Riddles in the Cafeteria

The cafeteria spinach sat limp and lifeless on my tray, like it had given up on life somewhere around third period. I poked at it with my fork, contemplating my existence.

"You gonna eat that, or stare at it until it confesses its sins?"

I looked up. Jordan. The fox. That's what everyone called them—not because of red hair or cleverness, but because they somehow always ended up exactly where they needed to be, exactly when they needed to be there. Today, that place was next to me, blocking my escape route.

"It's spinach," I said. "It doesn't have sins. It just has chlorophyll and regret."

Jordan laughed, sliding into the seat across from me. Which was weird, because Jordan NEVER sat with freshmen. I'd spent three months carefully engineering my social invisibility, and now the most charismatic person in tenth grade was dismantling my pyramid of solitude in thirty seconds flat.

"So," Jordan said, peeling an orange with terrifying precision. "I noticed you during the assembly yesterday. You figured out the riddle before the sphinx on stage finished speaking."

My face burned. The school talent show—some upperclassman dressed as an Egyptian sphinx, challenging people with riddles. I'd whispered the answer under my breath, apparently not quietly enough.

"I was just—"

"You were bored. Same." Jordan segmented the orange into perfect quarters. "Here's the thing. The debate team needs someone who actually knows stuff, not just people who can argue in circles. We're doing a tournament next week. The theme's 'ancient civilizations meets modern problems.'"

"You want me on the team?"

"I want someone who can recognize when a sphinx's riddle is literally just a chiasmus from Hamilton." Jordan's eyes gleamed. "So? You in?"

I looked at my spinach. At Jordan, waiting. At the empty seats around us, the invisible wall I'd built between myself and everyone else.

The orange segment sat on Jordan's tray, bright against the plastic. An offering.

"I'm in," I said.

Jordan's grin was real. "Cool. Bring brain. Leave spinach."

I dumped my tray and followed them out, wondering if this was how normal people did high school—or if I'd just made a deal with a fox who'd somehow known exactly what buttons to push.

Either way, my pyramid of solitude was officially demolished. And honestly? I didn't even miss it.