Palm Trees & Paper Foxes

The stupid fedora **hat** sat crooked on Tyler's head, and I was supposed to act like it was charming. That was the thing about parties—you had to pretend everything was fine even when your sneakers were sticking to someone's spilled Sierra Mist on the garage floor.

I felt like a actual **zombie**, running on three hours of sleep and an energy drink that tasted like battery acid mixed with regret. Maya had spent all week hyping this up—her cousin's house, his band might play, college guys might show up. Now she was somewhere near the portable AC unit, practically sitting in some senior's lap, laughing way too hard at his joke about AP Chemistry.

"You look like you're plotting murder," said a voice behind me.

I jumped. It was Riley, the quiet junior from my English lit class. She was wearing combat boots and a **cat**-eye liner sharp enough to cut glass.

"Just plotting my exit," I said. "Before Tyler starts freestyle rapping."

She cracked a smile. "Bold choice. I saw him at homecoming. His vocabulary has, like, four words."

We ended up on the back patio, away from the bass thumping through the drywall. The California heat had settled into something sticky, and above us, the **palm** fronds cut silhouettes against a sky that still held purple light from sunset. Riley pulled a sharpie from her pocket and started drawing tiny intricate animals on her forearm.

"What's with the **fox**?" I asked, watching her sketch something that looked suspiciously like the one from that indie game everyone obsessed over sophomore year.

"Foxes are chaos energy," she said, not looking up. "They trick their way into situations they shouldn't survive, then somehow make it work." She capped the marker. "Kinda like us at this party."

Something in my chest did this weird little flip.

"You think?" I said, trying to sound chill but absolutely failing.

"I know." She wiped at a smudge on her wrist. "But hey—we survived. That's gotta count for something."