The Green Tooth Catastrophe
Maya's first week at Northwood High was a masterclass in social suicide. The cafeteria hierarchy wasn't just a pyramid—it was a stratified nightmare, and she'd accidentally positioned herself at the absolute bottom, right next to the recycling bins.
The Incident™ had occurred on Wednesday, when Jayden—the human equivalent of a golden retriever in varsity jacket form—had actually approached her table. They'd talked for seven glorious minutes about AP Bio and shared trauma over summer reading. Maya had felt seen. She'd felt potential.
Then she'd smiled in the mirror later that night and seen the spinach. A vibrant, unmistakable wedge of green wedged between her front teeth like a tiny vegetable middle finger.
"No cap, I'm never recovering," she'd texted her best friend from her old school, attaching a photo of her looking absolutely cooked.
Now it was Friday, and Maya was hiding in her room, petting Barnaby—her emotionally supportive orange cat who looked like a loaf of bread with attitude—while her phone buzzed with notifications she was too scared to check.
"You know what, Barnaby?" she said, scratching behind his ears. "At least someone thinks I'm cool."
Barnaby blinked slowly and bit her hand. Classic.
Her phone buzzed again. Not a notification. A text from Jayden.
*hey so this is random but u left your notebook in bio & i was wondering if u wanted to grab it at the football game tonight?*
Maya stared. Then called her best friend.
"Bro, tell me this isn't real," she said, pacing her room. "After the spinach situation? After the social pyramid already crushed me?"
"Maybe he didn't notice," her friend said. "Or maybe, hear me out... he thinks it's cute that you're literally always eating healthy."
"I hate you."
"You love me. Also, Barnaby says go."
Maya looked at the cat, who was now aggressively knocking water bottles off her desk in a display of chaotic encouragement.
"Fine," she said. "But if there's spinach anywhere near my mouth tonight, I'm burning this school down."