Spinach in My Smile

Sixteen years old and I was already dead—that's how it felt walking into Tyler's basement party. A total **zombie** from three days of cramming for finals, brain fried, eyes glazed, moving on autopilot. The bass thumped through my chest like a second heartbeat I hadn't consented to.

Then I saw her. Chelsea, leaning against the washer-dryer in that **orange** cropped hoodie that made her look like sunset personified. My chest did that stupid flutter thing it always did when she was within fifty feet.

I tried to play it cool, saunter over, maybe finally spit out the words I'd been rehearsing in my mirror for weeks. But fate, as always, had other plans.

Miller—this massive **bull** of a dude who'd been pushing me around since seventh grade—decided NOW was the perfect time to body-check me into a table. Red Solo cups went flying. People stared. My face burned hotter than the cheap pizza pocket candles Tyler's mom insisted on.

"My bad, bro," Miller grinned, all teeth and zero regret. His friends chuckled. I couldn't **bear** to look at Chelsea. This was it. The social suicide I'd been dodging for three years had finally caught up with me.

"Whatever," I managed, but it came out croaky. Wrong. Everything wrong.

Then Chelsea was there. "You good?"

I nodded, trying to summon dignity. But something in her expression shifted. She wasn't looking at my eyes. She was looking at—no. NO.

"You got a little..." She gestured at her own teeth.

I bolted to the bathroom mirror. There it was. A single, defiant piece of **spinach** wedged between my front teeth, probably from dinner, broadcasting my social ineptitude to everyone I'd talked to all night.

I wanted to dissolve. Become literal vapor. Escape through the bathroom vent.

Knock on the door. Chelsea.

"It's not that bad," she said. Then she grinned. "Okay, it's kinda bad. But also? Miller's been a jerk to everyone since forever. You're not special."

She leaned against the doorframe, orange hoodie glowing under the vanity light. "Plus, spinach happens. Last week? I walked around with mascara all over my face for like four hours. Nobody said anything because they were too busy being awkward teenagers."

I laughed. It just came out.

"See?" she bumped my shoulder with hers. "You're not a zombie. You're just having Friday night syndrome. We all got it."

We spent the rest of the party on the back porch, watching her dad's old station bear—you know, like, endure—the suburban night, talking about everything and nothing. I still couldn't believe she'd given me the time of day, let alone two hours.

Later, she'd claim she only hung out with me because she felt bad about the spinach. I'd pretend to believe her, even though we both knew that wasn't the whole truth.

Some moments stay burned into your brain forever. That night? That was the first time I realized everyone's just pretending they know what they're doing. Even the confident ones. Even the ones in orange hoodies who look like walking sunsets.

Sometimes the most humiliating moments? They're just plot twists in the story you're still writing.