The Friday Night Resurrection

My hair had declared war on me. That was the only explanation for the catastrophic situation happening on my head—third day hair mixed with humidity and whatever bad life choices I'd made the night before. I stared into the bathroom mirror, wondering if I could get away with a beanie. Inside, the temperature was already climbing to uncomfortable levels.

"You look like a zombie," Maya said from the doorway, holding her phone like it was a weapon. "Jordan's pyramid scheme kickback thing is tonight. You ready?"

I groaned. Jordan had dragged us into some 'youth entrepreneurship multi-level marketing nonsense' that was definitely a pyramid scheme, but he'd sworn this time was different. This time it was about 'networking' and 'building our brand' or whatever. Last time, we'd ended up with forty-seven boxes of artisanal skincare products we couldn't give away.

"Do we have to?" I asked. "I feel like death."

"Cat's waiting for you," Maya said. "He won't shut up."

That was true. Cat—yes, his name was literally Cat, because we were original and creative like that—had been my emotional support animal since middle school. He currently sat on my bed, blinking slowly as if to say, 'you absolute disappointment, feed me.'

I attempted to fix my hair one more time, failed dramatically, and grabbed my backpack. My streaming cable was tangled around everything, because the universe hated me. I'd been planning to finally go live on Twitch tonight instead of whatever disaster Jordan had planned. The cable situation in my room was basically a snake pit at this point.

"Let's just get this over with," I said. "What's Jordan selling this time?"

"Energy drinks," Maya said. "But, like, healthy ones. With adaptogens or something."

"Of course it is."

We walked to Jordan's house in the sticky evening heat, the sky that particular shade of purple-blue that makes everything feel possible and terrible at the same time. I kept touching my hair, self-conscious and annoyed that I still cared at seventeen. Why did it matter? Why did ANY of it matter—the pyramids of social status, the constant performing, the way my stomach tied itself in knots whenever I had to be 'on' in public?

Jordan's basement was already packed with people I barely knew. Someone had set up a pyramid of energy drink cans on a table. Jordan spotted us and rushed over, eyes too bright, energy too high.

"YOU MADE IT," he shouted over the music. "Tonight's gonna be LEGENDARY."

I caught Maya's eye. She looked exactly how I felt—like we'd rather be anywhere else, maybe literally anywhere.

Then I saw Cat somehow had escaped the house and was now sitting on Jordan's front porch through the basement window, staring at me with judgment.

"I can't do this," I said, suddenly. "I just—can't."

Maya grabbed my arm. "Same. Let's bail."

We slipped out the side door while Jordan was mid-pitch about how these adaptogenic energy drinks had changed his entire life. Outside, the air was cooler. Cat trotted over, wound around my legs, and purred like a tiny motor.

"Wanna come over?" Maya asked. "We can fix your hair. Maybe finally set up your streaming properly."

"Yeah," I said, feeling something unclench in my chest. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Some Friday nights aren't about the party or the pyramid scheme or whatever thing you're supposed to want. Some nights, you just need your best friend, your weirdly named cat, and the freedom to say no. That felt like enough. That felt like everything.