The Pocket Dial

Maya's thumb hovered over the **water**-damaged **iPhone** screen, the cracked glass catching the cafeteria's fluorescent light. Three days since the accident at Jordan's pool party—three days of radio silence from the group chat that moved at the speed of gossip.

"They're talking about you," whispered Riley, sliding onto the bench across from her. "Emma posted something on her story."

Maya's stomach did that thing—like a **cat** pouncing on something small and helpless. She'd only wanted to impress everyone with that cannonball off the diving board. Instead, she'd emerged from the pool like a drowned rat, her phone clutched in her wet hand, displaying that accidental pocket dial to Emma's mom. The one where they'd spent twenty minutes roasting Emma's mom's new boyfriend.

Social suicide.

Now Maya sat alone while her former friends sat three tables away, laughing at something on someone's phone. Probably her humiliation.

"You gotta own it," Riley said, pushing her tray aside. "Like, literally—just **bear** it. Make it your thing."

"Bear it?" Maya snorted. "That's not even how you use that word."

"You know what I mean. Lean into the awkward."

The cafeteria doors swung open. Emma walked in, scanned the room, locked eyes with Maya, and headed straight for their table. Every pair of eyes followed. The silence spread like ripples in a pond.

Maya's heart hammered. This was it. The public execution.

Emma stopped at their table, pulled out her own phone, and tapped it. "My mom thought it was hilarious," she said, deadpan. Then she cracked a smile. "She said you guys have good taste. Rick's kind of a dork."

Maya blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Really. Also, Jordan's mom has your phone. She dried it out in rice." Emma set a carrier cup on the table. "Peace offering? Boba's on me."

Riley mouthed I told you so across the table as Maya exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath since climbing out of that pool three days ago.

"Peace," Maya said, reaching for the cup. "But I'm never doing a cannonball again."

"Deal." Emma grinned. "Your form was terrible anyway."

The group chat would survive. The phone would survive. And maybe—just maybe—Maya would too.