Riddle of the Sphinx

The humidity hit me like a wall as I stepped onto Maya's patio. Summer in Florida meant one thing: sweat instantly gathering in your **palm**s, making every handshake feel grossly intimate. I wiped my hands on my shorts—bright **orange**, a mistake I'd realized too late. I looked like a traffic cone.

"You made it!" Maya materialized, holding a tray of fruit skewers. "Try this—my mom's obsessed with tropical stuff."

I accepted a piece of what turned out to be **papaya**. It tasted like nothing and everything at once, like how I felt about being here. Three weeks into freshman year, and I was still trying to figure out where I fit.

Then I saw her. Riley, leaning against the kitchen counter, holding court like she owned everything. She was wearing this vintage band tee and looking effortlessly cool in a way I'd been trying to achieve since middle school. People called her "the **sphinx**" behind her back because she never revealed anything—no crushes, no drama, just this mysterious vibe that made everyone want to know her.

"She's not that deep," someone whispered beside me. I turned to see Jordan, Riley's supposed best **friend**, looking bored. "She's just quiet because she's overthinking everything like the rest of us."

I blinked. Jordan rolled their eyes. "What, you thought she was some profound philosopher? Bro, I've seen her cry over spilled boba tea."

Something shifted. The mystique cracked. Later, when I finally talked to Riley, she was awkward and funny and kept making terrible puns. We exchanged Snapchats, and I walked home with my orange shorts still traffic-cone bright, but feeling lighter.

Some riddles aren't meant to be solved alone. They're meant to be shared with people who surprise you.