Riddle of the Hairless Cat

Maya's summer took a turn when her older sister brought home Cleo, a sphinx cat that looked like a tiny, wrinkly alien. Maya had to bear the indignity of being seen walking this naked mole rat of a feline around their suburban neighborhood.

The real problem wasn't Cleo's appearance — it was the group of popular kids who hung out at the corner store. Especially Kai, with his perfect smile and annoying tendency to always say hi, like Maya's social awkwardness was something he found cute.

"Nice rat," Kai called out one afternoon, as Cleo hissed at a butterfly.

"She's a sphinx cat," Maya snapped, then immediately regretted it. Too defensive. Again.

"You know," Kai said, sliding off his bike, "I've always wondered — what's the deal with sphinxes? Like, the mythological ones? They're all about riddles, right?"

"What?"

"Riddles. The sphinx in Greek mythology — she'd ask you a riddle, and if you couldn't answer, you'd die. Pretty metal, honestly."

They ended up talking for twenty minutes about mythology, stupid school gossip, and how much they both hated pre-calc. Maya felt like she was walking through a lightning storm — every conversation spark made her heart race.

"So what's your riddle?" Kai asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Your sphinx riddle. Everyone has one. Something they're trying to figure out about themselves."

Maya thought about it. "Why I care so much what people think of me's cat hair."

They both laughed. Not polite laughter — real, doubled-over laughter.

"Mine," Kai said, "is why I'm so nervous whenever you walk by."

The lightning struck again, but this time it didn't scare her. "Maybe," Maya said, "we should figure them out together."

Cleo purred. The sphinx had worked her magic after all.