The Dead Bull's Riddle

I was totally **zombie**-mode Monday morning, running on three hours of sleep after pulling an all-nighter for finals. My hoodie was up, headphones in, just trying to survive first period without making eye contact with anyone.

Then I saw Marcus by his locker, holding court like he owned the school. He was telling this story about how he'd totally BS'd his English essay—pure **bull**, everyone knew he'd had his tutor write it—but everyone laughed anyway because that's what you do when you're Marcus.

"Hey, Raven," he called out, making my stomach drop. "You going to Maya's party Friday?"

I froze. Maya was the total **sphinx** of our grade—beautiful, mysterious, impossible to read. I'd been crushing on her since September, but she existed in a different social stratosphere. Her party was invite-only, and I definitely hadn't been invited.

"Probably not," I mumbled, already turning away.

"Nah, you should come," Marcus said, way too loud. "I can get you in. Bring some of those weird sketchbooks you're always carrying. Maya likes artists."

Later that night, I stared at my ceiling, spiraling. Was he messing with me? Would showing up uninvited be social suicide? Or was this actually my chance to finally exist in Maya's orbit?

Friday arrived in a blur of anxiety. I stood outside Maya's house for twenty minutes before finally ringing the doorbell. The bass was already thumping through the walls.

Maya herself answered. She looked even better than usual, but not in an intimidating way—just in a sweatshirt, hair half-up, kind of frazzled. "Oh! Raven! Marcus said you might come. Thank god, someone else who doesn't do keg stands."

She pulled me inside, and suddenly the sphinx wasn't a sphinx anymore. Just a girl stressing about college apps and SATs who happened to be gorgeous. We ended up talking on the roof for two hours about everything and nothing.

"You know," she said, "Marcus told me you're really talented. But he also said you're kind of intense. Is that true?"

I laughed. "I think I'm just socially awkward."

"Same," she said, and something shifted.

At midnight, Marcus found us. "There you are!"

For a second, I braced myself—this was it, the prank, the humiliation.

"Dude," Marcus said, "I've been trying to get Maya to talk to you for weeks. She's been too scared to approach you because you're always in your zone, drawing and stuff. You're like, the mysterious artist guy. Everyone thinks you're cool as hell."

I stared at him. "What?"

"You're a riddle, man," he grinned. "A total sphinx."

Maya was blushing. I was completely confused. But maybe, just maybe, high school wasn't quite as simple as zombies and bullies and unattainable sphinxes. Maybe I wasn't the only one overthinking everything.

"Next time," Maya said quietly, "you don't have to wait for an invitation."

I walked home not feeling like a zombie at all. For the first time in forever, I was wide awake.