Spinach & Satellite Dreams

Maya's parents had barely backed out of the driveway when she FaceTimed Kai.

"Finally. Whole weekend to ourselves. I'm talking full independence era."

Kai laughed from Maya's phone screen. "Bold of you to assume you won't burn the house down by Saturday morning."

"Watch me." Maya spun around the kitchen like she owned it. "I'm making grown-up food. Spinach artichoke dip. Found this fire recipe on TikTok."

"Please tell me you know how to work the oven."

"I'm not incompetent, Kai." But her voice wavered slightly.

Two hours later, Maya was sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by splattered spinach dip, staring at the TV displaying a merciless NO SIGNAL message in blocky letters.

"Cable's out," she whispered to herself, like saying it too loud would make it real.

Her parents' golden retriever, Barnaby, chose that moment to trot in, sniff the ceiling with grave concern, and start whimpering. Water dripped onto his snout.

"Oh. Oh no."

Maya followed the drip upward to a mysterious wet spot spreading across the ceiling, directly above where she'd tried to Pinterest-hack a pendant light installation earlier. Apparently, pipes existed. Who knew?

She called Kai, breathless. "I think I broke the house."

"What happened?"

"Everything. The dip is a crime against humanity, the cable is dead, there's water coming from the ceiling, and Barnaby looks personally victimized."

Kai was laughing so hard he couldn't respond. "Wait—so much for independence era."

Maya looked at her spinach disaster, the dripping ceiling, the wet dog, the dead TV. She started laughing too, helplessly, until she was sliding across the floor on spinach residue.

"My parents are gonna kill me."

"Or," Kai suggested, "you could call the emergency plumber number on the fridge like a functioning adult."

"Right. Adult things. I can adult."

She couldn't. But the plumber talked her through shutting off the water valve. Her dad came home early Sunday, fixed the ceiling, ate a tiny bite of her "salvaged" dip with total straight-face commitment.

"Next time," he said, "maybe start with boiling water. Baby steps."

Maya nodded, watching Barnaby chase his tail like nothing had ever happened. Being grown-up was exhausting. But she'd learned two things: independence looked a lot like calling for help, and maybe she wasn't ready for everything—but she was ready for something.