The Cafeteria Sphinx

I'd been assigned to **spy** on the popular table during third period lunch. Not by anyone official—just by my own desperate need to understand how they existed so effortlessly while I was still trying to figure out which angle my chin worked from.

My mom had started me on these new **vitamin** gummies that morning. "For confidence," she'd said, handing me the neon blue bottle like it contained the secret to surviving eleventh grade. I'd choked down three already, waiting for the magic to kick in.

Then I saw her.

Chloe sat alone at the table near the garbage cans, surrounded by empty chairs like a force field. Everyone called her the **sphinx** behind her back because she never spoke, just watched everything with those knowing eyes. Rumor was she'd flunked out of private school for "unraveling the headmaster's marriage." I'd always assumed that was just drama bait, but the way she looked at you—like she could see your entire embarrassing future in one glance—made you wonder.

I was halfway through my sandwich when Chloe's eyes locked on mine. **Lightning** crackled down my spine. She crooked a finger, and suddenly I was moving toward her table like I'd been hypnotized.

"You're not taking your vitamins for confidence," she said, her voice low and serious. "You're taking them because you think there's a version of yourself that needs fixing."

I stared. "How—"

"I see things." She slid a folded napkin across the table. "You're not a spy. You're just lonely. There's a difference."

The bell rang. People surged toward the exits. I opened the napkin later in English class. In blue ballpoint, she'd written: *You don't need vitamins. You need better friends. Come sit here tomorrow.*

I tossed the vitamin bottle in my locker. Something told me Chloe would know if I kept taking them. And honestly? She was the first person all week who'd actually seen me.