Ceramic Sentinels

The ceramic sphinx sat on my nightstand, its painted-on eyes judging my entire existence. "You're not going to wear that to Jordan's party, are you?" it seemed to ask, and honestly, the riddle from my English class had been easier to solve than this outfit dilemma.

"You look fine, Leo," my mom called from down the hall. "Did you take your vitamin? You've been getting sick too easily lately."

"Yes, Mom," I lied, grabbing the gummy bear vitamins from the kitchen counter and shoving three in my mouth. Chewable courage. That's what they should call them.

The party was already chaos when I arrived. Jordan's older brother had DJ equipment set up in the basement, and people were dancing like nobody was watching—even though everybody was definitely watching. I spotted Maya across the room, laughing with her friends, that effortless social butterfly thing she did. Meanwhile, I felt like my cat, Buster—perpetually awkward, ready to bolt at sudden movements, mostly interested in finding a quiet corner to observe dramatically.

"Leo!" Danny appeared, shoving a red cup at me. "Drink this. It's just soda, but pretend it's something else. Makes you look mysterious."

I took it, because apparently pretending was the whole point of being sixteen. But then someone shouted "BEAR!" and I jumped, spilling soda down my favorite flannel.

"It's just Jackson's brother," Danny laughed. "They call him Bear cause he's huge. He's a senior, don't worry."

But I was worrying. I was worrying about my shirt, about Maya not noticing me, about the sphinx riddle still unsolved in my head, about how everyone else seemed to have gotten the manual for being a teenager except me.

I escaped to the backyard, finding Jackson's little sister sitting in the gazebo, holding—no way—an actual ceramic sphinx.

"That's weird," I said, then realized I'd said it out loud.

She shrugged. "My mom has a garden obsession. She thinks gnomes are cliché, so she went with Egyptian theme."

I sat beside her. "I have one too. A sphinx, I mean. On my nightstand."

"Cool."

We sat there watching the party through the glass doors, the bass vibrating through the floor. And suddenly it hit me—the riddle answer. The sphinx wasn't asking anything. It was waiting.

"What walks on four legs, then two, then three?" I whispered.

The girl looked at me like I was finally interesting. "A person. Baby, adult, old person with a cane."

"Yeah. But what if the answer isn't about growing old? What if it's about growing into yourself?"

My phone buzzed. Mom: "Vitamin D works better if you actually swallow it."

Maya texted: "where r u?"

I looked at the sphinx, the girl with the garden obsession, the party beyond the glass. Then I texted Maya back: "outside. coming in."

Some riddles don't have answers. Some sphinxes don't ask questions. And sometimes the cat inside you stops hiding and actually walks through the door.