Spinach Teeth Sunday

Maya's phone buzzed with three texts before her alarm even went off.

u coming to jakes party?

everyone's gonna be there

pls say ur going

Maya groaned into her pillow. Jake's party meant the popular crowd, which meant pretending to be someone she wasn't. Someone who didn't get anxiety attacks in bathrooms and didn't have to bear the weight of her mom's "you're too sensitive" lectures every time she cried.

She dragged herself to the kitchen, where her dad stood at the stove, eyebrows knitted like he was solving calculus.

"Spinach omelet?" he offered. "Got that fancy stuff from the farmer's market. Your mom said it's supposed to make you, like, smart or something."

Maya's stomach did that thing it did before presentations. "I'm good."

"You sure? You've got that thing tonight. The Jake situation." Her dad flipped an omelet. "Remember what we talked about. You don't have to be what everyone expects. That's some bull, Maya. You're allowed to just exist."

Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one who'd spent seventh grade being "the quiet girl" while everyone else leveled up their social stats.

At Jake's house, the bass thumped through Maya's chest before she even reached the door. Inside, a sea of crop tops and expensive sneakers swirled around a makeshift dance floor. Maya texted her best friend: here. come find me.

The kitchen was packed. Someone had knocked over a bag of chips—crunchy debris everywhere. Maya spotted Jake by the refrigerator, holding court with his varsity jacket crew. He caught her eye and smirked.

"Yo, Maya!" he called out. "You actually came. I thought you'd be, like, reading or something."

A couple of girls tittered. Maya felt heat crawl up her neck.

"Yeah, well," she managed, "here I am."

Jake gestured toward a towering stack of pizza boxes. "Grab a slice. Unless you're still on that spinach kick from seventh grade. Remember when you brought that spinach dip to—"

"Jake," someone warned.

"What? It was actually kinda—"

Maya's phone vibrated. Her dad: You've got this. Also, I found your childhood bear. Mr. Cuddles says hi.

Something shifted in Maya's chest. She wasn't twelve anymore. She wasn't the girl who cried when someone made fun of her spinach dip. She was sixteen, and she didn't have to bear this—not tonight, not ever.

"Actually," Maya said, her voice steady, "that dip was legendary. My mom's recipe won a county fair. So maybe you can stop bringing up seventh grade and find some new material."

Jake blinked. The kitchen went quiet.

Then someone—Sophie, from her English class—started laughing. "Oh my god, remember that dip? It was actually fire though."

"Right?" Maya felt herself grinning. "I can make it for the next hang. If Jake can handle the healthy stuff."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Jake thinks air is too healthy. Ignore him."

As the kitchen noise returned to normal, Maya texted her dad: Mr. Cuddles would be proud. And thanks.

Outside, the cool air hit her face. She wasn't transformed or anything—not the hero of some movie where the shy girl becomes prom queen. But something inside her had settled. She could show up. She could speak up. And yeah, she could still love spinach dip.

That was enough.