The Girl Who Wore Masks

Maya smoothed the fake fur of her fox costume, her fingers trembling. This wasn't even her idea. Mia, her former best friend turned Instagram queen, had decided the squad should do a themed Halloween post. Foxes. Because they're "sly and iconic," whatever that meant.

Three months ago, Maya would've laughed along with Mia's ridiculous plans. But that was before Mia discovered eyeliner and the upperclassmen who actually mattered. Now Maya was just the childhood friend in the background of Mia's aesthetic posts, the awkward tagalong who didn't know when to leave.

The party was already loud when she arrived, bass thumping through someone's basement walls. Red cups everywhere. Juniors she barely acknowledged at school were suddenly cool, mysterious, like they held secrets she wasn't privy to.

And then she saw him.

Lucas stood by the snack table, dressed as none other than a sphinx. A papier-mâché head, painted gold, with that unreadable expression. Maya had had a crush on him since seventh period English, when they'd been assigned to analyze Ozymandias together. He'd made a joke about "look on my works, ye mighty, and despair" that had actually made her laugh. Not fake Twitter laugh. Real laugh.

Now he was walking toward her, sphinx head slightly tilted.

"Nice fox," he said, and something about his tone made her think he actually meant it.

"Nice sphinx," she managed, her voice weirdly steady. "What's your riddle?"

He grinned, and in that moment, the room felt smaller, quieter. "Why does the girl who hates costumes keep showing up to them?"

Maya's stomach did that annoying flutter thing. "Because sometimes you have to fake it to make it. Or something equally motivational poster-worthy."

"My cat would hate this party," Lucas said. "She's judgmental about social gatherings."

"Your cat?"

"His name is Biscuit. He's basically a furry critic of my life choices."

Maya laughed, and this time it was real. They talked for twenty minutes about everything and nothing—about how weird it was that everyone suddenly cared about being popular, about how fake social media felt sometimes, about how much they both hated that one teacher who assigned way too much homework.

When Mia finally appeared, Instagram-ready in her perfect fox costume, with her perfect new friends, and gave Maya that look—the one that said *why are you still here?*—Maya didn't even care.

"Hey," Lucas said, low enough that only she could hear. "You want to get out of here? Biscuit is probably judging me from the windowsill anyway."

Maya smiled, finally feeling like herself. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

The fox costume was still uncomfortable. But maybe she didn't have to wear it anymore—not really. Not with someone who saw past the masks.