The Bear Hat Summer

The summer I turned fifteen, I learned that courage doesn't always announce itself with a trumpet blast. Sometimes it shows up wearing a ridiculous hat.

I was at Tyler's party—the one everyone would be talking about on Monday—standing near the snack table like it was my life raft. My best friend Elena had disappeared somewhere with her crush, leaving me alone with my social anxiety and a neon orange soda that matched my cheeks.

Then Jordan spotted me. Jordan, who'd made my freshman year miserable with comments about my clothes and my handwriting and basically everything about me. He swaggered over, his usual entourage in tow.

"Nice bear hat, loser," Jordan said, gesturing at my head.

I froze. I'd forgotten I was still wearing it—the ridiculous fuzzy bear beanie my little sister had knit me as a "practice" project. I'd only put it on because Elena dared me to, and then I hadn't worked up the nerve to take it off.

"Thanks," I heard myself say, my voice barely shaking. "My sister made it."

Jordan's eyebrows shot up. He'd expected me to shrink away or apologize.

"It's... actually kind of impressive," someone from his group mumbled.

"Yeah, whatever," Jordan said, but the moment had passed. He moved on to easier targets.

Elena reappeared, grinning. "Did you just stand up to Jordan?"

"I guess?" I said, finally pulling off the bear hat. My hair was flattened underneath, but I felt lighter somehow.

"That was legendary," she said. "Seriously."

That night, lying in bed replaying the moment, I realized something: The hat hadn't been my shield. It had just been a hat. The real courage had been in not letting someone else's opinion dictate my worth.

Okay, and maybe not letting Jordan's "bull" attitude ruin a perfectly good party.

I texted Elena: "Next time, I'm wearing the tiger one."

She sent back a laughing-crying emoji. "I'll wear the matching one."

Some summer.