The Sphinx on the Bus

Maya pressed her hand against her hair, the orange neon reflecting off the bus window making her newly dyed strands look like they were glowing. Her mom had freaked when she saw it that morning—"You looked so professional before!"—but Maya didn't want to look professional. She wanted to look like herself, whoever that was.

Across the aisle sat Sphinx, as everyone called her. Real name: Sarah. But she had this way of staring at people, this unreadable expression that made you feel like she knew something you didn't, like the actual Sphinx guarding secrets. Sphinx had been Maya's crush since October, when they'd been partners in bio and Maya had rambled for ten minutes about her goldfish's funeral and Sphinx had just listened, actually listened, instead of laughing.

Now Sphinx was looking at her. Their eyes met in the window reflection.

"Nice hair," Sphinx said, and Maya's stomach did that thing it always did, like she'd missed a step on stairs.

"Thanks?" Maya said, because since when did Sphinx talk to her on the bus? "My mom hates it."

"Your mom hates everything that makes you interesting," Sphinx said, sliding into the seat next to her. "I've seen your sketchbook. You draw monsters. Your mom probably hates that too."

Maya felt seen in a way that was terrifying and electric. "How did you—"

"I notice things," Sphinx said. "Like how you wear that same orange hoodie every Friday even though it's kind of ugly. Like how you always sit alone but you're never on your phone, just thinking. Like how you're probably going to art school even though your parents want you to be something practical."

Maya swallowed. "Am I that obvious?"

"To me," Sphinx said, and there it was—that look again, like she was solving riddles instead of just being a teenage girl on a bus. "My goldfish died when I was seven. I cried for a week. My dad said, 'It's just a fish,' but I knew it was about how small everything is, you know? How fragile."

"Yeah," Maya whispered. "Yeah."

"You're not fragile," Sphinx said. "You're just figuring it out. We all are." She reached over, tugged gently on a strand of orange hair. "This suits you."

The bus hit a bump. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved away.

"Want to come over after school?" Sphinx asked. "I can show you my portfolio. If you want."

"Yes," Maya said, and it came out more confident than she felt, but maybe that's how it started—you said yes to things you wanted even when you were scared, and eventually you became someone who meant it. "Yes, I want that."