Vitamins and Velocity

Marcus crushed his third **vitamin** C supplement of the morning, the chalky tablet catching in his throat. Not because he was sick—he wasn't—but because sophomore swim tryouts were in three hours, and desperate times called for desperate nutritional choices.

His **orange** swim trunks hung on the doorknob, bright enough to signal aircraft. A thrift store find because his mom refused to buy another pair after he'd outgrown the last ones. "You'll grow into them," she'd said, tossing the bag at him. Marcus had unfolded them and died inside.

"You nervous?" asked Leo, already lacing up his sneakers by the door.

"Nah." Marcus's voice cracked. "Just... hydrating."

"Right." Leo grinned. "Because that's what electrolytes are for."

The locker room smelled like chlorine and middle school awkwardness. Marcus changed faster than humanly possible, jamming his feet into the orange trunks that were somehow both too tight and too loose. A freshman whistled.

"Nice highlighters, bro."

Marcus's face burned. He shoved his clothes into his locker and stalked toward the pool.

Coach Miller—aka "The **Bull**" for reasons that became obvious when she started barking orders—paced the deck with a clipboard. "Alright, gentlemen. Fifty-meter freestyle. Fastest six make varsity. The rest can join junior PE or try again next year."

Marcus's stomach dropped. Junior PE. With the eighth graders. His social life would officially end before it began.

"You got this," Leo whispered, slapping his back.

Marcus climbed onto the starting block, shaking so hard he almost slipped. His heart hammered against his ribs. The whistle blew.

He dove.

The water shocked his lungs, cold and sharp. He kicked harder than he'd ever kicked in his life, arms churning, thoughts spiraling. *Orange trunks. Vitamin C. The Bull watching. Leo waiting. His mom saying "grow into them" like that was supposed to help.**

His hand slapped the wall. He gasped, sucking air, muscles screaming.

"Forty-seven seconds," Coach Miller called out. "Not bad, Garcia."

Marcus dragged himself out of the pool, dripping everywhere. He checked the board—fifth place. He'd made it.

Leo high-fived him so hard his shoulder stung. "See? Told you."

"Yeah," Marcus breathed, noticing the Coach Miller had written something next to his name. **She'd drawn a tiny star.**

"Next year, lose the orange," she said, walking past. "But you've got heart. We can work with that."