Vitamins for the Brave

Leo stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the bottle of vitamins his mom had bought him. "For growing boys," she'd said, like that explained everything. At sixteen, Leo was tired of waiting for growing to happen. He was still the smallest guy on the JV basketball team, still got carded buying rated R movies, still had to shop in the boys' section.

"You ready?" his best friend Marcus called from downstairs. "The fair starts in an hour."

Leo shoved the vitamin bottle into his backpack. His grandpa had entered him in the junior bull riding competition at the county fair, because apparently the man didn't understand that "farm kid" skipped a generation. Leo's dad worked in accounting. Leo's closest encounter with livestock was the family's ancient golden retriever, Buster, who currently slept twenty hours a day.

"I'm about to make a complete fool of myself," Leo said, grabbing his backpack. Buster thumped his tail lazily from his bed.

The fairgrounds smelled like fried dough and desperation. Leo's grandpa was already by the chutes, talking to some other old guys like they were discussing battle strategies. "There he is!" Grandpa called, waving Leo over like he was a celebrity instead of a nervous wreck. "This here's my grandson. Got nerves of steel."

"No he doesn't," Leo muttered.

"Number 47," the announcer called over crackling speakers. "Leo Martinez, riding Blizzard for the full eight seconds."

The bull was massive—two thousand pounds of muscle and bad attitude, already tossing its head against the metal fencing. Leo's stomach did something concerning.

"Take your vitamins?" Grandpa winked.

Leo's hand went to his pocket. The vitamins. Because that's what would save him—some glorified orange juice concentrate in gel capsule form. Right.

"I can't do this," he said.

Grandpa's face fell, just a little. "You don't have to win, Leo. You just have to get on."

Get on. That was it. Just sit on the angry murder-cow for eight seconds while the entire county watched. Simple.

Then he saw her—Chloe from his English class, standing by the fence with her friends, laughing. And suddenly Leo was tired of being the kid who always sat out, always played it safe, always waited to grow into things.

He swung his leg over the rail.

"That's my boy!" Grandpa shouted.

The gate opened.

Everything was chaos and dust and upside-down sky. Leo lasted exactly three seconds before hitting the dirt so hard it knocked the air out of his lungs. He lay there staring up at the spinning world, people cheering, his entire body aching.

And then—he was laughing. Actually laughing. He'd done it. He'd gotten on. He'd lasted three whole seconds on a literal bull.

Buster was waiting by the car when they got home, thumping his tail like he'd never doubted Leo for a second. Leo scratched behind the dog's ears, already planning his next run.

"Next time," he told Buster, "I'm going for four seconds."

His grandpa just smiled and said, "Maybe lay off the vitamins, kid. You're crazy enough already."