Orange Bear Sweater

The bear on my chest stared back at me through the mirror—vintage 90s, threadbare orange fuzz, the kind of thing that screamed "I found this at a thrift store and it changed my life." Which, honestly? It had.

Three months ago, I wouldn't be caught dead in something that wasn't black, navy, or strategically invisible. But then came the Great Incident of October, when Jordan Miller decided to make me his personal project. "You're too quiet," he'd announced in the cafeteria, loud enough for half our grade to hear. "We should fix that."

Fix me.

Like I was broken.

Jordan was the kind of guy who carried himself like a bull in a china shop—loud, impossible to ignore,破坏 guaranteed. His "fixing" meant announcing my secrets to anyone within earshot. My crush on Maya. My weird obsession with true crime podcasts. The time I cried at a sad dog video.

"Just helping you come out of your shell, buddy," he'd say, clapping my shoulder with enough force to leave a bruise.

The orange bear sweater became my armor. My friend Priya found it at a garage sale. "Wear this," she said, shoving it at me. "Nobody messes with someone confident enough to wear an orange bear."

She wasn't wrong. The sweater was ridiculous. It demanded attention. And somehow, wearing something so unapologetically weird made everything else easier to bear.

But Jordan wasn't done with his project.

Today in AP Bio, he slid into the seat behind me. "So, I've been thinking about your situation," he whispered, leaning way too close. "Maya's gonna be at Skyler's party Friday. You should go. I'll create a distraction so you can talk to her."

I froze. "What?"

"Consider it my good deed for the month." He grinned. "I'm practically your wingman at this point."

The worst part? He meant well. That was the hell of it—Jordan was objectively a good guy, just catastrophically bad at reading rooms. My feelings for Maya? Not exactly public information I wanted announced via Jordan Miller-style interference.

I pulled the orange bear tighter around myself. "I'm good."

"Bro, you can't just—"

"Jordan," Maya said, appearing at my desk with perfect, impossible timing. She smiled at me. "Love the sweater. It's so... you."

My face went hot. Jordan's eyebrows shot up.

"Thanks," I managed. "It's vintage."

"Totally fits." Maya tilted her head. "Skyler's party Friday? You going?"

"I—"

"We're going," Jordan announced. Maya looked at him, then back at me, something like understanding dawning in her expression.

"Cool," she said. "See you there."

As she walked away, I could feel Jordan's smirk burning into my back.

"Told you I'd help," he whispered.

I closed my eyes, orange fuzz against my eyelashes. "You're the worst," I said, but I was smiling.

"I know," he said. "Pick you up at eight?"

"Fine."

The bear on my chest didn't feel so ridiculous anymore. Sometimes the worst wingmen are the ones you actually need.