Spinach in My Soul

The beanie wasn't even mine. It belonged to Tyler's older sister, who'd left it on the couch after visiting college friends. I'd swiped it because maybe, just maybe, if I wore something that belonged to someone cool, some of that coolness would transfer by osmosis.

Bad plan.

"You good?" Jenna asked, side-eyeing me across the bounce house at Tyler's sweet sixteen. Jenna, my best friend since fourth grade, knew exactly how out of my element I was. Parties weren't my thing. Talking to boys wasn't my thing. Existing in rooms with more than ten people wasn't my thing.

"I'm great," I lied. "Just waiting for the right moment to—you know."

"Talk to him?" she supplied helpfully.

"Talk to him," I confirmed. Because Caleb was there, looking like Caleb did, which was unfairly good even in sweatpants.

The universe, sensing my weakness, chose that moment to deploy Tyler's family's golden retriever. The dog—Biscuit, why was it always Biscuit—came tearing through the bounce house like a furry missile, knocking into three sophomores before zeroing in on me like I was made of actual treats.

My hat went flying. Biscuit pounced.

"No!" I lunged, but Biscuit was faster. She snatched the beanie and bolted, trailing it like a trophy.

"I'll get it!" someone called. It was Caleb. Of course it was Caleb.

This was it. My moment. Except my reflection in the bounce house window told a different story: there, wedged undeniably in my front teeth, was a vibrant green reminder of the spinach dip I'd aggressively consumed twenty minutes earlier.

"Spinach," I whispered to myself. "There is spinach in my teeth."

Jenna appeared with the retrieved hat. Caleb stood five feet away, holding the slobbery beanie, looking at me like he was about to say something.

I did the only logical thing. I turned around, marched to the snack table, and shoved an entire cupcake in my mouth.

"Smooth," Jenna said, but she was grinning.

"Don't," I mumbled through frosting.

Caleb walked over, handed me the hat. "So," he said, "I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out by the bonfire later, but then you decided to faceplant into a cupcake, which honestly? Iconic behavior."

I swallowed. "That's your line?"

"What can I say," he shrugged, "I like a girl who commits."

Jenna made a sound like she was physically holding back laughter. I looked between them, at my slobbery hat, at the dip still stuck in my teeth, and started laughing too.

Some stories have happy endings. Some have dogs that ruin everything. Mine had spinach and a boy who thought my disasters were iconic. Weirdly? I'd take it.