Orange Beanie Friday

The neon orange beanie sat on my desk like a radioactive traffic cone. Mom had dropped it off with a note: "Saw this. Thought of your hair! Love, Mom." Cringe level: maximum.

I shoved it deep in my backpack. No way was I wearing this monstrosity to school. Not when Lily Chen finally noticed me in third period yesterday.

"Your blue contacts are sick," she'd said. My stomach had done a full gymnastics routine.

Friday morning, I'm running late—naturally—and grab the first hat I see. Which happens to be ORANGE. I don't realize until I catch my reflection in the library window. I look like a traffic cone mugged a hipster.

Then comes third period disaster. I reach for my phone under my desk, knock it sideways, and it slides across the floor. Right to Lily's Vans.

She picks it up, screen unlocked. My lock screen: me from eighth grade, braces, awkward smile, captioned "don't ask."

"Is this you?" She's grinning.

"Delete my existence. Please."

"No way!" She laughs. "You're wearing the hat AND you have proof of awkward era past? This is iconic content."

My face burns hotter than the beanie.

"Send it to yourself," she says, handing it back. "Trust me."

So I do. And then: "Want to get boba later?"

I blink. "Wait—really?"

"Yeah. You're funny." She gestures at my head. "And the hat? It's a whole vibe."

In the bathroom mirror, I actually look at it. The orange against my dark hair. Kind of. Iconic.

Mom's text lights up my screen: "Wear the hat yet?"

I snap a mirror selfie. Orange beanie, genuine smile. Send it with three hearts.

Maybe embarrassing isn't the worst thing. Maybe it's just practice for being yourself out loud.