Spinach and the Silver Fox

The kitchen counter was littered with red Solo cups and half-eaten pizza, but Maya's eyes kept drifting back to him—Jordan, the senior with the hair that fell across his forehead like he'd just rolled out of bed looking perfect. Her best friend Riley had nicknamed him "the fox" months ago because of that smirk, the one that made every girl at North High feel like he knew something they didn't.

Maya adjusted her glasses for the fiftieth time that night. She'd spent the past three months chugging these nasty vitamin gummies her mom swore would help her "blossom," whatever that meant. Apparently blossoming involved acne and braces.

"You gonna talk to him or just vibe from across the room?" Riley appeared beside her, dabbing pizza grease on a napkin. "He's literally three feet away."

"I'm building up the courage," Maya whispered. "It's a process."

"Girl, it's been a process since homecoming. At this rate you'll graduate before you say hey."

Maya grabbed a spinach artichoke dip from a nearby tray—anything to look busy. She took a massive bite, which was exactly when Jordan turned around and caught her eye. He smiled. That smile.

"Hey," he said, walking over. "You're Maya, right? You sit behind me in AP Bio."

She nodded, probably too enthusiastically. Her heart was doing that thing where it felt like it might actually escape her chest. "Yeah! Hi! Hello!"

Kill me now.

"I like your notes," Jordan said. "You draw those little doodles in the margins. They're sick."

Wait, what? Jordan noticed her? Jordan thought her doodles were sick?

"Thanks," she managed, feeling her face heat up. "I don't even realize I'm doing them half the time."

"You should see if you've got any spinach in your teeth," Riley mouthed dramatically from behind Jordan's back.

Maya's stomach dropped. She hadn't checked a mirror in two hours. She casually covered her mouth with her hand, laughing at something Jordan said about their biology teacher's obsession with mitochondria.

"You wanna get some air?" Jordan asked. "It's kinda loud in here."

They ended up on the back porch, talking about everything from his failed attempts at learning guitar to her secret obsession with true crime podcasts. The spinach remained a mystery—Jordan didn't mention it, and she wasn't about to ask. Maybe it wasn't there. Maybe Riley was just being Riley.

When her mom picked her up at midnight, Maya texted Riley: "I think I'm gonna stop taking those vitamins."

"Oh?" Riley replied. "And why's that?"

"Because," Maya typed back, her phone lighting up the dark car, "I think I'm done trying to be someone I'm not. The fox can take me as I am. Spinach and all."

Somewhere between the vitamin gummies and the spinach dip, between the braces and the backyard where Jordan told her she had the kind of laugh that made people want to laugh too, Maya had figured something out: growing up wasn't about becoming someone new. It was about becoming okay with who you already were.