Goldfish & Orange Hair

I'd been cyber-stalking Chloe's Instagram for three weeks straight. Okay, not stalking-stalking, just spy-level reconnaissance. When you're a freshman trying to decode the high school social hierarchy, information is everything. My best friend Priya called it 'doing reconnaissance,' which sounded way less creepy.

The cafeteria incident started with stupid spinach. Of all days to finally try the "healthy" lunch option, I chose the day Tyler—the guy I'd been lowkey crushing on since September—decided to sit at our table. His friends had dared him, I'm pretty sure. So there I was, mid-sentence about something remotely intelligent, when Priya's eyes went wide. She mouthed 'your teeth' and I realized I'd been smiling with bright green leafy garden garbage stuck in my braces. For forty-five minutes.

Tyler didn't even laugh. That was almost worse.

"Bull," I muttered later, slamming my locker. "This whole year is bull."

Priya nodded sympathetically. She got it. She'd dyed her hair orange last month as an "experiment" and spent two weeks being called "traffic cone" by the soccer team. High school was basically just a series of embarrassments strung together by awkward hallway encounters.

That night, I stared at my carnival goldfish—won on what was supposed to be a date with Tyler that turned into a group hang with his friends swimming around in its tiny bowl. The fish was probably depressed. I definitely was.

Then my phone buzzed. A DM from Chloe. The Chloe. Junior class vice president, founder of the feminism club, the one whose posts I'd been analyzing like they were ancient texts.

'Hey, saw you at the game Friday. You seemed cool. We're doing a student government thing next week, you should come.'

I almost dropped my phone.

Then another message: 'Also, that orange hair phase last year? ICONIC. I've been wanting to dye mine forever but I'm scared.'

Priya had posted the #tbt of her orange hair era that morning. Chloe wasn't out of my league—she was just another person trying to figure stuff out.

The goldfish swam to the top of its bowl, bubbling. Okay, maybe freshman year wasn't completely terrible.