That One Friday Night

My orange hoodie felt like a neon sign screaming 'I DON'T BELONG HERE.' I'd spent forty-five minutes perfecting my hair in the mirror, trying to look like I hadn't tried at all. The struggle was real.

Jordan's house party was already lit when I arrived — bass thumping through the walls, people scattered across the lawn like confused ants. I didn't even LIKE Jordan. But Tyler would be here, and Tyler was the whole reason I'd spent my Friday night psyching myself up for social interaction instead of binge-watching Netflix like a normal person.

The kitchen was where things went sideways. Some absolute bull about truth or dare started up, and suddenly I was trapped in a circle of people whose sneakers probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Then someone's cat — a calico with serious attitude — leaped onto the counter, knocked over an entire bowl of spiked punch, and drenched me in sticky pink sludge.

I wanted to die. Actually die. But then Tyler was there with a handful of paper towels, grinning like my misfortune was the best thing that happened all night.

"Cat got your tongue?" he joked, but his eyes were actually nice. Not pity-nice. Just... nice.

We ended up on the back porch while I attempted to rinse my hoodie in the outdoor faucet, the cold water turning my hands numb. Tyler talked about how he hated these parties too, how he preferred gaming alone, how his orange Converse were actually from Payless and not some limited edition drop.

The wind picked up, drying my hoodie into weird stiff patches. Neither of us went back inside. We sat there watching the cat stalk moths under the porch light, talking about everything and nothing while the party raged without us.

My orange hoodie was ruined. My social standing was non-existent. But Tyler walked me home, and he texted me the next morning about that new show on Netflix.

Sometimes the worst moments become the best ones. You just have to let them soak in.