The Green Tooth Society

Maya's entire middle school existence crumbled in exactly three seconds when Jeremy—the actual love of her life, even though they'd never actually spoken—leaned across the lunch table and whispered, "You have something in your teeth."

She'd spent weeks curating her aesthetic. Vintage oversized hoodie, carefully messy bun, and that one suspicious stain on her Converse that definitely made her look artsy and not like she'd dropped chocolate milk on them last Tuesday. But nothing could save her now.

A glob of spinach from her school lunch. Bright green. Staring Jeremy in the face.

"Thanks," Maya choked out, because apparently her mouth had forgotten how words worked. She stabbed her remaining spinach with unnecessary violence, as if the remaining pieces on her tray had personally betrayed her.

The worst part? He didn't even laugh. He just gave her this sympathetic half-smile and went back to talking to his friends about some government conspiracy involving Egyptian artifacts and a stolen pyramid artifact from the museum downtown.

Maya spent the rest of the period constructing an elaborate pyramid of social shame in her mind: At the bottom, everyone who'd ever had food in their teeth. In the middle, everyone who'd had food in their teeth while talking to their crush. At the top, illuminated by a spotlight of eternal embarrassment, stood Maya Alexandra Chen.

She considered wearing a hat to school tomorrow. Like, all day. Inside classrooms. Despite the dress code. Just a constant hat situation until everyone forgot her face existed. She could become Hat Girl. It could be her thing. People would whisper: "That's Hat Girl. She once had spinach in her teeth while talking to Jeremy. That's why she wears the hat."

By seventh period, she'd cycled through all five stages of grief and landed on acceptance. Whatever. She'd had spinach in her teeth. It happened. It could've happened to literally anyone.

"Hey," said a voice behind her in the hallway.

Maya turned. Jeremy stood there, holding out a folded piece of paper.

"You forgot this in lunch," he said. "You were drawing something?"

She'd been sketching a comic strip about a superhero whose power was extreme awkwardness. It was supposed to be ironic. Now it was just her biography.

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks."

"It's actually really good," he said, and the way he said it—like he meant it, like he wasn't just being nice—made something shift in her chest. "You should show people."

"Maybe," she said. "If I ever recover from today."

"What happened today?"

She stared at him. Was he serious?

"The spinach thing?"

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide with realization, and he started laughing. Not mean laughing—genuine, can't-breathe laughter.

"Oh my god," he said. "I was trying to tell you. Last year? On picture day? I had an entire chunk of broccoli in my braces. My mom still has that photo in the hallway. Every guest who comes over sees it."

Maya's mouth fell open.

"No way."

"Way." He shook his head. "We've all been there. You're good."

She walked home feeling inexplicably light, like some fundamental truth had shifted. The pyramid of shame collapsed. The hat remained at home. She'd had spinach in her teeth, and the world hadn't ended, and somehow that meant everything was going to be okay.