Sphinx Nights & Sweaty Palms

Maya's palms were practically leaking sweat. Great. Absolutely stellar impression she'd make at Homecoming—looking like she'd just washed her hands in the sink and forgot to dry.

"You good?" Jordan asked, already three deep in the snack line. Her best friend since sixth grade, currently ditching her for cheese puffs.

"Never been better," Maya lied, wiping her hands on her dress. "Just living my best life."

The gym looked unrecognizable—crepe paper everywhere, a fog machine going way too hard, and in the corner: the school mascot. The ridiculous cardboard sphinx some art kid painted freshman year. Everyone called it the Sphinx of Secrets, because students slipped notes under its base about who they liked or what they were afraid of. Maya had left exactly zero notes, because why would anyone voluntarily advertise their feelings to the entire student body?

But tonight felt different. Junior year was hitting hard—AP classes intensifying, Jordan hanging out more with the cross-country crew, and Maya still trying to figure out who she actually was. The classic identity crisis montage, minus the inspirational music.

Then she saw him. Tyler from her English class, standing by the sphinx like it was the most normal thing in the world. He'd been her lab partner last week, and they'd spent forty minutes arguing about whether Gatsby was truly in love with Daisy or just obsessed with the idea of her. He'd made her laugh so hard she'd almost knocked over their beaker.

Her palms were suddenly ten times sweatier.

Maya forced herself to move. One foot in front of the other. She could bear this. It was just a conversation. Just words. They'd had plenty of those in English.

"Hey," she said, and it came out way more breathless than she'd intended.

Tyler turned. "Oh hey, lab partner. You came."

"Apparently." Why did she say that? What did that even mean?

He smiled, and Maya's stomach did that annoying flip thing. "I was just looking at this sphinx. Pretty wild that people write secrets here."

"Yeah," Maya said. "Probably mostly fake though. Like 'I like Bobby' and stuff."

"Maybe." He paused. "Or maybe people really need somewhere to put the stuff they can't say out loud."

Something in his voice made her look at him differently. "You left a note?"

"Last year. When I first moved here." He shrugged. "I wrote that I was afraid I'd never find real friends here."

Maya felt something shift in her chest. "And?"

"And I think I was wrong." He looked at her, then quickly away. "What about you? You ever write anything?"

She thought about Jordan, about how things had been weird lately, about how she was afraid of losing her person. About how maybe she was starting to feel things for someone else entirely.

"No," Maya said. "But I think I might tonight."

"Yeah?" Tyler's voice was softer. "What would you write?"

She thought about her sweaty palms, about the anxiety that constantly buzzed under her skin, about how scared she was of everything changing and staying the same all at once.

Maya looked at the sphinx, at Jordan across the room laughing with someone new, at Tyler standing close enough that she could see he had a tiny freckle by his eye.

"I'd write that I'm learning how to bear the scary parts," she said finally. "That maybe being scared means you're about to do something brave."

Tyler smiled. And then, with a casualness that made her heart stop, he reached out and gently took her hand—sweaty palms and all.

"Yeah," he said. "I think that's exactly what it means."