Sphinx at the 7-Eleven

My life officially ended at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday when my iPhone decided to take a swim in my Nalgene bottle. One minute I'm mid-text to Maya about band practice, the next I'm fishing my phone out of the **water** like an idiot, watching the screen flicker and die.

Now I'm at the mercy of the bodega cat while I wait for my mom to bring me a replacement phone. The cat—white, fluffy, completely judgmental—sits on the counter like she owns the place. The guy behind the counter calls her **Sphinx** because "she knows all your secrets and says nothing."

"She's staring at me," I tell him.

"That's because you're radiating anxiety, kid."

Fair. I'm **running** on three hours of sleep and too much caffeine, stressing about Maya not getting my texts, thinking I'm ghosting her when really I'm just phone-less. The irony is that I finally worked up the courage to ask her to the fall dance, and now my phone is dead and I can't.

The owner's daughter, Luna, walks in. She's in my grade but we've never really talked. She's got this effortless cool thing going on, always reading something obscure, never seems to care what anyone thinks. She opens a container of chopped **papaya** for her breakfast.

"Want some?" she asks, sliding it toward me. "It's good for stress."

I take a piece because why not? "Thanks. My phone died."

"Sphinx told me," she says, nodding at the cat. "She also said you need to talk to Maya in person anyway."

I blink. "The cat told you that?"

"The cat knows everything." Luna grins. "But seriously, just go find her. It's more genuine than a text anyway."

And suddenly it hits me—she's right. I've been hiding behind screens when I should just be real. So I grab my backpack, thank Sphinx and Luna, and head toward school. Maya's probably at her locker. I can do this. I can actually do this.

Sphinx meows as I leave, and I swear she winks.