The Cable Guy Conspiracy

Maya's hair had revolted. Like, full-on mutiny status. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, flat iron trembling in her hand, while her phone buzzed with sixth notifications from the group chat.

"u coming???" "pic day is TODAY" "we need u"

"My hair is being anti," Maya typed back, then deleted it. Too honest. "Be there in 10." Better.

Her Golden Retriever, Buster, nudged her knee with that wet-nose persistence that meant either he needed to go out or he'd detected something suspicious in the neighbor's yard again. Probably just a squirrel. Buster thought squirrels were literal enemies of the state.

"Not now, bud," Maya sighed, attempting one last pass with the flat iron. A weird frizz halo remained. Whatever. She'd call it "effortless texture."

She grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, but Buster planted himself in front of the cable modem in the hallway, growling low in his throat.

"Buster, move."

He wouldn't budge. His hackles were up.

That's when Maya noticed it: the cable connection wasn't just loose—it had been unscrewed. And there, barely visible behind the modem, was a tiny silver device blinking with a red light.

Maya's stomach dropped.

Her dad had installed something on the cable line. Something that wasn't part of the internet package.

She connected the dots like the worst kind of math problem: Her parents' weird questions lately. Who she was texting. What websites she visited. Why she'd been "using so much data" (hello, TikTok existed?). They weren't just being annoying—they were spying on her.

The betrayal hit her like a physical thing. All those talks about "trusting each other" and "we're not like other parents"—straight-up cap.

She almost texted the group chat: "fam, i think my parents are monitoring my internet." But that would prove them right, wouldn't it? That she had something to hide?

Maya looked at Buster, who was still guarding the modem like it was his job. At least someone had her back.

She took a photo of the device with her phone. Then she reconnected the cable, grabbed her bag, and headed to school with frizzy hair and a revolution in her pocket.

Some conversations were gonna happen when she got home. And for once, she wasn't gonna be the one saying sorry.