The Bear in My Backpack

I was a zombie. Not the cool, apocalypse-fighting kind. The "stayed up until 3 AM studying for chemistry" kind, shuffling through the hallway with dark circles that had their own dark circles.

"You look like the walking dead," Maya said, falling into step beside me. She was glowing, obviously — the kind of person who actually got eight hours and remembered to moisturize.

"Thanks," I mumbled. "You look like... someone who had breakfast."

She laughed, and something tightened in my chest. We'd been friends since seventh grade, when she'd defended me against Tyler's comment about my hand-me-down sneakers. Now we were juniors, and everything felt different. The hallways stretched longer. The expectations grew heavier. And Maya had started dating Jason, whose dad owned that dealership with the annoying commercials.

My phone buzzed. MOM: Don't forget Grandpa's anniversary. Bring the bear.

The bear. The stuffed one I'd had since I was four. Button eye missing from that time my dog chewed it. Fur matted in places from being hugged through nightmares, fevers, and that one week in eighth grade when my parents fought about money every night.

"You okay?" Maya asked, soft.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just tired."

We reached her locker. She spun the combination. Jason appeared, sliding his arm around her waist, and something about the way she leaned into him made my stomach hurt. Not jealousy — or maybe it was jealousy. But also this hollow awareness that I was becoming the person who watched things happen instead of making them happen.

"Catch you later," she said, already turning away.

At lunch, I sat on the bleachers outside instead of the cafeteria. unzip my backpack. There it was: Mr. Cuddles (I'd named him with all the creativity of a toddler). Stupid to still have him. Stupid to still need him.

"Is that a bear?"

I jumped. Maya stood there, alone.

"It's stupid." I tried to shove it back in my bag.

"No, wait." She sat beside me. "I still have my first stuffed animal too. Bunny. One ear's basically gone."

"Really?"

"Really." She looked at me. "I miss hanging out with you. Just you. Not Jason around. Not studying. Just us."

"Me too," I admitted, and it was the truest thing I'd said in weeks.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Let's skip the extra help session. Let's go to that diner. Get milkshakes. Be zombies together."

I smiled, really smiled. "It's a date. As friends."

"As friends," she agreed, and the weight in my chest lightened.

The bear went back in my bag, but I didn't feel stupid anymore. Some things you keep because they remind you who you are when everything else tries to make you someone else.