Operation: Don't Be Awkward

Maya's palms were practically monsooning as she stood across from Caleb at the spring mixer. This was it—the moment she'd been lowkey freaking out about for three weeks. Caleb, with his effortlessly perfect hair and those dimples that could probably solve climate change, was actually looking at her. Like, directly at her.

"Your dog's really cool," he said, nodding toward her phone where she'd been showing off a photo of Barnaby, her senior citizen Golden Retriever who slept approximately twenty-three hours a day.

"Oh yeah, Barnaby's the MVP," she managed, without tripping over her own tongue. Small win.

Suddenly, her headphones—tangled in her pocket like some kind of electronic snake—caught on something, and the whole mess came flying out. The aux cable swung dramatically between them like a ridiculous pendulum of doom. Maya's face burned. This was it. This was how she died. Social death by cable incident.

But then Caleb laughed. Not mean-laughed. Actually laughed.

"Dude, my headphones look like that literally all the time," he said. "It's like they reproduce in the pocket."

Maya's shoulders dropped about three inches. Maybe she wasn't going to spontaneously combust after all.

"Hey," Caleb said, stepping closer and lowering his voice like he was about to share classified intel. "Can I tell you something? I've been literally panicking about talking to you all night."

Maya blinked. "Wait, what?"

"You're like," he gestured vaguely, "all mysterious and smart in chem lab. I've been spying on your answers since February."

Before she could process this information—Caleb Nguyen, soccer star and general royalty, had been noticing HER?—the gym lights suddenly changed colors, transforming the already awkward dance floor into something that looked like a zombie apocalypse. Everyone stood there glowing purple, phones raised like weapons, recording nothing in particular.

"This is so weird," Caleb said, then looked at her with this tiny half-smile. "Want to get out of here? I saw there's food outside."

Maya's palms had stopped sweating. "Absolutely."

As they walked toward the doors, she realized something: everyone at this dance felt like a zombie sometimes, everyone had cable chaos in their pockets, and apparently, sometimes the person you thought was basically a spy with supernatural confidence was just another kid hoping you'd say yes to snacks.