Running From Ghosts

The hat was stupid. I knew it, Maya knew it, even my bathroom mirror knew it. But I was wearing it anyway because my mom had convinced me that bangs were a 'bold choice' and now I looked like a third grader who'd cut her own **hair** with safety scissors while unsupervised.

"You're not gonna wear that inside, right?" Maya asked, already fidgeting with her phone. We were **running** late—naturally—and the September air was doing nothing to calm my stomach, which was currently performing elaborate gymnastics at the thought of my first high school party.

"It stays on until I'm confident enough to unleash the disaster beneath," I said, adjusting the brim. "Or until everyone's too distracted to notice."

We arrived at Tyler's house to the absolute highest volume of bass music I'd ever experienced in real life. The kind that makes your ribs vibrate. Maya, effortlessly social and basically glowing, immediately spotted people she knew. I, conversely, felt like a **zombie**—dead inside, shuffling toward the kitchen, hoping there was punch or possibly a hole I could disappear into until 11 PM.

That's when I saw him.

Caleb was standing by the sliding glass door, holding Solo cup number apparently five thousand, looking unfairly good in a flannel that was somehow working despite it being basically still summer. We'd had algebra together last year, during which I'd spent approximately 93% of class staring at the back of his head and the remaining 7% failing to understand quadratic equations.

"Hey," he said, like this was normal. Like we were people who spoke to each other voluntarily.

"Hey," I managed, internally screaming. My hat tipped slightly. I adjusted it with what I hoped was casual coolness and not terrified panic.

"Nice party," I continued, brilliantly.

"Tyler's parents are out of town," he said, like this explained everything. "Wanna get some air?"

We ended up on the back porch, where the bass was muffled and the sky had that October crispness you can't fake. I was acutely aware of every single thing my body was doing—breathing, blinking, existing.

"So," Caleb said, looking at me. "What's with the hat?"

My stomach dropped. "Bad haircut. My mom talked me into bangs. They're... a journey."

He laughed, but like, in a nice way. Not the way people at school laughed when someone tripped in the cafeteria. "Dude, show me. I promise not to roast you. Unless it's genuinely funny. Then I might have to."

I took off the hat.

He looked for approximately one second. "Those are actually kinda sick. They make you look like you could steal a car."

"I'll take it."

"You know what my brother said when he got his wisdom teeth out?" Caleb said, suddenly. "He said he looked like a **bear** that had been sedated and then woken up mid-hibernation. That's basically me right now."

"You look fine," I said, and immediately wanted to die.

"Thanks," he said, softer. "So do you."

Inside, someone yelled something about beer pong. The bass dropped, and people screamed. But on that porch, under the actual stars, with my ridiculous bangs finally seeing the light of day, I felt something like real. Not Maya-level real, not effortless, but something closer to honest.

"Wanna go back inside?" I asked. "Hatless?"

"Yeah," he said. "Let's do it."

We went back in together, and for the first time all night, I wasn't running from anything.