Green Teeth, Orange Dress

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically water plants with them. She smoothed down her orange sundress for the millionth time, immediately regretting her color choice. Everyone else was in black or muted tones, while she looked like a walking traffic cone.

"You look radiant," her best friend Priya said, though her eyes said, 'that's bold.'

The open mic night at Skylar's house was supposed to be low-key, but somehow half the school showed up. Maya had been working up the nerve to perform her poetry for months. Tonight was supposed to be it.

She grabbed a spinach wrap from the snack table, needing something to do with her hands. That's when she saw him – Liam, the guy who'd sat behind her in English since September, currently tuning his guitar by the back door. He'd always been quiet, mysterious in a way that made everyone wonder what he was thinking.

Their eyes met and something struck through her like lightning – this sudden, electric recognition that he was about to play something, and she should probably listen.

She took a bite of her wrap and felt the resistance against her front tooth. Oh no. The spinach situation. She rushed to the bathroom, frantically checking her reflection in the mirror. Green flecks. Right there. In her front teeth. After all these years of her mother's warnings, she'd finally become that person.

When she looked up, Liam was standing in the doorway, guitar case slung over his shoulder.

"You're up next," he said, and then softer, "for what it's worth, I like the dress."

She stared at him. "Even with the spinach?"

He laughed – actually laughed, his nose crinkling. "Especially with the spinach. Shows you're actually eating, unlike half the girls out there who pretend food doesn't exist."

Maya felt something shift in her chest. This whole time she'd been worried about fitting in, about performing her poetry perfectly, about everything being Instagram-ready, and this guy was saying her imperfection was what made her real.

"You're pretty sly for someone so quiet," she said. "Like, fox-level cunning."

"I'll take that," he said. "Now come on. They're calling your name."

Her palms were still sweating, her dress was still orange, and she probably still had spinach somewhere. But somehow, none of that mattered anymore. Sometimes the worst moments become the best stories. And maybe that's what growing up was really about – not being perfect, but being real.

She walked out to the mic and began to speak.