The Sphinx in the Bucket Hat

Maya's hands shook as she stood outside the community center, the bass from the homecoming thumping against her chest. Her mom's words echoed in her head: "You'll have fun! Just be yourself!" As if. Being herself was exactly why she was vibrating with anxiety.

She adjusted the neon yellow bucket hat she'd stolen from her cousin's laundry pile—her armor for the night. Inside, the gym transformed into a kaleidoscope of strobe lights and teenagers swaying like kelp in current.

"Maya! You came!" Sasha appeared, already glowing from whatever was in those red cups. "You have to try this punch. It tastes like papaya and bad decisions."

The punch was fuchsia and smelled like artificial everything. Maya took a tentative sip. It did taste like papaya, if papaya had been blended with Skittles and existential dread. "It's... interesting?"

"That's the spirit!" Sasha grabbed her hand. "Come meet people."

They wound through clusters of juniors forming circles like defensive formations. Then Sasha stopped. "There he is. The Sphinx."

The Sphinx was real—well, a guy named Marcus, senior, who never spoke more than three sentences at anyone. He sat alone on the bleachers, scrolling through his phone with terrifying calm, like he knew something nobody else did. Girls called him The Sphinx because every conversation with him was a riddle you couldn't solve.

"He's not that mysterious," Maya said, though her heart did something stupid and fluttery.

"Then go talk to him."

"Absolutely not."

"Do it or I'm telling everyone about your Tumblr from seventh grade."

Maya shot her a look but found herself drifting toward the bleachers anyway. Because sometimes you do things not because you're brave, but because the alternative is worse.

Marcus looked up as she approached. His eyes were the color of whatever sky existed before storms. "Nice hat."

"Thanks." Then, because her brain had ceased functioning: "It's my cousin's. I stole it."

"Bold strategy." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm Marcus."

"Maya."

"Maya." He said it like he was tasting it. "You're in AP Bio? You sit by the window."

She gaped at him. "You notice stuff like that?"

"I notice everything. It's exhausting." He set down his phone. "Want to know why they call me The Sphinx?"

"Because you're mysterious and enigmatic?"

"Because I'm obsessed with ancient Egypt and made a PowerPoint about it in sixth grade that everyone still remembers."

Maya laughed so hard her hat slid sideways. Marcus's crooked smile appeared, like finally solving a riddle you'd been working on for years.

"That's disappointing," she said. "I was hoping for something more dramatic."

"I could make something up. Killed by gods, reincarnated as a high school student in suburban Ohio?"

"Please don't. My life is dramatic enough."

"Fair." He gestured to the empty spot beside him. "Want to sit? We can make up better origin stories."

She did. The bass thumped, the papaya punch churned in her stomach, and for the first time all night, she wasn't vibrating with anxiety. She was just Maya, in a stolen bucket hat, sitting next to a guy who noticed everything, talking about nothing and everything.

Sometimes the riddles solve themselves when you stop trying so hard.