The Last Teddy Bear

Maya's fingers hovered over her phone screen, the charging cable frayed at the edges, barely holding onto life. Three percent. Perfect.

"You're bringing THAT to Jen's house?" Leo leaned against her doorframe, smirking.

Maya shoved Mr. Cuddles—her beat-up, missing-an-eye teddy bear from third grade—under her pillow. "No. Obviously not."

"Good. Because nothing says 'I'm emotionally stable' like dragging a stuffed animal to a high school party."

She threw a pillow at him. He dodged, already turning toward his room.

On her desk sat the gummy vitamin her mom left every morning. "For your growing brain," the note always said. Maya rolled them into her backpack, then reconsidered. Whatever. She'd probably need them.

The party was everything she'd braced for: too-loud music, someone's older brother buying cheap pizza, the knot of popular kids near the speakers forming an impenetrable force field. Jen found her immediately, handing her a solo cup.

"You came!" Jen's eyes were bright. "I saved you a spot on the couch."

The spot was next to Ryan. Ryan with the jawline and the varsity jacket and the way he made eye contact that felt like being seen for the first time. Maya sat, her phone connecting to someone's portable speaker.

They were watching some trash reality show on cable TV someone had pulled up, everyone commenting, everyone laughing together. For the first time all year, Maya felt like she was inside the joke instead of outside it.

Then her phone died.

She cursed softly. The charging cable was hopelessly tangled at the bottom of her bag, its exposed wire gleaming like accusation. Ryan noticed.

"You need a charger?" He dug through his pocket. "I've got a portable—"

"No!" Too loud. Everyone looked. Maya's face burned. "I mean, I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Just... social battery dead too, I guess."

Ryan nodded like this made perfect sense. "Real. Same."

Something in his voice was so gentle it cracked her open.

She fished the gummy vitamins from her bag instead of the charger. "Anyone want one? They're cherry."

Jen took one. Ryan took two.

"These are actually decent," Ryan said.

"My mom buys the expensive kind."

"Smart mom."

Later, when the party had thinned and it was just the stragglers sprawled across the living room, Maya felt something in her bag. Mr. Cuddles' glass eye stared back at her from between her notebook and the vitamin bottle.

She'd forgotten to take him out.

Maya waited for the humiliation, the flush of shame, but it didn't come. Ryan was asleep next to her, his head tipped back. Jen was curled up with her actual boyfriend. No one noticed. No one cared.

She zipped her bag shut around the bear, the frayed cable, the leftover vitamins. Some things you didn't have to perform for other people. Some things could just be yours.

Her phone was dead, but for the first time in forever, Maya didn't mind being unreachable.