Lightning Strike Saturday

The basement smelled like Mountain Dew and anxiety. I clutched my iPhone like a lifeline, thumb hovering over Maya's text: "u coming? everyone's waiting."

I wasn't supposed to be here. Not after last year's incident—getting caught crying behind the gym because some girls called my cargo capris "prison fashion." But tonight was different. Tonight I'd finally become someone else. Someone who wore skinny jeans and knew how to shotgun a soda without looking like a dork.

"Hey!" Maya's voice cut through the bass thumping from the speakers. "You made it!"

She pulled me into a hug that smelled like strawberry lip gloss and nervousness. Her cat, a fluffy judgmental creature named Mr. Whiskers, sat on the arm of the couch, watching me with eyes that said, "You don't belong here."

"This is everyone," Maya announced, gesturing to the circle of faces illuminated by the glow of smartphones. The guy next to her, Jake, offered me a crooked grin. He had that effortless cool thing going on—like he'd never cried behind a gym in his life.

"Nice pants," he said.

My face burned. I opened my mouth to make a joke, something witty and self-deprecating, but suddenly his phone chimed. He glanced down, then up at me, and everything shifted.

"Wait—you're That Cargo Capris Girl?" He laughed, but not meanly. "Dude, I heard about that. That was such a bear move, those girls were being total jerks."

Outside, lightning split the sky. The power flickered. plunged us into darkness.

"Great," someone groaned. "Now what?"

Mr. Whiskers leaped from the couch and landed on my lap, purring like a tiny motor. I buried my face in his fur, heart hammering. This was it. The moment they'd all start making fun of me again.

"Hey," Jake's voice came from somewhere across the room. "Does anyone have those flashlight things on their phone?"

I turned on my iPhone flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness. Around me, others did the same. A dozen little lights bobbing in the dark basement like fireflies.

Jake's face appeared in the glow. "So about those cargo pants," he said, grinning. "Think you could show me where you got them? They're actually kinda sick."

Maya nodded. "Yeah, for real. Those girls were just being basic."

I blinked. Mr. Whiskers purred harder, as if he knew.

Outside, another flash of lightning illuminated the basement windows. Inside, something else lit up too—the realization that maybe, just maybe, I didn't need to become someone else after all.

"They're from Target," I said, and this time, when I smiled, it actually reached my eyes.