Orange Pyramid Scheme

Maya's sneakers slapped the pavement, running from her mortification. She'd just spilled neon orange Fanta all over Jake Richardson's pristine white Jordans. Jake. The guy whose Instagram she'd been stalking since seventh grade. The guy who sat at the apex of the cafeteria's social pyramid, while she occupied its crumbling base.

"Smooth move, Ex-lax," called Kiara, Jake's on-and-off girlfriend, who was currently off but still territorial as a fox guarding her den.

Maya's face burned hotter than the setting sun. She ducked behind the gym building, chest heaving, and found Barnaby—Mrs. Henderson's ancient golden retriever—wagging his tail like her humiliation was the best thing that happened all day.

"You're the only one who doesn't think I'm a disaster," she whispered, scratching behind his ears.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number: *Jake here. Got your number from Kiera. About my shoes...*

Maya's stomach did that awful lurchy thing. This was it. He was gonna demand she pay for them. Or worse, make her某种 public spectacle of apology.

*...you basically saved me.*

Maya stared at her screen. What?

*Those were my dad's. He'd kill me if he knew I wore them to the skate park. The orange stain? Total cover. You're a genius.*

A genius? Maya? The girl who'd once accidentally called her teacher "mom"?

*Want to hang Saturday?*

Maya typed and deleted seventeen variations of "yes" before settling on: *sure*

Then she added the cowboy hat emoji because apparently her brain had ceased functioning.

Barnaby nudged her hand with his wet nose, and Maya laughed so hard she snorted. Sometimes the universe was weird. Sometimes you spilled orange soda on your crush's shoes and accidentally became part of his inside joke. Sometimes the social pyramid didn't topple—it just got a little more orange-stained and a lot less lonely.