Spinach Teeth & Summer Regrets

The humidity hit like a physical thing the moment I stepped off the bus, my already-frizzy hair expanding like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket. This was it - the first party of sophomore year, at Tyler's house because his parents were somehow cool with thirty teenagers destroying their backyard.

"You got this," Chloe whispered, but her eyes said good luck, you're gonna need it. Because Miles was there. Miles with the jawline and the vintage tees and the ability to make my brain completely malfunction.

I'd spent three hours getting ready, which was ridiculous but necessary. The problem? I'd grabbed a spinach wrap for lunch because I was being "healthy" now, clearly not thinking through the consequences.

The pool beckoned like a siren song. Someone shouted "CANNONBALL" and suddenly I was being pulled toward the water, my social anxiety momentarily overridden by the fact that literally everyone was swimming and I didn't want to be That Person standing awkwardly by the snack table.

"Come on!" Tyler's golden retriever, Buster, had somehow escaped the house and was doing excited laps around the pool. I laughed - actual genuine laughter - as the dog's owner chased him, both of them creating chaos.

That's when Miles materialized beside me. "Hey, you're in my bio class, right?"

My brain: ?????

My mouth: "Yeah, the one with Mr. Harrison, he's like, forty minutes behind schedule every single day-"

And then it happened. Miles smiled. Not a polite smile. A genuine, crinkle-by-the-eyes smile.

"You have something-" He gestured to his own teeth.

Spinach. A whole piece of green nightmare, wedged like it was paying rent.

I wanted to die. Actually die. My core memory was going to be That Spinach Incident, narrated by future-me at therapy: "And that's when my social life ended, Sophomore Year, The Age of Humiliation."

But then his cat, a calico named Mochi, darted past and accidentally knocked Miles into the pool. Fully clothed. Phone in pocket.

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

He came up sputtering while everyone laughed, and somehow we were both laughing too, and the spinach was suddenly not the main character anymore. Later, we'd sit on the porch swing under the palm trees while his clothes dried in the dryer, and he'd make fun of my wrap choices, and I'd pretend to be annoyed while secretly thriving.

Some nights are core memories. Others are just ridiculous. This one was both.