The Last Night of September

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically fill a water bottle. First party of sophomore year, and she was already regretting everything.

"Just take the **vitamin** gummy and chill," Kia said, thrusting a bright orange gummy bear into Maya's face. "It's literally just B12. You're so tense."

The party was at Tyler's house, which meant one thing: the mechanical **bull** in the basement that his dad had bought "as a joke" but never removed. Maya had watched three people already get absolutely wrecked by it, each ride more humiliating than the last. The crowd of juniors cheered, phone cameras rolling, capturing every single flailing limb for Instagram Stories that would live forever.

"You're going up next," Kia announced.

Maya shook her head so hard her hair whipped her face. "Absolutely not. Have you seen me? I have zero coordination. I'll be eating that mechanical floor in two seconds."

"That's the POINT," Kia giggled. "Nobody cares if you're good at it. It's about being a person who's willing to look stupid in front of everyone. That's, like, the whole vibe of high school."

Maya looked around the basement. Laughter, red solo cups, the smell of cheap body spray and something else—something like trying too hard. And there, in the corner, was Tyler's little sister's room. She'd seen the **goldfish** bowl earlier through the open door, glowing with this weird purple LED light. The fish kept swimming in tight, nervous circles, like it understood something fundamental about social anxiety.

"Your neighbor's **cat** got out again," someone announced, and everyone rushed to the window to watch the rescue mission.

"We should go help," Tyler said, suddenly the hero.

Maya ended up in the backyard with five other people, flashlights cutting through the darkness, calling for a cat named Nacho. They found him under a porch, and when Maya coaxed him out with some deli turkey from the fridge, the way everyone looked at her changed. Not dramatically, but something shifted.

She didn't ride the mechanical bull that night. But she did let Kia read her **palm** with a Sharpie they'd found in a drawer, drawing fake "life lines" and predicting that Maya would "definitely survive high school, probably."

Walking home under the streetlights, Maya realized something: nobody was actually watching. They were all too busy worrying about their own messy, awkward, perfectly normal lives.