Electric Green

Maya's vegan phase lasted exactly three days — right up until the spinach incident. She'd been trying to reinvent herself all summer before junior year, pivoting from theater kid to activist to whatever vibe she'd curated on Instagram that week. The spinach smoothie was supposed to be her latest personality reboot: health-conscious, intentional, adult.

But standing in Carter's kitchen at the first real party of the year, staring at the remnants of bright green sludge splattered across her favorite orange vintage tee, Maya felt the familiar crawl of heat up her neck.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Carter asked, but Maya was already frozen. The lightning strike of social death: complete and instantaneous.

"I'm good," she squeaked. "Just... experimenting with chlorophyll."

What she actually wanted to say: I'm terrified that everything about me is manufactured.

Carter's eyes darted between the stained shirt and Maya's face. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Not mean-girl laughing, but real laughter.

"Last week I tried to make tikka masala from scratch and set off the fire alarm," he said. "My mom still won't let me hear the end of it."

Maya blinked. "Seriously?"

"Dude, everyone's faking it." He gestured around the room. "Half these people are just pretending they know how to be normal."

Something in Maya's chest loosened. The embarrassment was still there, but smaller now. Manageable.

"So," Carter said, grabbing a Solo cup from the counter. "Want to explain why you're drinking spinach for fun, or should we just agree that both our cooking adventures were tragic?"

Maya looked at her orange shirt, now a masterpiece of abstract art. Then back at Carter, who was waiting for her answer like it actually mattered.

"Tragic," she agreed, finally allowing herself to smile. "But maybe that's the point."

The lightning outside flickered again, and Maya realized she didn't have to figure everything out tonight. Nobody else had either.