Operation Neon Crush

The bathroom mirror didn't lie. My hair was now officially orange. Not "sunkissed caramel" like the box promised. We're talking traffic cone, Cheetos, straight-up neon orange.

"You look... bold," my little brother said from the doorway, trying not to laugh.

"Bold is good," I insisted, though my stomach was doing cartwheels. Tomorrow was first day at Northwood High, and I'd planned to blend in, not glow in the dark like a radioactive highlighter.

But the hair disaster wasn't even my biggest problem.

See, I'd sort of become a spy over summer break. Not the cool kind with gadgets – the creepy kind. I'd been watching this guy from my window who lived three houses down. He was always in his garage working on something, headphones on, totally in his zone. I'd given him the code name "Garage Mystery" and inventively imagined his entire personality based on his hoodie collection and the way he leaned his head back when he laughed at his phone.

Pathetic? Maybe. But when your best friend moves to Florida and you spend three months basically quarantined with yourfamily, you develop hobbies.

Now here's the thing about Garage Mystery: he went to Northwood too. I'd seen him get off the bus.

So there I was, first day, orange hair screaming for attention, desperately trying to remain undercover as Not Weirdest New Girl. I spent third period scanning classrooms like I was on a covert mission.

Then I saw him.

He was at a locker, and I froze. This was it – my chance to finally observe my subject up close, gather intel, maybe even speak actual words to-

He turned around.

And stared directly at me.

At my orange hair.

"Nice," he said, grinning. "Very intentional."

My face matched my hair. "Thanks. It's... a statement."

"I'm Marcus." He didn't even ask my name. "You're the girl who's been watching me from her window all summer, right?"

I nearly died. Right there in the hallway, orange hair and all.

"I- what?"

"Your room's above the garage," he said. "I've seen you. I was waiting for you to come over." He pulled out an orange mechanical pencil. "I make custom pens out of recycled parts. Want one?"

My social disaster had somehow become a plot twist I never saw coming.

"I'm Zara," I said. "And yes. Yes, I absolutely do."