The Sphinx's Shadow

The sun hat was hideous. Wide-brimmed, covered in plastic flowers, basically a target for every popular girl at the pool to snicker at. But Mom had insisted. "You burn so easily, Maya," she'd said, shoving it into my backpack along with the weird vitamin-enhanced water I had to drink every hour. "Sun safety is non-negotiable."

So there I was, week before freshman year, wearing a garden explosion on my head while Jenna and her crew posted Instagram stories about their "spontaneous pool hangs." I was dying inside.

Then I saw him. Caleb. The one who'd sat behind me in algebra, who'd laughed at my terrible puns that one time. He was standing by the deep end, looking annoyingly perfect in his swim trunks.

I did what any rational person would do: I hid behind the concession stand. And then I nearly died because the Sphinx was there.

Mrs. Gable. The lifeguard who'd worked at the community pool since forever. She sat motionless on her elevated chair, sunglasses massive, expression unreadable, watching everything like a statue from mythology. Some said she'd saved three people from drowning. Others said she'd just been there so long she'd fossilized. Either way, nobody messed with the Sphinx.

I froze. But I was also clutching my vitamin water like it was some kind of magical shield, and my hat kept threatening to blow away in the breeze, and my foot was falling asleep, and—

"You're blocking the register," Mrs. Gable said. Her voice was surprisingly normal. Not ancient or mystical. Just... tired.

"Sorry!" I practically jumped into the pool. "I'll just—"

"Nice hat." She peered over her sunglasses. "My granddaughter would hate it."

"My mom made me wear it."

"Parents do that." She stood up, joints cracking audibly. "You know what I told my granddaughter about wearing stuff she hates?"

"What?"

"I told her that confidence is the only thing that makes anything look good. Wear it like you mean it, or don't wear it at all. Your choice."

I stared at her. Then I adjusted the hat. Pulled it lower. Tilted it slightly. "Like this?"

"Like you own it," said the Sphinx. "Now go talk to that boy before he leaves."

My face burned. "You saw—"

"I see everything." She sat back down, resuming her statue pose. "Go."

So I did. I walked over to Caleb, vitamin water in hand, ridiculous hat firmly in place, and somehow started a conversation. And somehow he laughed. And somehow, just maybe, freshman year wasn't going to be terrible.

Sometimes the scariest creatures give the best advice. And sometimes, you just have to wear the hat.