy I'd been spying on through my phone screen, documenting his on-again-off-thing with Sarah for my followers.

He looked up, caught my eye, and actually smiled. Not like he was plotting anything, but like he was glad to see me finishing the race without dying.

Something shifted. I crossed the finish line and didn't immediately pull out my phone to tweet about it. I just stood there, gross and sweaty, hair doing whatever it wanted, and accepted that Gatorade like a normal person.

"Nice hustle," Ryan said.

"Thanks," I said, and I meant it.

That night, I deleted my spy account. Being on the outside watching everyone else live was exhausting. I wanted to be the one actually living, even if it meant looking like a zombie and running races I had no business finishing.

Turns out, real life is way more interesting than watching it through a screen anyway.