The Orange Table Incident

The first day of freshman year, and I was already committed to three catastrophic mistakes.

One: wearing my vintage "Star Wars" shirt (apparently that's middle school-coded now).

Two: sitting at what I didn't realize was THE ORANGE TABLE in the cafeteria.

And three: the school lunch SPINACH staring back at me like a toxic waste sample.

"You're in my spot," said a voice with practiced cool.

I looked up. Riley. The Riley. Senior class president, volleyball captain, probably has a curated aesthetic and everything. Her hair—this impossible, expensive-looking shade of auburn that made you think of sunsets through expensive filters—was pulled back in this effortless-looking messy bun that definitely took twenty minutes.

"Oh, sorry, I'll—" I started gathering my tray.

"Chill, I'm messing with you." She dropped into the seat across from me, anyway. "I'm Riley."

"Jordan," I said, like my voice wasn't shaking.

And that was how it started. Me and Riley, unlikely friends, lunch table buddies. She'd complain about her AP classes and college applications and how her parents didn't GET IT, and I'd nod along like I understood anything about having expectations placed on you.

My DOG, Barnaby—a terrier mix with one ear that flopped and conviction in his eyes—was the only one who knew the truth. Every day I'd come home and spill everything to him while he licked my face and pretended my crises were fascinating. "She talked to me AGAIN, Barnaby. What does it MEAN?" And he'd just look at me like, bitch, please.

Three weeks in, Riley shows up to lunch with ORANGE hair. Like, actually ORANGE. Not auburn, not sunset—straight-up traffic cone.

"What happened?" I asked, trying not to stare.

"Box dye disaster," she laughed, but her eyes were doing that thing where they're smiling but definitely not. "My mom's gonna kill me."

And suddenly I got it. The curated aesthetic, the effortless cool—it was all just. Performance. Same as me trying to figure out which tables were safe zones and which were social suicide.

"I like it," I said, and it wasn't a lie. "It's bold."

Her smile changed—genuine this time. "Thanks, Jordan."

That night, Barnaby thumped his tail against my leg while I cried about nothing and everything, overwhelmed by how big and terrifying and wonderful high school felt. My first real friend. My first realization that everyone's just pretending to know what they're doing.

The spinach still sucks, though. Some things don't change.