The Fedora Files

Maya's been acting weird all week. We've been best friends since seventh grade, and now she's whispering in hallways, hiding her phone screen when I walk by, and—this is the weirdest part—wearing this ugly fedora hat everywhere. Like, who wears a fedora to PE?

"Everything's fine," she says, but her voice does that squeaky thing it does when she's lying.

So I do what any self-respecting sixteen-year-old would do: I become a spy.

Okay, not like, a real spy. But I do start paying attention. I notice she's meeting with Jordan after school—Jordan, who barely talks to me. I notice she's carrying around this suspicious-looking notebook. I even (don't judge) check her Instagram stories the second she posts them to see where she's going.

The spying feels gross, honestly. Like I'm violating some unspoken friend code. But my anxiety is spiraling. What if she's replacing me? What if I did something wrong and she's too nice to say it?

Friday night, I see her post a story: @ The Old Treehouse. My stomach drops. That's OUR spot. We haven't been there since eighth grade, but still.

I grab my bike and ride over, heart hammering. I creep up the path, ready to confront her, ready to demand answers—

"Surprise!"

There are like, twenty people there. Jordan, Priya, Tyler, kids from our grade, kids we barely talk to. And Maya's standing there in her ridiculous fedora, grinning like crazy, holding out a beautifully decorated cake that says: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEST FRIEND.

Oh.

Right.

My birthday is Tuesday.

"I wanted to throw you a surprise party early," Maya says, "because I know your parents are taking you to your grandma's on your actual birthday and I didn't want you to miss out. And I made everyone wear ridiculous hats because you said that was your favorite tradition before—"

Before my dad got sick and traditions kind of fell apart.

She remembered.

I look around and realize everyone is wearing some absurd hat—beanies with cat ears, baseball caps, one kid in a Viking helmet. Maya's fedora is the worst of all, and she's beaming.

"You dummy," I say, but I'm crying. "You looked so suspicious all week. I literally thought you were plotting against me. I was lowkey stalking your socials."

She laughs. "You were spying on me? Oh my god, that's actually kind of sweet. In a creepy way."

"Yeah, well," I swipe at my eyes, "that's what you get for wearing that fedora. It screams 'I'm up to something.'"

She takes it off and puts it on my head. "Looks better on you anyway."

The cake says A LOT OF PEOPLE THINK YOU'RE PRETTY COOL. And looking around at all these people Maya coordinated, all this effort she made while I was busy being paranoid and spying on her like a weirdo—I realize I'm the lucky one.