Zombie Mode at the Finish Line

I looked like a zombie. No, scratch that—zombies looked better than me after mile three of regional cross country. My legs pumped on autopilot, each stride sending little shockwaves of regret through my body. Why did I think joining the team would impress Sarah? She probably wasn't even watching.

Coach Martinez's voice echoed through my foggy brain: "Push through, Chen! You've got this!" Meanwhile, I was currently debating whether collapsing dramatically on the trail would earn me sympathy points or just embarrassment.

The real enemy, though, wasn't exhaustion. It was the spinach. The stupid, emerald-green demon wedged between my front teeth, mocking me since lunch. I'd caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier—too late to fix it before the race. Now, flashing my best smile at Sarah meant looking like I'd been grazing on the school lawn.

Bear Creek Trail lived up to its name today. My lungs felt like they'd been mauled by one, and the 90-degree heat wasn't helping. I'd already downed two bottles of water at the last station, but my mouth still tasted like despair.

"Go Leo!"

There she was. Sarah stood near the final bend, actually holding a sign. MY LEAFY GREEN KINGDOM, it read—a reference to my unfortunate lunch incident that had somehow become my team nickname. She was grinning. She knew. And somehow, she didn't seem to mind.

Something clicked. My legs found new energy. I wasn't running for points anymore. I was running toward the first person who laughed at my most embarrassing moment and then showed up anyway.

I crossed the finish line and immediately face-planted onto the grass, rolling onto my back. Sarah appeared above me, blocking out the sun, still smiling.

"You know," she said, offering me a hand, "the spinach actually added character."

I groaned but grabbed her hand. "So does this mean you'll finally let me buy you boba?"

She laughed. "Only if you promise to check your teeth first."

I lay there grinning like an idiot, spinach and all. Sometimes, you don't need to be cool to win—you just need someone who thinks your mess is worth showing up for.