Riddle of the Lunch Table

Jordan slid his tray onto the cafeteria table, careful not to spill his chocolate milk—again. The plastic seat squeaked beneath him as he slumped forward, staring at the pyramid of books his friends had built in the center of their table.

"That's literally the ugliest thing I've ever seen," said Maya, who'd earned the nickname Sphinx during freshman year homeroom when she'd spent three weeks sitting in perfect silence, answering every question with a riddle or sarcastic comment. Her dark curls bounced as she gestured dramatically at the unstable tower. "It's like, a monument to our combined academic failure."

"It's art," Marcus argued, reaching out to stabilize the structure with his middle finger. "It represents the impossible balance between grades, mental health, and having absolutely no life whatsoever."

Jordan's phone buzzed in his pocket. The notification made his stomach drop harder than the time he'd confessed to crushing on Maya's cousin during truth or dare.

"No," Sphinx said, eyes narrowing. "You got that text. The one from the group chat about—who was it again?"

"Tiffany," Jordan groaned, burying his face in his hands. "She wants me to come to her party Saturday. And I already said yes, but like—what do I even DO at parties? I'm the person who accidentally called a teacher 'mom' twice this week."

Marcus snorted. "That was legendary, honestly. But real talk, just show up. Stand in a corner. Make awkward eye contact with people. That's literally everyone's first party experience."

"Easy for you to say," Jordan muttered. "You didn't throw up on your dog last time you tried to be social."

"Okay, first of all," Sphinx started, pointing her plastic fork at him, "Buster was fine. He literally shook it off and went back to sleep. Second, parties aren't some mythological test of character. They're just loud rooms with snacks and people who are pretending they know how to dance."

The pyramid of books wobbled dangerously as someone bumped Jordan's elbow from behind.

"Watch it!" three voices shouted in unison.

"Whoops," said Chelsea, the volleyball captain who moved through hallways like she owned them. She glanced at their table, at the books, at Jordan's panicked expression. "You guys coming to Tiffany's?"

"Jordan's debating whether to fake his own death instead," Marcus said helpfully.

Chelsea grinned. "Same. Last weekend I spent twenty minutes talking to a coat rack thinking it was this guy from math class. Just show up. It's not that deep." She walked away, leaving Jordan staring at his friends.

"See?" Sphinx said, smirking. "Even the cool people are fake."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Dog," Marcus said suddenly.

"What?"

"Dog. Bring your dog. Buster is a total icebreaker. Trust."

Jordan considered it. Buster, his awkwardly affectionate golden retriever mix who'd endured more social anxiety by proxy than any animal should.

"That's... not the worst idea," Sphinx admitted grudgingly.

"And if it goes wrong," Marcus added, "we just blame the sphinx riddles you gave everyone last year. Nobody's recovered from that yet anyway."

Jordan's phone buzzed again. Saturday. He could do this. Probably. Hopefully. Buster had better be ready to earn his treats.