Texas 8th Grade ELA Question of the Day

After school, the hallway was empty except for Coach Ramos painting fresh lines on a poster for Friday's game. My handlebars still tingled from the jolt—his truck's rear bumper wore the proof, a clean crescent dent. I'd coasted away at lunch, promising myself I'd leave a note later. Later stretched all day. If I went home now, no one would know. The thought sat in my throat like a pebble. I walked to Coach. "I hit your truck," I said. The words scraped, but once they were out, breathing got easier. He set the brush down, studied me, then the keys in his palm. "You okay?" he asked first. I nodded. "We'll figure out the bumper," he said. "Thanks for telling me." He didn't shout, and he didn't smile either. He handed me a trash bag and pointed to the bleachers. "Help me clean up, and we'll call your folks." While we worked, the paint dried and so did the panic. The dent was still there, but Coach kept talking—to me, not at me—about responsibility like it was a muscle you grew by using it. My handlebars stopped tingling.