Static Charge

The hat was supposed to fix everything. That's what Maya told herself when she dropped twenty bucks on the beanie at Urban, pulling it down over what remained of the DIY bangs disaster that she'd definitely nailed but also absolutely ruined.

Now, standing outside Tyler's house party while thunder cracked overhead like the universe was laughing at her, Maya wasn't so sure. She'd spent three weeks hiding her hair under various hats, ducking out of photos, dodging mirrors like they were personal enemies. Her friends kept texting her.

where r u??

everyone's asking

come throughhh

Maya stared at her iphone screen, thumbs hovering. The cracked glass felt familiar against her skin—she'd dropped it sophomore year rushing to class, trying to look casual when she walked past Tyler every morning like he didn't make her chest feel like static.

Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the empty street. Someone inside screamed like they'd won something.

She could leave. Go home, take off the hat, fix her hair in peace, try again next weekend. That was the safe play. The Maya plan.

But the thing about growing up nobody tells you: sometimes you have to choose between staying safe and actually showing up.

Another text popped up.

tyler's literally asking where you are

Maya's heart did that thing where it forgot how to rhythm. Tyler. Asking about her.

The rain started coming down harder.

She could stand on this porch all night being the person who didn't go in, or she could walk through that door being the person who showed up anyway. Bangs or not.

Maya pulled off the hat. Her hair was definitely a mess. The humidity was not helping. The bangs were at least three different lengths.

She shoved the hat in her pocket, grabbed the door handle, and stepped inside.

Everyone turned. The music kept thumping. Someone shouted her name.

There was Tyler, by the snacks, wearing that hoodie he always wore, looking at her like she was the only person who'd walked in all night.

"Hey," he said, over the music. "I like what you did with your hair."

Maya felt something like lightning strike through her chest—bright, sudden, impossible to ignore.

"Thanks," she said. "I kind of hate it, honestly."

He laughed, and it was better than the thunder.

"Nah," he said. "It's got character. Like mine." He ran a hand through his own definitely-unstyled hair. "Want a solo cup?"

Maya smiled, and for the first time in three weeks, she didn't reach for the hat in her pocket.

"Absolutely."