The Goldfish Protocol

I felt like a total spy sitting at the back of the cafeteria, hoodie up, observing everyone. The social hierarchy at Northwood High was like ancient Egypt—complicated, terrifying, and full of weird rules I didn't understand.

Then I saw Maya Lin.

She sat alone at a table, reading while she ate. She was our grade's sphinx—mysterious, unapproachable, seemingly content in her solitude. I'd been crushing on her since September, but I'd never spoken a single word to her.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom: "Don't forget to feed your goldfish before practice!"

Right. Barnaby. My only friend who actually listened to me.

I shoved a forkful of salad into my mouth—why did I agree to let Mom pack my lunch?—and felt something green and leafy stuck between my front teeth. Spinach. Of course. I was already weird enough without looking like I'd been eating lawn clippings.

I tried to discreetly pick it out with my tongue. No luck. I reached for a napkin, but my elbow knocked over my orange juice. It splashed everywhere—on my tray, on the table, some of it even landing on the floor.

Great. Now I was that kid.

Someone slid into the seat across from me.

"You got a little something," Maya said, gesturing to her own teeth.

I froze. She was talking to me. THE Maya Lin was talking to me, and I had spinach in my teeth and orange juice all over my table.

"Spinach," I mumbled, finally getting it out. "Thanks."

"No problem." She smiled, and it wasn't the fake polite smile I'd seen her give other people. It was real. "I'm Maya, by the way."

"Leo."

"I know," she said. "I've seen you around. You're always spying on everyone from back here."

My face burned. "I'm not—"

"Kidding." She opened her book again. "But seriously, you should try sitting closer to the front sometime. The view's better."

Maybe the sphinx wasn't so mysterious after all.

Maybe she was just waiting for someone to actually look at her.

I moved my tray the next day.