The Orange Heist

Lila pressed her back against the brick wall behind the 7-Eleven, heart hammering like she'd just run a marathon. In her hand: a pristine navel orange, stolen on a dare because her friend—well, former friend, since Maya had ghosted her for the popular crowd two weeks ago—had bet she wouldn't.

"You're too scared," Maya had said at lunch, surrounded by her new squad. "Just like you were too scared to tell Ben you liked him."

So here Lila was, holding illicit citrus like it was contraband, feeling ridiculous and alive at the same time. She peeled the orange, juice spraying her wrists, the scent hitting her so hard it almost knocked her over. It smelled like kindergarten and sunscreen and everything she used to be before eighth grade got complicated.

A cat—enormous, orange-striped, judging her with yellow eyes—emerged from the dumpster. It meowed, somehow communicating that she was being an idiot.

"You don't know my life," Lila whispered, tossing it a segment. The cat sniffed it and walked away.

Her phone buzzed. Maya: "Did you chicken out? 🐔"

Lila stared at the screen, thumb hovering. She could send a picture, prove herself, maybe reclaim whatever version of friendship they'd had before everything changed. Or she could...

She ate the orange herself, leaning against the brick wall while the cat watched from a distance, letting the juice run down her chin like she didn't care who saw. Like she was someone who did things just because she wanted to.

Her phone buzzed again. Lila ignored it, thinking: some friendships are like keeping a goldfish in a bowl—eventually you outgrow them. Or maybe they outgrow you. Either way, you stop feeding them and move on.

She tossed the peel toward the dumpster, missed spectacularly, and headed home feeling lighter than she had in weeks.