Palm Sweat & Papaya Stains

Maya's hair refused to cooperate. Again. She'd spent forty-five minutes flat-ironing it, but the humidity had already transformed her sleek strands into a frizzy halo. Her mom called it natural volume. Maya called it social suicide.

Tonight was Leo's party. THE party. The one everyone would be Instagramming about for weeks. Maya's palms were already sweating, and she hadn't even left her bathroom yet.

"You look beautiful, mija," her mom called from downstairs. "I made papaya smoothies for when you come home. Don't stay out too late."

Maya groaned. Papaya smoothies. Because nothing says cool like coming home at midnight to drink tropical fruit with your mother while everyone else's Snapchat stories showed them living their best lives.

She grabbed her phone—seventeen notifications. Her group chat was blowing up.

*is Sierra going??*

*i heard shes bringing college guys*

*that's such bull*

Maya's heart did that thing where it forgot how to beat properly. Sierra had been her best friend since sixth grade, until everything went weird sophomore year. Now Sierra moved through the hallways like Maya was invisible, occasionally acknowledging her with a pity wave.

Walking to Leo's house, Maya felt like a zombie. Three hours of sleep, AP Chemistry test stress, and now social performance anxiety. She should've faked sick. Why was she so desperate to subject herself to this?

The party was already in full swing when she arrived. Lights strung across the backyard, bass vibrating through the soles of her Converse. And there was Sierra, looking effortless in a crop top that Maya would never have the confidence to wear, surrounded by a swarm of people laughing at something she'd said.

Maya's palms started sweating again. She made a beeline for the bathroom, needing to recompose herself, maybe re-flat-iron her hair in the mirror.

"Maya?"

She froze. Sierra.

"Your hair looks amazing like that," Sierra said, leaning against the doorframe. "Natural. I've been trying to get mine to do that for months."

Maya stared. "What?"

"I'm serious. You know how much hairspray I went through tonight?" Sierra laughed, but it was kind, not mean. "I miss you, May. We should talk."

Outside, someone started playing old songs from middle school. The ones they used to scream in Maya's bedroom while dancing with hairbrushes as microphones.

Sierra's eyes softened. "Remember?"

"Yeah," Maya said. "Yeah, I remember."

Her palms weren't sweating anymore. And maybe—just maybe—frizzy hair was okay after all.