The Party Cat Protocol

The bass thumped through Jordan's ribs as she stood against the kitchen wall, nursing a flat orange soda. This wasn't her scene—she was the girl who spent Friday nights reading, not the one grinding to mumble rap at Tyler's house party. But her best friend had practically dragged her here, insisting that sophomore year was *supposed* to be about "experiencing things."

Then she saw Tyler's cat, a calico with one ear that permanently folded down, cowering under a dining table. Jordan dropped to her knees, ignoring her new white dress, and coaxingly clicked her tongue. The cat inched forward, then—*RUDE*—a sophomore named Bryce accidentally stepped on its tail. The cat yowled and bolted.

"That's total *bull*," Jordan found herself saying, standing up and facing Bryce. "You need to watch where you're walking."

Bryce blinked, then actually apologized. Jordan's heart hammered as the cat returned, weaving through her legs like it knew she'd defended its honor. She scratched behind its folded ear, something settling in her chest—this weird, electric realization that she could be the person who spoke up, even at loud, terrifying parties.

The cat purred loudly as Jordan texted her best friend: "Turns out I'm good at parties after all. Just gotta find the right reason to stay."

The orange soda sat forgotten on the counter. Some nights, she decided, were about unexpected bravery and cats with folded ears, not about blending in.