The Hat Trick

Maya pulled the beanie down lower, covering her forehead where a mountain of spinach chunks from dinner definitely still lived. She'd checked the mirror three times, but paranoia doesn't care about facts.

"You look like you're hiding something," said Jay, leaning against the locker next to hers. He had that way of looking at people—like he was secretly a spy gathering intel on everyone's embarrassing moments. Maya's stomach did that thing where it forgot how to organ.

"Just cold," she lied. Because admitting she'd stuffed her face with spinach salad before running into her crush would be social suicide. Freshman year had taught her that much.

Jay smirked. "Right. It's seventy degrees."

The hallway was chaos—people shouting, phones buzzing, someone's AirPods sliding across the floor like a lost ice skater. Maya's crush, Sam, walked by with their friends, laughing at something Maya couldn't hear. She tracked them like she was on a mission, hyper-aware of how her hat probably made her look like she was either (a) hiding a spinach disaster or (b) having the worst hair day ever.

"Wear the hat," her best friend Riley had texted earlier. "It's giving mysterious vibes. Sam's into that artsy aesthetic."

Riley was wrong. Sam was not into mysterious hats. Sam was into normal people who didn't wear beanies inside and definitely didn't have spinach in their teeth.

"Hey," Jay said, suddenly too close. "You got a little—" He gestured to his own teeth.

Maya's soul left her body.

She raced to the bathroom, hat forgotten, dignity gone, ready to transfer schools. But when she scanned her teeth in the mirror—nothing. No spinach. No remnants of dinner. Just her regular teeth, looking like teeth.

Her phone buzzed. Riley: "Sam was asking about your hat. Said it looked cool."

Maya stared at her reflection. Hat back on. Spinach-free. Maybe freshman year wouldn't be total disaster after all.