Electric Green

The party pulsing through Jordan's ears was nothing like the ones in TikTok edits. Real bass hit harder. Real people smelled like expensive perfume and nervous sweat, and nobody actually danced in coordinated groups.

Jordan checked his iPhone for the third time in two minutes. Screen brightness down, Instagram grid open—his feed looked perfect. The Jordan on Instagram lived a life of golden-hour selfies and aesthetic coffee shops. The Jordan in this kitchen clutching a plastic cup filled with something that was definitely not Sprite was just... existing.

"You gonna drink that, or let it get warm?"

Jordan jumped. Maya leaned against the counter, all effortless cool in a cropped sweatshirt and mascara that made her eyes look impossibly large. She'd moved here sophomore year and immediately become That Girl—the one everyone knew but nobody actually knew.

"Not sure it was ever cold," Jordan said, then immediately winced. Good one. Real smooth.

Maya laughed, though. Actual laugh, not the performative giggle she gave teachers. "Truth." She nodded toward his cup. "What is it?

"Punch? I think?"

"Bold choice." She selected something from a platter behind him, popped a spinach leaf in her mouth, and Jordan watched in horror as a tiny green piece got wedded between her front teeth.

He needed to tell her. He was going to tell her. But then she kept talking like nothing was wrong, something about how her mom made her bring "real food" because "teenagers cannot survive on Doritos alone, Maya, I'm serious," and Jordan was nodding along thinking about how surreal this was—Maya Chen, standing in a kitchen with spinach in her teeth, complaining about her mom like she was a normal person.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, and the lights flickered.

"Classic," Maya said, and then she was laughing at herself, really laughing, head tilted back, spinach and all, and suddenly Jordan understood something Instagram had never taught him: nobody was actually cool. Cool was just what happened when people were too scared to be awkward in public.

"You have—" Jordan started, gesturing at his own teeth.

Maya froze. Her hand flew to her mouth. "No."

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Since before you started talking about your mom's vegetable interventions."

She groaned, covering her face. "Okay, so this is my villain origin story. This is the moment I become known as Spinach Girl forever."

"Nah," Jordan said, and realized he meant it. "Pretty sure everyone's too busy worrying about their own stuff to notice yours."

Maya lowered her hands. Her eyes found his, and something passed between them—not lightning, not electric, just real. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jordan held up his iPhone. "Proof: I've been standing here freaking out about whether my hair looks stupid for twenty minutes, and literally nobody has looked at me once."

"Your hair's fine," Maya said. Then she tilted her head. "You nervous?"

"Terrified."

"Me too." She grinned, spinach-free now. "Being a teenager is weird, right? Like, why do we do this to ourselves?"

Outside, thunder rumbled. The bass from the living room thrummed against the walls. Jordan's phone sat untouched on the counter, screen dark, and for the first time all night, he wasn't thinking about how anything would look posted later.

"Wanna go sit outside?" Jordan asked. "Watch the storm?"

Maya grabbed two cups from a stack. "Only if you promise to tell me if I have food in my teeth again."

"Deal."

They pushed through the back door as the sky opened up, and somewhere inside, Jordan's iPhone buzzed with notifications. He didn't check. Not once.