The Art of Faking It

Maya's hair refused to cooperate. Again. She stood in front of her mirror, fingers jammed into a frizzy explosion that had somehow defied three different products. The humidity wasn't helping, but neither was the fact that she'd spent the night before crying over Leo's three-word text: "we should talk." Classic.

"You look like you got into a fight with a blowdryer," her mom called from the hallway. Maya groaned and jammed a baseball cap over the mess. Some days, faking it was the only option.

The concession stand at the town's minor league stadium wasn't exactly where she wanted to spend her Saturday, but the job beat sitting at home waiting for Leo's follow-up text. Or worse, running into him and whatever-her-name was at the skate park.

Her coworker, Jason, was already there, somehow making the polyester uniform look intentional. "Spinach again?" He pointed to the green smear on her chin. Great. Now she was walking around with salad on her face while her life imploded.

"My dog decided my breakfast was his breakfast," Maya lied, wiping it off with the back of her hand. Buster, her golden retriever, was currently at home probably napping on her pillow. He had better emotional regulation than she did.

The game dragged on. Maya spent way too much time pretending to check her phone while actually scanning the crowd. Not for Leo—okay, maybe a little for Leo—but mostly avoiding the inevitable run-in. She felt like a total spy, except instead of international espionage, she was gathering intelligence on why her crush of eight months had suddenly turned cold.

"You're doing that thing again," Jason said during the seventh inning stretch. "The staring-into-space-like-you're-solving-world-peace thing."

"I'm not." Maya focused very intensely on arranging hot dog buns in a perfect rectangle.

"Right." He leaned against the counter. "So who is he?"

"There's no 'he.'"

"There's always a 'he.' Or a 'she.' Or a 'they.'" Jason shrugged. "Teenage drama doesn't discriminate."

Maya cracked. She told him everything—Leo, the text, the way he'd been acting distant since spring break started, how she'd spent the past week overanalyzing every interaction they'd ever had. The admission felt like throwing up, but in a good way.

"Wow." Jason paused. "You know what this sounds like?"

"Please don't say 'he's just not that into you.' I might literally die."

"No, I was going to say it sounds like he's dealing with something and you're making it about yourself. Which, same." Jason's phone buzzed. "My cousin came out to his parents yesterday. They didn't take it well. He's been blowing off everyone."

Maya stared at him. "Leo is—is your cousin?"

"Yeah. Wait, you're Maya? The one who helped him with his math project last month?" Jason laughed. "Small world."

The crowd roared as someone hit a home run. Maya stood there, processing this completely different reality. Leo wasn't losing interest. Leo was dealing with something huge. And instead of asking him what was wrong, she'd been assuming the worst and spiraling.

"I'm an idiot," she said.

"Welcome to the club." Jason handed her a bag of popcorn. "On the house. For emotional damages."

Maya's phone buzzed. Leo: can we talk tomorrow?

She typed back: yeah. whenever.

Her hair was still a disaster. She still had spinach breath. But somehow, the faking it felt a little more real today.