Social Survival Protocol

Maya smoothed her dress for the twentieth time, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. The neighborhood party was in full swing outside, bass thumping against the windows. Her first real party. First time seeing *him* since the chemistry lab incident where she'd accidentally set off the fire alarm.

"You look like a zombie," her little brother Leo commented, passing by with a handful of chips. "A cute zombie, but definitely one of the undead."

"Shut up, Leo." Maya flipped him off, but her stomach twisted. He wasn't wrong. She'd spent three hours getting ready, only to feel like she was watching herself from outside her body. Social dissociation at its finest.

She stepped onto the patio, instantly assaulted by humidity and overlapping conversations. String lights crisscrossed above, casting everything in warm gold. In the corner, someone's golden retriever—Buster, she thought—sprawled beneath a palm tree, tongue lolling, completely unbothered by the awkward energy radiating off every teenager present. Maya envied that dog.

"Hey! Chemistry arsonist!" Jacob appeared beside her, grinning that devastating lopsided smile. "Saved any beakers lately?"

Maya's face burned. "That was ONE TIME. And it wasn't arson, it was... enthusiastic learning."

Jacob laughed, actual laugh-lines crinkling around his eyes. "I'm messing with you. You're cute when you're defensive."

*Cute.* The word dropped between them like a stone in still water. Maya's brain short-circuited. She was vaguely aware that Jacob was saying something about movies, about how they were doing a zombie marathon in the basement later, did she want to join, but all she could process was *cute cute cute.*

"Earth to Maya." He waved a hand in front of her face. "You good?"

"Yeah. Totally. Just... processing."

"Your mom's spinach dip is actually fire," someone called from the food table. "Like, unexpectedly amazing?"

Maya's mortification was complete. Her mother's signature party contribution—spinach artichoke dip, her pride and joy—was being discussed by *everyone*, including Jacob, who was currently gesturing enthusiastically toward the bowl.

"I have strong feelings about spinach dip," he told Maya seriously. "It's a personality test. People who pretend not to like it are hiding something."

The tension in her chest loosened, just a fraction. "Okay, zombie movie guy. What's your take on people who make fun of it but then eat half the bowl?"

Jacob's eyes widened. "Touché. That's basically psychological warfare." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "So, about that marathon. Basement, twenty minutes. I'll save you a seat away from the people who scream during jump scares. Unless you're a screamer. Then I'll sit elsewhere."

Maya felt herself smiling, really smiling, the dissociation lifting like fog. "I don't scream. I critique zombie makeup and plot holes."

"Perfect." His smile softened. "See you there, arsonist."

As he walked away, Maya caught Buster's eye. The dog thumped his tail against the palm tree's trunk, like he knew something she was just figuring out: maybe she didn't have to perform. Maybe she could just show up as herself—spinach-dip-defending, zombie-critiquing, slightly awkward self—and that might be enough.

The bass kept thumping. The party kept spinning. But for the first time all night, Maya felt like she was actually there.