When the Bull Finally Sat

Mateo's hands shook as he gripped the rope. The 4-H fair crowd stared, phones raised like interrogation lights. Behind him, Sarah—that supposed best friend who'd sworn she'd help with the showmanship demonstration—was nowhere to be found. Probably off with the cool kids again.

"He's not gonna cooperate," Mateo muttered to himself.

The bull, a massive Charleigh named Buster, snorted and pawed the dirt. He'd been sweet as anything during practice sessions, but show day jitters were apparently contagious.

Then Mateo's stomach grumbled loud enough that a sophomore in the front row giggled. He'd skipped breakfast, too nervous to eat, but now he was regretting it. His backpack sat near the fence—inside, a container of papaya chunks his abuela had insisted would "calm his nerves" with natural goodness. Whatever. He needed something.

He lunged for his bag, and somehow Buster interpreted this as a signal. The bull lunged too—and stopped dead, nose practically in Mateo's face.

The crowd went silent.

Mateo fished out the papaya. "You want this?"

Buster sniffed, then gently took a piece. Mateo fed him another, then another, right there in the show ring. The ridiculousness of it hit him—here he was, feeding exotic fruit to a thousand-pound animal while wearing his lucky socks and feeling like a total fraud.

And then he heard laughing. Not mean laughing. Sarah was back, breathless, holding up her phone. "I went to get your backup ribbon! I swore I'd be right back!"

Buster nudged Mateo's shoulder for more papaya.

"You're gonna be a monster," Mateo said, grinning despite himself.

Sarah leaned against the fence, grinning. "Nah. He just has good taste. Also, you're trending. Hashtag PapayaBull."

Mateo rolled his eyes. But as Buster leaned into his scratch behind the ears, he realized maybe everything didn't have to go according to plan. Sometimes you just fed a bull tropical fruit in front of half your high school and called it a win.