Frizzy Hair Summer

Maya's hair had a personality of its own that day—think electrocuted poodle meets humidity disaster. She'd spent forty-five minutes with the flat iron only to step outside and watch her efforts dissolve into a springy brown halo. Her phone buzzed: 'Jensen's party tonite!!! U coming??'

She'd been running from that answer for three days. Since the incident. The papaya incident.

Her cat, Pancake, wound around her ankles like a sentient fuzzy snake, meowing judgmentally. 'You're right,' Maya told him. 'I should've just stayed home.'

Her best friend Sarah had texted her five times since Friday. When Maya didn't reply, Sarah had shown up at her locker with what she called 'the ultimate peace offering'—a papaya. Because apparently, Sarah remembered that one time in seventh grade when Maya said papayas were underrated, which wasn't even true, Maya had just said it to sound interesting.

The papaya had slipped. Sarah's hands had been slippery from lotion. It had smashed spectacularly against Maya's white shirt, leaving an orange stain that looked suspiciously like something had died on her torso. Jensen, the guy Maya had been crushing on forever, had walked by mid-smash.

He'd laughed. Not with them. At them.

'Sorry!' Sarah had practically squeaked. 'My bad!'

But Maya saw it in her eyes—she wasn't sorry. She was humiliated, sure, but she was also annoyed that Maya had made it a thing. That Maya hadn't just laughed it off like a normal person.

That was their whole dynamic, honestly. Maya running from anything that made her feel exposed. Sarah acting like everything was fine even when it wasn't.

Pancake head-butted her hand. She scratched behind his ears, thinking about how cats didn't care about papaya stains or party politics or whether their hair was socially acceptable.

Her phone lit up again. Sarah: 'I'm bringing smoothies to make up for it. Papaya-free this time. 5ish?'

Maya stared at her reflection in the mirror. Frizzy hair, papaya ghost-stain still faintly visible, her cat judging her from the counter. She could keep running. Or she could let her friend bring her a smoothie and laugh about it eventually.

She grabbed her phone. 'Come over. But warn me if you bring any fruit.'

Outside, her frizz caught the sunlight. Whatever. It was summer. Nobody's hair was perfect anyway.