The Sphinx of Section 7B

Maya's eighth grade social hierarchy was a pyramid, and she was definitely somewhere near the bottom—maybe the sedimentary layer underneath. Her locker was in Section 7B, the forgotten hallway where the ceiling tiles sometimes fell and the floor wax had given up somewhere around 2004.

"Running a little behind, aren't we, Reynolds?" Chloe's voice cut through the morning chaos as Maya's books exploded everywhere. Again.

Maya dropped to her knees, face burning. The whole pyramid seemed to be watching. But then something miraculous happened.

A dog—a chaotic, golden-furred tornado of happiness—came bounding down the hallway, leash trailing behind him like a very polite snake. He made a beeline for Maya's scattered papers, nose-booping her cheek with enthusiastic curiosity.

"BUSTER!" A guy from AP English came sprinting after him. Not walking. Not jogging. Full-on running, like his dignity depended on it.

The dog, apparently satisfied with being helpful, sat on Maya's history worksheet. The guy—James, she thought—skidded to a stop, breathless. "I'm so sorry. He's an escape artist. A very furry, very lovable escape artist."

They locked eyes. Something sphinx-like flickered across his expression—a mysterious knowing that made her stomach do something concerning.

"That's my worksheet," Maya said, because her brain had apparently stopped functioning.

"I'll buy you a new one," James said, and then, because the universe had a sense of humor: "Or coffee? To replace the one I'm assuming you're now too late to get?"

The pyramid didn't matter anymore. Maya smiled, possibly for the first time since September, and said, "Medium oat milk latte. And you're walking Buster."