Spinach Smoothie Sabotage

The cat—Mrs. Whiskers, technically my little sister's emotional support animal—stared at me from the kitchen counter like I'd personally betrayed her entire bloodline.

"Dude, you're literally putting lawn clippings in a blender," Leo said, scrolling through TikTok without looking up. My best friend had been roasting my attempts at impressing Shayla all week.

"It's not lawn clippings, it's spinach. It's a lifestyle, Leo." I dumped the entire container into the blender. Green juice was basically a personality trait at Northwood High now. If I wanted Shayla to notice me at Maya's party tonight, I needed to level up my whole aesthetic. Fit. Intentional. Someone who drank things that tasted like wet grass because they *cared* about their body.

The blender screamed like a dying banshee.

Mrs. Whiskers hissed and bolted.

"That's a sign, bro," Leo said. "The spirits are speaking."

"Shut up and pass me the water bottle."

I reached for it, but Mrs. Whiskers chose that exact moment to make her dramatic exit, knocking a full glass of water directly onto my phone.

Silence.

"Your entire life is cursed," Leo said, finally looking up. "Shayla's gonna be there in two hours and you have zero followers, zero rizz, and now zero phone."

I stared at my spinach monstrosity. The green sludge stared back.

Then I started laughing. Like, actually couldn't stop. This whole week I'd been trying to become someone else—someone who drank spinach smoothies and curated their aesthetic and worried about whether their vibes matched their persona. But I hated spinach. I'd rather eat actual dirt. And Shayla? She'd seen me throw up after the mile run last year. She'd seen me cry when I failed my driver's test. She knew who I was.

"Pour me a glass," I said.

Leo's eyes went wide. "You're actually gonna drink it?"

"No. But I'm gonna bring it to the party and let Shayla try it first."

"You're evil."

"I'm consistent." I grabbed a red Solo cup from the pantry. "Besides, if she drinks lawn clipping juice and still likes me, I know it's real."

Mrs. Whiskers crept back onto the counter, purring like she'd planned the whole thing.

"Good cat," I said. "Very strategic."