Vitamins and Vicious

The box of gummy vitamins stared at me from the kitchen counter—Mom's latest attempt to fix me from three hundred miles away. I grabbed the bottle, my fingers sticky with summer heat, and stuffed two in my mouth. Orange flavor. Gross. But apparently they'd help me "grow into myself," whatever that meant.

The problem wasn't growing. It was shrinking—disappeering into the background at Northwood High while Tyler and his crew dominated every hallway like they owned the place.

"You're not gonna let him push you around forever, right?" Chloe had asked yesterday, her rainbow hair perfectly matching her perfectly irritating wisdom.

I didn't answer. Because she was right.

That's how I ended up at Miller's Farm at 7 AM, volunteering to help old man Miller with his morning rounds. Anything to avoid thinking about Monday's inevitable confrontation with Tyler in the cafeteria.

"Watch out for Bessie," Miller warned, jerking his thumb toward the pasture. "That bull's got a temper like herding cats."

Great. A literal bull. Just what I needed.

But then this dog—this scrawny, three-legged terrier mix—limped up to me, tail wagging like her life depended on it. Miller called her Lucky, which I thought was pretty ironic considering she'd already lost a leg.

"She's not much for guarding, but she's got spirit," Miller said, tossing me a bucket. "Feed the chickens. Lucky'll show you how it's done."

And she did. This three-legged dog moved with more confidence than I'd ever had, hopping through mud and chicken feathers like she owned the place. Meanwhile, I was spilling grain everywhere, my hands shaking because Tyler's voice kept echoing in my head: *"What's wrong, weirdo? Can't handle a little pressure?"*

But Lucky didn't care about pressure. Lucky just wanted breakfast.

By noon, I was sitting on the fence, watching Bessie the bull stomp around, thinking maybe I should just let Tyler win. Let him have his moment. Whatever.

Then Lucky nudged my ankle, dropped a dirty tennis ball in my lap, and looked at me with these eyes that said, *"Seriously? You're giving up NOW?"*

I threw the ball. She bounded after it, three legs and all, like gravity was just a suggestion.

Monday came. Tyler slammed his tray down next to mine, sneering already.

"Hey, freak."

I thought about Lucky. I thought about Bessie charging at nothing because she could.

"Hey, Tyler," I said, and I didn't even stutter. "Nice shirt. Your mom pick it out?"

The whole cafeteria went dead silent.

Tyler stared at me. I stared back. And somewhere in the distance—or maybe just in my head—a three-legged dog barked.

I popped two more gummy vitamins that night. They still tasted like orange and insecurity, but somehow, they went down easier.