Riddle of the Cafeteria Sphinx

Maya stared at the social **pyramid** of Westwood High's cafeteria from her solitary spot at Table 7—the outer rim where the orbits of unpopular kids and new arrivals collided. She was five days into freshman year, and her social trajectory was already trending downward.

"Spinach again?" her dog Buster had whined that morning, pawing at her backpack. Now she understood his complaint. The green stuff was lodged between her front teeth, a garnish disaster she'd discovered two seconds after locking eyes with Alex—the **sphinx** of junior year, whose riddles weren't ancient but modern, delivered in half-smiles and inside jokes she wasn't cool enough to understand.

"New girl," Alex said, sliding into the seat across from her. "I hear you're smart. Smart enough to solve my riddle?"

Maya's heart did gymnastics. "Try me."

Alex leaned in, smelling like vanilla and mystery. "What's yellow, sits in the corner, and gets bigger every time you tell a lie?"

Maya panicked. Her brain supplied: A bear. But that didn't make sense. Unless... The school mascot was a **bear**, and the wrestling team's bear costume hung in the corner of the gym, and somehow lies made it bigger? No, that was stupid.

"I... don't know," she admitted, flushing.

"A lie," Alex said, grinning. "But I like your bear theory. Shows creativity."

They talked until the bell rang. Alex walked her to history, their arms brushing. Maya felt like she'd climbed to the top of the pyramid—until she caught her reflection in a locker mirror. The spinach. It had been there the ENTIRE TIME.

She'd **bearly** survived. But Alex had still sat with her. Still talked to her. Still smiled.

"Same time tomorrow?" Alex asked.

"Definitely," Maya said, already planning to floss three times before lunch.

That night, Buster got an extra treat. Sometimes the universe rewarded you for embarrassing yourself. And sometimes, sphinxes were actually pretty cool once you stopped treating them like riddles to be solved.