Spinach Smoothies & Palm Sweats

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating, tiny droplets pooling in her hand crevices as she clutched the red solo cup. This was it. Her first high school party. And she was currently hiding behind a potted plant, nursing what she was pretty sure was just flat orange soda but everyone kept calling "jungle juice" because apparently naming things accurately wasn't cool.

"You look like you're about to face a zombie apocalypse," said a voice from behind her.

Maya jumped, nearly spilling her drink. It was Leo from her AP History class, the guy who sat in the back and drew sphinxes in the margins of his notes instead of, like, paying attention to anything about actual Egypt.

"I'm good," Maya lied. "Just taking a moment. Strategically."

"Strategically hiding behind a ficus?" Leo grinned. "Same. I've been trapped here for twenty minutes. Someone's aunt keeps trying to tell me about her spinach smoothie recipe. I think she's trying to convert me."

Maya laughed, a real laugh, and the tightness in her chest loosened. Maybe she could do this. Maybe she could survive her first party without imploding.

"My mom says I need more leafy greens," she admitted. "But honestly? I'd rather face actual zombies than drink something green."

"Solid life choice." Leo held up his cup. "To avoiding things that are good for us."

They clinked plastic cups, and somewhere in the distance, someone started terrible music that everyone pretended to love. But standing there with her sticky orange soda and her suddenly-not-sweating palms, Maya thought she might actually be okay with being exactly who she was — someone who didn't love parties, someone who hid behind plants, someone who was finally figuring out that maybe that wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"Hey," Leo said, "wanna go stand by the snacks? I think I saw spinach dip."

Maya smiled. "Only if you promise not to let anyone convert us."