Orange Hoodie Legacy

I walked into Miller's Prep feeling like a certified zombie. Three hours of sleep would do that to you. My hoodie—bright, obnoxious orange—felt like a target on my back. Mom had bought it thinking "visibility would be good for you." Thanks, Mom. Now I was basically a walking traffic cone.

My ex-best friend sat at our usual table with Taylor's crew. They were laughing at something on Taylor's phone, probably TikToks or drama. Jordan caught my eye, then quickly looked away. That stung more than it should've. We'd been inseparable since sixth grade, until Jordan decided popularity mattered more than our weird inside jokes and marathon gaming sessions.

I headed to my usual spot near the windows, bracing myself for another lunch of solitary music and people-watching. But someone was already there.

Some girl I'd never seen before—leather jacket, combat boots, hair dyed that perfect shade of midnight blue. She was sketching in a notebook, completely unbothered by the cafeteria chaos. And at her feet? The ugliest, most adorable dog I'd ever seen. It looked like a golden retriever crossed with a rug.

"That's a service dog," she said, not looking up from her sketch. "You can pet him if you ask nicely. His name's Barnaby."

"Since when do they allow dogs at school?"

"Since my mom wrote a really persuasive letter to the school board." She finally looked at me. "I'm Reese. You're the guy in the orange hoodie who fell asleep in Mr. Harrison's class yesterday."

"That was one time," I protested. "I'm Leo."

"Sit down, zombie boy. You look like you're about to collapse."

So I did. And for the first time since Jordan and I stopped being friends, lunch didn't feel like surviving a battlefield. Reese drew Barnaby as a superhero. I complained about my English teacher's obsession with symbolism. We discovered we both hated the cafeteria's tater tots.

"You know," Reese said, examining her sketch, "orange is actually a dope color. It takes confidence to pull it off."

"My mom picked it out."

"Still. You wear it like you don't care what anyone thinks. That's rare here."

I looked at Jordan's table again. Jordan was watching me now, actually looking, with something like regret in their expression. But I just turned back to Reese's notebook.

"So," I said. "You gonna teach me how to draw?"

Reese smiled, and something clicked into place. Maybe the zombie was finally waking up.