Lightning Bears and Pocket Vitamins

The fedora was a mistake. I knew it the second I walked into Kyle's basement party, but there was no going back now. At 16, I thought a thrift store hat would make me mysterious. Instead, I looked like I was heading to a wizard convention.

"Nice hat, Gandalf," someone yelled. I resisted the urge to flip them off and bee-lined for the darkest corner.

That's how I ended up next to the taxidermied bear. It had been standing in the basement since Kyle's grandpa went on that infamous hunting trip in the 90s. Its glass eyes followed me around the room, judgment wrapped in fur and preserved forever in an awkward standing pose.

I reached into my pocket and fished out the gummy vitamins my mom insisted I take. "Your immune system is trash, Alex," she'd said that morning. So here I was, at my first real party, chewing on what looked suspiciously like candy but tasted like health disappointment.

The storm outside was getting worse. Lightning flashed through the narrow basement windows, making the bear look like it was about to attack. I was halfway through my second vitamin when someone slid down the wall next to me.

"That bear has been low-key judging everyone since seventh grade," she said. It was Maya from my English class, the one who always sat in the back wearing oversized hoodies and writing in a notebook.

"He's really committed to the bit," I said, and she laughed. Actual laugh, not the fake one I'd been hearing all night.

Another lightning strike illuminated the room. For a second, everything was bright as day – the people playing beer pong, the couples making awkward attempts at dancing on the carpet, me and Maya huddled by the world's creepiest bear like we were planning a heist.

"You hiding too?" she asked, finally looking at me.

"Yeah. Hat was supposed to make me look cool."

"It's working," she said, and for the first time all night, I didn't think she was making fun of me. "I like that you're not trying too hard."

We sat there for twenty minutes while the storm raged outside, talking about everything and nothing. The bear stood guard over our conversation about why high school felt like a performance we hadn't rehearsed for. When the power finally went out for real, Maya didn't move to join the others with their phone flashlights and impromptu ghost stories.

"So," she said in the darkness, "you coming back next weekend?"

I touched the brim of my ridiculous fedora. "Only if I can claim my spot by the bear again."

She smiled, and I swear, even in total darkness, I could see it. "Deal."