Lucky Hat Protocol

The fluorescent lights of the indoor padel court hummed as I adjusted my lucky backwards cap—same one I'd worn through every failed test and awkward first kiss since seventh grade. My dog, Buster, waited outside the glass walls, probably judging my serve.

"You're overthinking it," Maya called from across the net, effortlessly volleying the ball into the corner. Again.

I wiped sweat from my forehead. "Easy for you to say. Your social media doesn't look like a crime scene."

The truth? Someone had been digitally spying on me for weeks. Subtle stuff at first—liking posts from 2019, responding to stories they weren't tagged in, somehow knowing about conversations I'd only had in DMs. I'd narrowed it down to three people. Maya was supposedly my best friend, but teenage friendship is basically a Cold War documentary waiting to happen.

"Wanna grab boba after?" Maya asked, casually destroying me 6-2.

"Can't. Promised my cousin I'd help her with this... thing."

Lame excuse, but I needed to check something. Earlier, I'd logged into a burner account to see who was viewing my profile constantly. The analytics had blown up last night around 2 AM—right after Maya posted that cryptic "some people are so fake" story.

Outside, Buster greeted me like I'd been gone for years. I knelt to pet him, thinking about how my golden retriever had more loyalty in his tail than half the people at school.

That's when my phone buzzed. A notification from Maya: "Since when do you have a cousin?"

My blood ran cold. I'd never mentioned any cousin to anyone.

Then another message: "And nice padel game today. Though your backhand needs work ;)"

I turned toward the court. Maya was already gone.

But something fell out of my bag as I grabbed Buster's leash. A small silver tracker, the kind people use for keys. Stuck to the inside pocket where I kept my phone.

My lucky hat suddenly felt heavy on my head.

"Who's a good boy?" I whispered to Buster, relieved at least one relationship in my life wasn't entirely compromised.

The real question wasn't who was spying on me anymore. It was what I was going to do about the fact that my best friend had slipped a tracker into my favorite hat, and I'd been too busy suspecting everyone else to notice the one person who'd never given me a reason not to trust them.

Teenage friendships, man. You think you know someone, then boom—they're literally tracking your every move.

Buster barked, like he knew exactly how much high school sucked.