The Sphinx of Lincoln High

Maya stood against the wall at Tyler's house party, clutching her red solo cup like it was a lifeline. The bass from the speakers thumped in her chest, but not as hard as her heart. Everyone seemed so confident, so at ease in their skin, while she felt like she'd crash their vibe just by existing.

Then she saw The Sphinx—okay, her name was actually Sasha, but everyone called her that behind her back because she sat motionless at lunch, reading alone with this unreadable expression. Sasha was now perched on the kitchen counter, barefoot, feeding cheese crackers to Mrs. Whitfield's orange tabby cat, who looked like it was judging everyone's life choices.

"You look like you're calculating your escape route," Sasha said, catching Maya staring. "Cat got your tongue?"

Maya's face burned. "Is it that obvious?"

Sasha hopped down, cat still draped over her shoulder like a furry stole. "Only to me. I've had practice reading rooms. It's a survival skill when you're perpetually on the outside looking in."

A crash of thunder shook the windows. Lightning flashed, and for a split second, everything—every insecurity, every fake laugh, every person trying too hard—was illuminated in harsh blue-white light.

"Social stuff is just a series of tests no one studied for," Sasha continued, scratching the cat's chin. "Like that mythological sphinx creature who asked impossible riddles. But here's the thing: the riddles aren't real. We just think they are."

Maya blinked. Something in her chest loosened.

"Wanna help me liberate these crackers?" Sasha asked, holding out the box. "And maybe figure out what the ancient Egyptians would've thought about TikTok dances?"

Maya actually laughed. "I'd actually love that."

The cat purred like a tiny motor, satisfied with its role in bringing two outsiders together. Some myths, Maya realized, weren't about impossible tests at all—they were about finding the people who got your particular brand of weird.