Green Between My Teeth

The **spinach** was stuck in my braces. Of course it was. I was fifteen, fresh from a DIY hair dye disaster (currently rocking a splotchy green that looked more "pond algae" than "emerald highlight"), and now this. I'd been trying to talk to Liam at lunch, convinced that my newfound confidence from joining the **padel** team would somehow make me smooth. Instead, I'd spent three minutes rambling about backhand techniques while he stared at my mouth with increasing concern.

"You've, uh, got a little—" he gestured to his own teeth, looking pained.

I'd sprinted to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and seriously considered transferring schools. Maybe changing my name. Moving to a different country where no one knew me as Spinach Girl.

The pool party that afternoon was going to be a disaster anyway. My hair was still wet from my desperate attempt to wash out some of the green, so it hung in stringy clumps. Every time I looked at my reflection in the sliding glass door, I saw a walking before-and-after picture for "Why You Should Let Professionals Dye Your Hair."

I stayed in the shallow end, treading **water**, watching Liam play volleyball with effortlessly cool people. My phone buzzed in my bag on the patio—probably my mom calling to remind me about the cable guy coming between 2 and 6 PM, another thing I'd forgotten because I was too busy having an existential crisis over my social standing.

"Hey, you coming in?" Maya waved from the deck. She'd been on the padel team with me for two weeks and had somehow not realized I was completely faking my entire personality.

"Maybe later," I called back, which was code for "absolutely not ever."

By 7 PM, I was home, alone, crying into a pillow while my mom knocked on my door. "Sweetie? You okay? I made that spinach lasagna you like..."

I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. The universe had a weird sense of humor.

Later that night, I really looked at myself in the mirror. Green hair. Metal mouth. Zero game. But somehow, that was fine. Maybe the real L in my WLW (Wasting Life Worried) phase was me, thinking I had to be anyone other than exactly who I was.

My phone buzzed again. A text from Liam: "Paddle tennis tomorrow? Coach says we need to practice serves."

I smiled, checking my teeth in the mirror. No spinach. Just me, green hair and all.