Zombies Don't Ride Bulls

I've been functioning like a zombie for three days straight, ever since Mr. Henderson assigned that five-page essay on The Great Gatsby. It's due tomorrow, and I haven't even started.

"You look dead," my best friend Leo says, slamming his locker next to mine. "Seriously, it's giving 'walking dead' vibes."

"Thanks, leo. Really boosting my confidence here."

"Anytime. Also, you forgot about the assembly today. Rodeo club recruitment? Since when does our school even have a rodeo club?"

Right. The assembly where I'd have to sit through two hours of speeches I didn't care about, feeling like everyone was watching me even though they definitely weren't.

The auditorium lights dim. Some guy in a cowboy hat walks onto stage—Jake, the new senior who'd moved here from Texas. Something about the way he stood there, calm as anything, made me pay attention.

"First time I rode a bull," he said into the microphone, "I was twelve. Scared out of my mind. But sometimes you have to get on anyway."

He talked about fear. About how it feels to face something that could literally crush you. And I'm sitting there thinking about that five-page essay like, this guy's talking about life-or-death situations and I'm stressing over homework?

But then he said something that stuck: "Everyone's got their own bull to ride. Might not look like one to anyone else, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying."

After school, I'm walking past the gym when I hear it—cat screaming. Like, full-on drama. I round the corner and see this tiny calico cat backed against the wall, hissing at two guys who are definitely not supposed to be bothering animals on school property.

"Chill, it's just a cat," one says, reaching for it.

"Hey!" I yell before my brain catches up with my mouth. "Leave it alone."

They both turn, surprised. The taller one—I recognize him from AP English—actually looks embarrassed. "We weren't gonna hurt it. Just trying to catch it."

"It's scared. Back off."

They exchange looks and leave. The cat's still pressed against the wall, trembling. I kneel slowly, not making any sudden moves, and just sit there. Minutes pass. Finally, it creeps forward and—what do you know—rubs its head against my hand like we've been best friends forever.

"You're all talk, huh?" I whisper, scratching behind its ears.

The bull. The cat. The zombie-like exhaustion that's been dragging me down all week. They're all connected somehow, I realize. Fear comes in different forms. Sometimes it's big and obvious, sometimes it's small and hissy. And sometimes you're just too tired to even recognize it.

That night, I open my laptop. The essay's still due tomorrow. But instead of staring at the blank page like it's about to attack me, I start typing. One sentence. Then another. Not because I'm not scared—I absolutely am. But because sometimes you have to get on anyway.

My bull might just be a five-page essay, but it's still my ride.