Spinach in Your Teeth

Maya stared at the mirror, her hair currently looking like a failed science experiment. The DIY dye job was supposed to give her chestnut highlights for eighth-grade formal, but instead she'd ended up with something closer to muddy orange. Great. Just great.

"You need more biotin," her mom had said that morning, sliding a vitamin across the kitchen counter. "It helps hair growth."

Maya had rolled her eyes so hard she practically saw her brain. Because obviously her entire social life hinged on hair supplements.

Now she was at Chloe's house, sitting on a bath towel while her best friend worked damage control with a box of emergency dye from her older sister's stash.

"You're spiraling," Chloe said, painting color onto Maya's forehead by accident. "Stop thinking about Jordan."

"I'm not thinking about Jordan," Maya lied. She was definitely thinking about Jordan. The way his stupid hair fell over his eyes. The way he'd actually asked her to save a dance at formal. The way she currently looked like a pumpkin.

Chloe's mom called them downstairs for dinner. Maya tried to decline, but her stomach betrayed her with the loudest growl in human history.

She ended up staring at a salad because apparently Chloe's family was the type that ate *spinach* for fun. Maya pushed the leaves around her plate, convinced this whole night was cursed.

Then the weirdest thing happened. Jordan texted.

*Hey, are you coming to the pre-game?*

Maya's fingers froze. She typed and deleted about five responses before settling on: *idk maybe*

*You should,* he replied. *I want to see you.*

It hit her like lightning – the realization that she'd been so focused on fixing herself for everyone else that she'd forgotten Jordan actually *liked* her. Not formal-Maya with perfect hair and a dress. Just Maya. Spinach-hating, science-failing, orange-haired Maya.

"Your hair's actually kind of fire now," Chloe said as they headed back upstairs.

Maya laughed. "You're literally the worst."

"But I'm right."

And maybe she was. Maybe it was okay to be messy and awkward and figuring things out. Maybe that was the whole point of being fourteen.

She pulled out her phone and typed: *I'll be there.*

The mirror showed a girl with imperfect hair, an uncertain smile, and finally, something that looked a little like confidence.