The Spinach Incident

Maya's mom had decided, with zero input from Maya, that Maya's freshman year would be The Year of Reinvention. This explained the three-year-old rainbow beanie mashed onto Maya's head in August heat. It explained the gluten-free, dairy-free, joy-free lunch Maya was currently staring at.

"You've got to **bear** with it, honey," her mom had said that morning, dropping a massive bottle of neon gummy **vitamin**s into Maya's backpack like she was prepping Maya for war instead of AP Bio. "First impressions are everything."

Now Maya sat at a lunch table alone, desperately wishing she could dissolve into the cafeteria floor. She looked like a skittish hedgehog. A very sweaty, overheated hedgehog.

Across the cafeteria, THE Quinn Rodriguez was laughing with his friends, looking effortlessly chill in his usual black hoodie. Maya had had a crush on him since seventh grade, back when she'd accidentally tripped over his backpack in the hallway and said "your cat's nice" instead of "you're nice" because she'd been staring at his phone wallpaper—his orange tabby—for too long.

Her **cat**, Mochi, was currently judging her from home. Mochi always judged Maya's life choices.

The real nightmare began when Maya tried to eat the spinach salad her mom had packed her with military precision. The dressing smelled like disappointment. As she took her first bite, something went wrong. Something went VERY wrong.

A huge piece of **spinach** lodged itself directly between her front teeth. Of course it did. The universe was not merely indifferent—it was actively plotting against her social life.

She tried to discreetly work it loose with her tongue. No luck. She tried covering her mouth with her hand. Obvious. She considered faking a sudden medical emergency.

Then Quinn Rodriguez walked over.

Maya froze. Her heart did something approximating a backflip. She smiled instinctively, forgetting everything, and then she remembered the spinach situation, and it was too late, she was already smiling.

"Hey," Quinn said, sliding into the seat across from her like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I like your **hat**."

Maya stared at him. He was DELIBERATELY looking at the rainbow disaster on her head.

"You... you do?"

"Yeah," Quinn said, and then he smiled. "You've got a little—" He gestured to his own teeth.

Maya wanted to die. She wanted to teleport to Mars. She wanted to invent time travel and go back to never being born.

"Thanks," she mumbled through her hand, and somehow they both started laughing, and suddenly it wasn't mortifying anymore, it was just... funny.

"I'm Quinn, by the way."

"I know," she said, then winced. "I mean—I'm Maya."

"I know," he said, and something about the way he said it made her stomach do that backflip thing again. "So, Maya, does your mom also make you carry around enough vitamins to supply a small army?"

Maya blinked, then looked at the bottle that had fallen halfway out of her backpack. She groaned. "Is it that obvious?"

"My mom's exactly the same," Quinn said, pulling out an identical bottle from his own bag. "It's like they're in a competition."

They spent the rest of lunch comparing stupid mom stories, and when the bell rang, Maya realized she'd forgotten to feel awkward. Sometimes the worst moments turned out to be the best ones—even if they did involve spinach in your teeth.