The Cafeteria Sphinx

The lunch table at Westwood High was like the sphinx — ancient, unmoving, and full of mysteries I couldn't solve. Especially the mystery of why Chloe Patterson sat there every day, wearing that soft orange sweater that made her look like sunshine incarnate.

I was basically a certified spy at this point. Third period, I'd "accidentally" walk past her locker. Fourth period, I'd linger by the water fountain she used. My friends called it obsession; I called it research.

Friday, I finally made my move. I sat down across from her, tray in hand, heart hammering like I'd just downed three energy drinks. "Hey," I said. Smooth. I was basically a poet.

"Hey," she replied, actually smiling. My brain short-circuited. We talked about English class, about how Mr. Henderson was obsessed with symbolism, about everything and nothing. I was killing it. Living the dream.

Until I got up to throw away my trash and caught my reflection in the cafeteria window.

A massive, egregious piece of spinach was wedged between my front teeth, like a tiny green flag announcing my social death to the world.

I'd spent the entire lunch grinning like an idiot, flashing my spinach-covered smile at the prettiest girl in tenth grade. I wanted to dissolve into the floor. This was it. The end. I would have to change schools. Maybe change my name. Move to another country.

I heard a soft laugh behind me.

"You've got a little..." Chloe pointed to her own teeth, grinning.

My face burned hotter than a thousand suns. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I just —"

"No, it's perfect," she said, and she was actually laughing, but not in a mean way. In a way that made something in my chest loosen. "Because I've had spinach in my teeth since breakfast, and I was terrified to say anything to you."

We stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Two idiots with spinach in their teeth, standing in a high school cafeteria.

Her phone buzzed. She checked it and rolled her eyes. "My dog just texted me."

"Your... what?"

"Golden retriever," she explained, showing me a picture of the fluffiest creature I'd ever seen, sent from her mom's phone. "That's Buster. He's basically my emotional support animal."

"He's perfect," I said, and somehow I wasn't thinking about the spinach anymore.

"You want to meet him?" she asked. "My mom's picking me up. He's probably in the back seat, being dramatic about something."

"Yeah," I said, and something in my voice sounded different. More confident. "Yeah, I'd love that."

The sphinx had spoken, finally. And apparently, the answer to the riddle wasn't being smooth or perfect or cool.

It was just showing up, spinach and all.