Riddles in the Dugout

Maya stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her fingers tangled in curls that refused to cooperate. The **hair** situation was officially a crisis—Picture Day was tomorrow, and her mom had already scheduled the appointment at Dominican Dream Salon since dawn. Nothing said "seventh grade social suicide" like showing up looking like you'd just rolled out of bed.

At least **baseball** practice would be a distraction. Coach had benched her last game after that embarrassing strikeout, and she needed to prove she could actually hit the ball instead of swinging at air like a confused windmill. The team's group chat had been blowing up all morning—someone called Jake a total **bull** for charging the mound yesterday, which honestly? Iconic behavior.

Her **iPhone** buzzed on the counter. A text from Sarah: *did u see what chloe posted??*

Maya's stomach did that familiar flip thing. Chloe, the eighth-grade girl who somehow made existing look effortless, had posted a photo of herself at some party on Friday. Looking flawless. Radiating the kind of confidence Maya had been chasing since sixth grade.

The whole situation felt like dealing with the **sphinx**—some ancient, unknowable entity that posed impossible riddles you had to solve just to survive middle school with your dignity intact. *What wears crown but no king?* The answer: Chloe at lunch, holding court like she owned the cafeteria.

"You okay in there?" her mom called through the door.

Maya splashed cold water on her face. The reflection staring back looked normal enough. She grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, baseball glove tucked inside like a security blanket. Whatever riddles seventh grade threw at her today, she'd figure them out. Eventually. Probably.