Operation Spinach

The spinach stuck in my braces was literally the worst thing that could happen on a Monday, especially when Luke was watching. Again. I'd caught him staring at me three times since homeroom, which either meant he was a spy for the popular crowd plotting my social destruction, or maybe—just maybe—actually interested.

"You good, Em?" Maya asked, flopping onto my cafeteria bench.

I shoved my tray away. "Luke's been low-key watching me all day. It's giving major surveillance vibes."

Maya snorted. "Or he just thinks you're cute. Not everything's a conspiracy, babe."

That night, my dog Barnaby—a chaotic golden retriever mix who believed every squirrel was a personal enemy—started freaking at the fence. When I peeked through the cracks, there was Luke across the street, crouched behind a car. Definitely suspicious.

"Operation spy mission is GO," I whispered to Barnaby, who responded by immediately vomiting spinach all over the patio. Because apparently earlier he'd gotten into my mom's failed garden experiment.

I stared at the mess. "Really? NOW?"

But then Luke's phone flashlight flickered, and I saw what he was really doing: feeding a feral cat colony. The same one I'd secretly been leaving tuna for for weeks.

Our eyes met across the dark street.

"You too?" he called softly.

"Yeah," I called back. "Me too."

Barnaby chose that moment to bark joyously at a moth, sending my dignity—and Luke—scurrying. But as I watched him disappear around the corner, I caught him glancing back, smiling.

Maybe tomorrow I'd finally talk to him. Assuming I survived the spinach-mortification flashbacks every time I closed my eyes.