The Bear in the Corner

The party was already in full swing when Maya arrived, fashionably late as always. Someone had draped those tacky orange Christmas lights everywhere, giving the whole house a weird tangerine glow that made everyone look slightly feverish.

Maya's cat, Mittens, had scratched her arm right before she left—little red lines like Morse code for "abandon ship" or maybe "you don't belong here." She'd almost bailed, but here she was, fake ID burning in her pocket like hot coal.

In the corner, by the tangled mess of HDMI cables behind the TV, sat the new kid. Sam. He was hugging this massive stuffed bear to his chest like it was a life raft. Everyone said his dad worked at the zoo and that Sam had been raised by actual bears for like six months, which was obviously BS, but the bear thing? That part was apparently true.

Maya watched him from the kitchen, nursing a warm Coke. She should be talking to people, networking, building her social capital. That's what her older sister would say. Instead, she found herself drifting toward the corner.

"Is that a Build-A-Bear?" she asked before she could talk herself out of it.

Sam jumped like he'd been caught doing something illegal. Then he saw her and relaxed. "Yeah. My mom made me bring it. She thought it would help me make friends."

"Because nothing says 'cool teenager' like a stuffed animal from a mall workshop."

Sam's laugh was short, startled. "Exactly."

They ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, while the party swirled around them. Sam told her about moving here from Seattle, how his dad really did work at a zoo but not with bears (he was in accounting, which was somehow worse). The bear—named Sir Fluffington—had been a birthday gift when he turned twelve and never stopped being his favorite thing.

"It's pathetic," Sam said, staring at his palm like he could read his future there. "Sixteen and still sleeping with a stuffed animal."

"I still sleep with my childhood blanket," Maya admitted. "It has a hole in it but I can't—like, I literally cannot fall asleep without it."

Sam looked at her, really looked at her, and something shifted. "Really?"

"Really. It's called Mr. Wuzzy, which I know is the worst name ever—"

"It's perfect," Sam said, and the way he said it made Maya feel seen in a way she hadn't felt in months.

Later, they ended up on the porch, watching the real sky fade from orange to purple. Sam had the bear perched between them like a chaperone. A cat from somewhere in the neighborhood jumped onto the railing, eying them suspiciously.

"I'm glad you came over," Sam said quietly. "I was literally about to leave."

"I'm glad I did too," Maya said, and meant it.

Her phone buzzed—her sister asking where she was. Maya ignored it. For the first time in forever, she was exactly where she wanted to be.