The Riddle of Friday Night

Maya stood in front of the bathroom mirror at Jessica's party, practicing her smile. Five minutes earlier, she'd literally bumped into Tyler—her Tyler—from third period, sending his orange soda splashing across his favorite sneakers. He'd just laughed it off, but her face still burned like she'd swallowed a gallon of hot sauce.

"You good in there?" someone called through the door.

"Yeah! Just— fixing my hair!" Maya's hands shook as she dug through her crossbody bag. Her mom had insisted she pack these vitamin gummies because "growing girls need their nutrients." Maya rolled her eyes at the memory, but honestly, she could use something—anything—to calm her nerves right now. The gummy tasted like artificial strawberry and desperation.

The bathroom walls were covered in Sharpie signatures, like yearbook messages for the house itself. Someone had drawn a sphinx emoji with the caption: "I'm the main character, you're just background NPCs."

Maya stared at it. The sphinx with its stupid knowing grin.

In mythology class, they'd learned about the Sphinx's riddle. What walks on four legs, then two, then three? The answer: a person. crawling, walking, leaning on a cane. But the real riddle wasn't about growing old.

The real riddle was this: How do you become the person everyone else thinks you already are?

She thought about the orange soda accident. About how her hands had hovered, shaking, over the backpack compartment where Tyler sat. How she'd spent the entire week mentally rehearsing their first real conversation—three years of crushing distilled into three awkward sentences about homework.

Outside, muffled bass thumped like a second heartbeat. Someone laughed. Maybe Tyler.

Maya washed her hands and gripped the sink edges. The sphinx drawing seemed to smirk at her.

"Screw it," she whispered.

She pushed open the door and walked into the hallway, where the real riddle was waiting: How do you talk to the person who makes your brain do backflips without saying something totally unhinged?

No answer necessary. She'd figure it out like everyone else—messily, embarrassingly, one orange soda disaster at a time.