Citrus Confidential

Maya's locker was the unoffcial crisis headquarters of sophomore year. That's where she found me on a Tuesday, hyperventilating because Jordan—the absolute king of our awkward friend group—had actually noticed my new haircut. Or maybe he'd noticed I was existing in his general vicinity again. Hard to say.

"You're spiraling," Maya said, cracking open an Orange Fanta with a dramatic hiss. The sound echoed through the empty hallway like judgment. "Drink this. It's basically liquid vitamin for your anxiety."

I stared at the neon-orange can. "Since when does soda count as a supplement?"

"Since I declared it so." She shoved it toward me. "Jordan's not that deep, Lena. He's just a guy with really nice curls who happens to be your oldest friend's brother. You're making this weird."

"I am NOT making it weird," I protested, even though I absolutely was. "I just—his curls are really nice, Maya. Have you SEEN them bounce when he laughs? It's mesmerizing. It's like watching a slow-motion hair commercial."

Maya cackled so hard she almost snorted Fanta up her nose. "Okay, so we're creepy now. Got it. This is the vibe we're bringing into junior year."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, bestie." She checked her phone, her expression suddenly shifting. "Oh. Speak of the devil."

Jordan rounded the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder, curls doing exactly what Maya had mocked me for describing. He stopped dead when he saw us.

"Hey," he said. Then, to me: "Your hair looks different."

My brain short-circuited. "It's, uh, shorter. By several inches. Because scissors."

Maya FaceTimed our entire group chat later that night so everyone could witness my humiliation. But Jordan texted me at midnight—just a random meme about how we're all just vitamin D-deficient zombies stumbling through high school.

I fell asleep with my phone glowing on my chest, thinking maybe, just maybe, sophomore year wouldn't completely suck after all.