The Orange Palm Conspiracy

I froze halfway through the gym doors, my vintage dad hat suddenly feeling like the most obvious disguise ever. Across the bleachers, Marcus—the guy who'd asked me to homecoming last week—was crouched behind the concession stand, orange peel in one hand, phone in the other, obviously snapping pics of something.

Or someone.

My stomach did that thing where it tries to exit your body through your throat. Was he a spy? Some TikTok investigator trying to expose me for that cringe TikTok I made in eighth grade? I'd never live that down—not at my new school, not with my track record of zero social redeeming qualities.

I spent third period spiraling. Maybe Marcus was undercover. Maybe he worked for the administration. Maybe—

"You good?" Chloe whispered, passing me a note. "You look like you're about to cry over your algebra worksheet."

I scribbled back: *I think my almost-boyfriend is spying on me.*

Her eyes went anime-wide. "Based? Or sus?"

"Definitely sus."

By lunch, I'd convinced myself Marcus was gathering blackmail material. I found him at our usual table under the palm tree–painted mural (art club had gone full tropical last year), crushing it with his friends like nothing was weird. That made it worse. The casualness. The deception.

"Hey," he said, grinning that stupid perfect grin. "Saved you a seat."

I sat, paralyzed. Should I confront him? Play it cool? Pretend I didn't know he was secretly plotting my social destruction?

"So," he started, all nervous energy suddenly. "I've been working on something. And I kind of need your help."

Here it was. The reveal. The moment he exposed me for—

"I'm trying to learn this TikTok dance for my cousin's quinceañera," Marcus rushed out, pulling out his phone. "And I saw you did that dance challenge last year—you killed it. I've been practicing behind the gym because I don't want everyone to see how bad I am yet." He showed me the video: him, awkwardly shuffling, grinning like a dork, orange peel still visible in his pocket from his snack break. "Can you teach me?"

I stared. Then I started laughing. Like, actually crying with laughter.

"What?" Marcus asked, horrified. "Is it that bad?"

"No," I said, wiping my eyes. "I just thought you were spying on me."

He blushed. "Okay, full disclosure: I might have watched your TikToks. Because they're cool. Not in a creepy way! Just, you seem like you know what you're doing, and I have zero coordination."

I slid my tray aside. "Show me the move again."

Somehow, by the end of lunch, we were both failing spectacularly at the dance under the painted palm tree, laughing so hard the principal asked us to keep it down. I had my hat back on properly, Marcus had his orange-flavored breath mints, and neither of us were spies—just two awkward people figuring it out.