The Bear in the Orange Hoodie

Maya's iphone buzzed for the third time in five minutes. Group chat blowing up. Again.

u coming??? jake's gonna be there

She stared at the screen. Of course Jake would be there. Jake with the stupid perfect hair and the lacrosse pinnies and the way he looked right through her in AP Bio like she was just another desk in row four.

no. busy.

The lie burned in her throat. She wasn't busy. She was sitting on her bed wearing the world's ugliest hoodie—a neon orange monstrosity she'd thrifted ironically but now actually loved because it was basically wearable invisibility. Her mom called it her "bear mode" sweater because Maya would pull the hood up and hibernate like it was winter break 24/7.

Her phone lit up again.

plz?? it's gonna be lame without u

Maya groaned and flopped backward. The orange fabric pooled around her like a sad sunset. This was the problem with being the funny friend who was low-key friends with everyone but actually close to no one. You got invited to everything and wanted to go to nothing.

Fine, she typed. but NOT staying late

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Orange hoodie. Messy bun. The bear aesthetic in full force. Jake would look through her like a ghost and she'd spend three hours hovering near the snack table pretending to be deeply interested in a conversation about people she didn't care about.

Except.

Except last week, when she'd worn this same hoodie to school, Jake had actually stopped at her locker.

"Love the orange," he'd said. "Bold."

She'd made some joke about how she was basically a traffic cone and he'd laughed—not the polite laugh, but the real one. And then he'd kept walking and she'd overthought it for approximately 47 hours straight.

Maya stood up. The orange hoodie stayed on.

Some nights, the bear came out of hibernation.

Her iphone pinged one more time as she headed out the door.

finallyy!!!! wearing the orange hoodie? 😉

Maya smiled.

obviously