Jake practiced the Renegade dance in front of his mirror, muttering lyrics like a spell. His bedroom walls were plastered with TikTok screenshots—dancers frozen mid-twirl, eyes wide as saucers. He synced his hips to the beat, then froze. The 16-year-old version of himself had clearly added a jazz-hands flourish.
At lunch, Jake strode to the cafeteria dance floor, backpack slung over one shoulder. A crowd had gathered around Mia, whose TikTok video of her doing the Renegade while juggling pickles had 2 million likes. Jake cleared his throat. “Hey, Mia. Want to see the *real* Renegade?”
He launched into his routine: feet stomping, arms flailing, head bobbing so hard his hair looked like a dandelion in a hurricane. The crowd went silent. Someone snorted. Mia’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s not the Renegade,” she said, voice flat.
“It’s… the Renegade 2.0,” Jake said, sweat dripping into his eyes. “I added a pickle toss!”
The cafeteria erupted in laughter. Jake’s face burned as he fumbled a pickle from his backpack, which rolled under a table. He chased it, tripped over his own feet, and face-planted into a pile of ketchup packets.
That night, Jake rewatched his failed performance. The pickle-throwing bit was genius. He uploaded it anyway, captioning: “When you try to trend and become a meme. #Renegade2023.”
By morning, the video had 10 million views. The comments were a mix of mockery and awe. Jake’s new dance, “The Jake-Flake,” was trending. Mia sent him a DM: “Teach me.”
He replied: “First, you have to admit I’m the Renegade.”
She responded: “No way. You’re the pickle-throwing disaster.”
Jake grinned. Maybe being a meme was better than being a trend.
