Bad Hair, Bigger Problems

The worst part about being sixteen isn't the algebra tests or the way your mom still tries to kiss you goodbye in the parking lot. It's that your hair decides to betray you exactly when it matters most.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned at my bathroom mirror, where my normally cooperative curls had decided to stage a full-on rebellion. Today was the day. THE day. Jordan's party, and I'd finally worked up the nerve to actually talk to him instead of just existing in his general vicinity like a socially awkward ghost.

My dog, Barnaby, chose that exact moment to waddle in and sneeze emphatically, as if commenting on the disaster situation.

"Thanks, Barnaby. Really helpful."

I'm pretty sure I spent forty-five minutes convincing myself that the party would be better without me. I'd just stay home, marathon Netflix, and avoid the inevitable humiliation. But then Jordan had posted that Instagram story—something about how he hoped "certain people" would show up—and suddenly I was grabbing my keys like my life depended on it.

Which is how I ended up here: walking down the street in what I swear was the cutest outfit I own (thank you, thrift store gods), while simultaneously regretting every decision that led to this moment. My hair situation had not improved, by the way.

I was so busy mentally spiraling that I almost didn't notice the chaos unfolding ahead. A massive chocolate-colored beast was bearing down on me at full speed, with a tiny redhead in hot pursuit screaming, "BRONTO! BAD DOG! NO!"

This enormous creature—clearly not actually a bear, though my fight-or-flight response begged to differ—was running straight at me like I was a giant treat dispenser. And I, being the absolute genius that I am, did the most logical thing possible.

I opened my arms.

"HEY BUDDY," I yelled in my most confident this-is-fine voice.

The skidded to a halt, tail wagging so hard his entire body was vibrating, and immediately commenced Operation Slobber All Over The Human's Extremely Carefully Chosen Outfit.

"Oh my GOD, I'm so sorry!" The redhead caught up, completely winded. "He's a therapy dog in training. Clearly we're still working on the recall part of the program."

"It's cool," I said, suddenly not even caring about my hair or my now-slobber-covered shirt. "He's adorable. What's his name?"

"Bronto. Like, Brontosaurus? Because he's huge and goofy and doesn't realize his own size?"

We both laughed, and that's when I noticed the girl's hair—a magnificent, untamed cloud of red curls that made my supposed hair crisis seem ridiculous.

"I'm Riley, by the way. And you're saved me from what looked like a full-on anxiety spiral."

"Maya," I said, realizing she was completely right. "And yeah, I was about five seconds away from bailing on this party anyway."

"Wait, you're going to Jordan's too?" Riley's eyes lit up. "We should walk together. Safety in numbers, right?"

We ended up spending the whole night together—making fun of the terrible punch, bonding over our shared inability to dance normally, and yes, eventually talking to Jordan, who turned out to be kind of underwhelming anyway. But Riley? She became my person. Sometimes the best nights aren't the ones you plan for. They're the ones where your hair looks terrible, you get assaulted by an overfriendly therapy dog, and you accidentally find your people in the process.

Also, Jordan ended up asking for Riley's number, so like... cool story, Maya.

Whatever. I've got better things to worry about. Like how to convince my parents we need a dog.