The Fox Signal

The coaxial **cable** dangled from my ceiling like a dead snake, another reminder that my life was falling apart. Dad's infamous "weekend project" of rewiring the house had been going on for three months.

"You're doing it again," Marcus said, not looking up from his phone.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where your eyes glaze over and you forget we're supposed to be studying." He gestured at my open calculus textbook. "SATs are in two weeks, bro."

I wasn't thinking about calculus. I was thinking about Layla's text from yesterday: *party at mine Friday 8pm.* My palms had been sweating ever since.

Speaking of sweating palms—my cat, Pickles, decided that exact moment to leap onto my desk and knock over my open **vitamin** bottle. The supplements scattered everywhere like confetti.

"Pickles, seriously?" I groaned.

"Your cat's sabotaging you," Marcus laughed. "Universe is trying to tell you something."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He finally looked up. "You're overthinking this party, man. Just go. Talk to her. Be cool."

Easy for him to say. Marcus had had a girlfriend since seventh grade. I was still recovering from last semester's disaster when I'd accidentally called my crush "bro" during a presentation. Twice.

Friday came way too fast. I stood outside Layla's house, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I could hear music muffled through the door, people laughing. Normal people. People who didn't have to practice conversations in their bathroom mirror.

I turned to leave.

Then I saw it—a real **fox**, standing in the glow of a streetlamp, watching me with these crazy intelligent eyes. It was the most random thing ever. We were in the suburbs.

The fox dipped its head once, almost like a nod, then melted into someone's backyard.

I took a breath. Wiped my sweaty **palm** on my jeans. Thought: *if a fox believes in me, maybe I can do this.*

Inside, Layla smiled when she saw me. "Hey! You made it."

"Yeah," I said, and somehow my voice didn't crack. "I brought chips."

She laughed, and I realized something: the scariest part wasn't the party. It was showing up. But I'd shown up. That counted for something.

Later, Pickles curled up on my chest like she knew I needed it. Some nights, you win.