The Sphinx on My Fire Escape

I was choking down my mom's latest wellness obsession — some neon-orange vitamin gummy that tasted like regret — when my phone buzzed. Maya. My best friend since seventh grade, the person who'd helped me dye my hair that disastrous shade of blue in eighth grade, the one who knew about my crush on Jordan from AP Chem.

"Can't hang today," her text read. "Going to Sarah's."

Again.

This was the fourth time this week. Ever since Maya had started sitting with the popular crowd at lunch, our friendship had been feeling like one of those gummy vitamins — artificial, kind of gross, but I kept taking it because I was scared of what would happen if I stopped.

I pushed open the window, needing air. That's when I saw it.

A cat on my fire escape. But not a normal cat — a sphynx. Hairless, wrinkled, with enormous ears and a face like a tiny alien emperor. It stared at me with eyes the color of storm clouds.

"You look like how I feel," I told it. "Weird and exposed and kind of hilarious."

The sphynx — I named him Riddle because he was a mystery — kept coming back. Every afternoon when I got home from school, there he was, waiting on the fire escape like he owned the place. I'd give him part of my lunch (he loved the turkey, hated the cheddar), and he'd let me pet his velvety, warm skin while I complained about Maya and the weird vitamin regime my mom had started and how high school felt like one long, confusing test I hadn't studied for.

"At least you're real," I told Riddle one day, scratching behind his enormous ears. "Everything else feels so fake right now."

Two weeks later, I found Maya crying behind the bleachers during gym.

"They're not actually my friends," she admitted, wiping her eyes. "I just — I didn't want to be invisible anymore. I thought if I hung out with them, I'd matter more."

"You've always mattered," I said, and it came out easier than I'd expected. "You don't need some vitamin version of yourself. The regular-strength Maya is already pretty great."

She laughed through her tears. "Did you just compare me to a supplement?"

"I've been taking a lot of them lately. They're affecting my brain."

We sat there until the bell rang, and it felt like maybe things could be okay. Not perfect, but okay.

That afternoon, Riddle was waiting on the fire escape like always. But this time, a woman was standing on the ladder below, calling up to him.

"There you are, you little weirdo!"

"That's your cat?" I asked.

"Yeah. His name's Riddle. He's an escape artist." She smiled. "Thanks for looking out for him."

"No problem."

I watched them go, Riddle peeking over her shoulder like he was plotting his next adventure. Some mysteries weren't meant to be solved, I guess. Some things — like hairless cats and friendship and figuring out who you're becoming — you just had to experience as they happened.

And maybe that was enough.