Palms, Cats, and Finding Courage

Maya's palms were literally sweating through her phone case. First high school party, and she was already five minutes in wanting to yeet herself back home. The music thumped against her chest as she squeezed past a group of varsity jackets toward the kitchen.

"Maya! You actually came!" Jenna called from across the room, waving like they hadn't been texting all week about this exact moment.

Before Maya could respond, some guy—what was his name, Brad? Brent?—decided to channel his inner energy. "Whoa, careful there, killer. Almost knocked over my drink."

He said it with that half-smile that screamed *I think I'm hilarious.* Maya felt her face heat up. This was it. The moment she became "that girl who spills drinks at parties" before senior year even started.

She ducked outside, escaping into the relative quiet of the backyard. And that's when she saw it—a cat. A massive orange tabby perched on the fence like it owned the place, watching her with judging eyes.

"You too, huh?" Maya whispered, sinking onto the porch steps. "This party is trash and we both know it."

The cat jumped down and head-butted her ankle. Surprisingly solid friendship, honestly.

"So what's your deal?" A voice behind her made her jump. It was Brad/Brent again, but without the performative swagger this time. "Sorry about earlier. I was... yeah, that was bull." He rubbed the back of his neck, actually looking awkward for once.

Maya blinked. Was he... apologizing? Without being forced?

"Whatever," she said, but her voice came out softer than she intended. The cat chose that moment to weave between Brad's legs, purring like a motorboat.

"Dude, this cat is choosing me," Brad said, crouching down. "I feel special."

"He's just using you for attention," Maya replied, but she was smiling now.

"Probably." He looked up at her. "I'm Tyler, by the way. Not Brad or Brent or whatever you were thinking."

"Maya."

"Cool." He stood up. "Want to go back inside? I promise not to comment on anyone's drink-spilling skills."

Maya looked at her palms—still sweaty, but whatever. She looked at the cat, now thoroughly distracted by a moth. She looked at Tyler, waiting for her answer with his hands in his pockets.

"Sure," she said. "But I'm not dancing."

"Deal. I'll point at people who can't dance and we'll both feel better about ourselves."

Maya laughed, and for the first time all night, her palms felt dry enough to actually use her phone.