The Mane Event

Maya stared into her bathroom mirror, the Friday night lights of homecoming looming like a storm cloud she wasn't ready to face. Her mom had convinced her to try something new with her hair—these supposedly "effortless" beach waves that currently looked more like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

"You look ridiculous," she muttered to her reflection, reaching for the straightener again.

Barnaby, their ancient Golden Retriever, wheezed into the bathroom and collapsed dramatically across the bathmat. His soulful brown eyes seemed to say, *Human, please. You're spiraling.*

"Easy for you to say, Barnaby. You're a dog. You don't have to worry about Tyler noticing you changed your part to the left side."

Her phone buzzed. Group chat exploding. Everyone at Sage's pregame already. Maya's stomach did that familiar flop—the one that felt less like butterflies and more like she'd swallowed a bull whole. A nervous, angry bull with horns.

Because here's the thing about bullies: even after Marcus had moved away in eighth grade, his voice still lived rent-free in her head. *Maya's hair is basically a question mark. Maya's smile looks like she's in pain.* The meanest stuff stuck like burrs, impossible to shake.

Barnaby let out this soft whine and nudged her hand with his wet nose.

Maya sunk to the floor, burying her fingers in his golden fur. "What if I just don't go? Like, hard pass. I'll stay here with you and watch Netflix."

Barnaby licked her chin, undignified and gross and perfect.

Her mom's voice drifted up the stairs. "Maya! Your friends are here!"

She stood up, caught her reflection one more time. The waves weren't perfect. They weren't Instagram-perfect or magazine-perfect or whatever impossible standard she'd been chasing. But they were hers. Wild and untamed and honestly? Kind of cool.

"Alright, Barnaby," she said, grabbing her clutch. "Wish me luck."

The dog thumped his tail against the bathtub like applause.

Maya headed downstairs, her messy waves catching the light, suddenly feeling like maybe—just maybe—she'd be okay. The bull in her stomach had settled. The real her, hair disasters and all, was finally ready to show up.