Pet Store Confessions

Maya's parents dropped the bomb at dinner. They were getting divorced, and more importantly, they were selling the house. Maya, sixteen and practically allergic to change, had three weeks to figure out what to do with Barnaby, her ancient, grumpy **cat** who hated everyone except her.

"Can't he come with me?" Maya asked, though she knew the answer.

"Your father's apartment doesn't allow pets," Mom said, not meeting her eyes. "And I'm moving into a studio."

Maya stormed to her room, Barnaby following like a small, furry shadow. She grabbed her phone and opened Instagram, thumb hovering over her best friend's profile. Chloe's story showed perfect golden-hour photos of her new **goldfish**, glistening in its properly pH-balanced tank. #blessed #newbeginnings

Whatever. Maya didn't need Chloe's passive-aggressive posts right now. She needed a miracle.

The next day at lunch, she sat alone, scrolling through pet adoption sites. Then someone slid into the booth across from her.

"That's the saddest thing I've ever seen, and I once saw a **dog** chase its own tail into a pool."

Maya looked up. It was Marcus, that quiet guy from AP English who always sat in the back wearing hoodies.

"What?"

"You're literally doom-scrolling through adoption sites for a cat that looks like it wants to murder you." He nodded at her phone screen, where Barnaby's grumpy face glared back. "That's commitment."

"He's not grumpy, he's misunderstood," Maya said defensively.

"Like half the kids at this school," Marcus said. "My neighbor runs that rescue downtown. The sketchy one behind the laundromat? They might take him. Temporary foster situation until you figure something out."

Maya stared at him. "Why are you helping me?"

Marcus shrugged. "Because my parents got divorced last year, and I had to rehome my python. Not fun." He pushed a napkin toward her. "Here. Call this number. Say I sent you."

"What's your name again?"

"Marcus." He paused. "I mean, we have English together. You sit three rows up."

"Right." Maya felt her face heat up. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He stood up. "Oh, and Maya?"

"Yeah?"

"Your cat's face kind of looks like he's plotting revenge. If anyone can handle that, it's probably you."

Maya watched him walk away, then looked down at the napkin. A phone number, and underneath: I'm terrible at math, but if you ever need help with English lit, I'm around.

Three weeks later, Barnaby was safe with Marcus's neighbor, and Maya had a new **friend** who understood that sometimes the most important things in life couldn't be filtered, hashtagged, or staged for social media.

She smiled, deleting her draft post about her "fresh start" and opening her text messages instead.

Some things didn't need an audience.