The Spinach Protocol

Maya had spent forty-five minutes perfecting the casual lean against the kitchen island. According to her exhaustive mental calculations, this position offered optimal viewing angle of the garage door while maintaining an aura of effortless detachment.

She was, effectively, running a covert operation.

"You're being a total creep," whispered Jo, her best friend since fourth grade, currently pretending to be fascinated by a bag of stale tortilla chips. "Also, your mom's gonna ask why you didn't eat that spinach dip she made specially."

Maya adjusted her glasses, the ones she'd refused to replace with contacts because 'character matters.' "I'm not creeping. I'm gathering intel. There's a difference."

"You're literally a spy now?"

"Social reconnaissance." Maya's voice dropped. "He's in there. I can hear his laugh. It sounds like—" She paused, searching for the right comparison. "Like someone who doesn't overthink whether he's breathing correctly."

Jo snorted. "You're doing it again. The thing where you build entire personas for people you've never actually spoken to."

"I spoke to him once! In seventh grade! He let me borrow a—"

"A pencil. We know. You've mentioned it approximately four hundred times."

The garage door creaked open. People spilled out, laughing, smelling like pool chlorine and Axe body spray. There he was—Ethan—in all his varsity jacket glory, looking like someone who'd never experienced a single moment of awkwardness in his entire life. Maya's stomach performed something between a flip and a full surrender.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'm gonna—"

"You're gonna what? Go talk to him like a normal person?" Jo raised an eyebrow. "Or are we executing The Plan?"

The Plan, which Maya had developed over three consecutive nights of moderate insomnia, involved positioning herself near the bathroom door during peak traffic times, 'accidentally' making eye contact, and deploying one of three pre-approved opening lines. She'd spent more time rehearsing than she cared to admit.

She took a step forward. Then another. Her heart was definitely running a marathon without her permission.

And then—disaster.

Ethan turned. Their eyes met. He smiled. A genuine, crinkly-eyed smile that made something in her chest do something complicated and traitorous.

"Hey!" he called. "Maya, right? We had that science project together in—"

She opened her mouth to respond. Something perfectly cool. Something effortless.

"You have—" He gestured to his own teeth.

The world ended.

Spinach. From the dip her mom had made specially. The dip she'd politely consumed to avoid being rude. An entire forest of dark green evidence was apparently visible to everyone within a fifty-foot radius.

She'd never felt more alive. Or more dead.

"I have to go," she blurted, and proceeded to commit social suicide by sprinting—actual running—toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for Oscar acceptance speeches.

Five minutes later, there was a soft knock.

"Maya?" It was Jo. "I come bearing offerings. And also to inform you that you're being dramatic."

"I can never show my face again. I'm moving to Antarctica."

"Ethan asked if you were okay."

Maya's hands froze from where they'd been aggressively flossing with her fingernail. "He what?"

"He was worried he'd offended you." Jo's voice softened. "Also, he has a little brother with braces. He literally did not care about the spinach situation. That was all you."

Maya stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The girl staring back had spinach-free teeth, slightly smeared eyeliner, and the kind of genuine embarrassment that felt weirdly... honest.

"Maybe," she said slowly, "I've been doing this wrong."

"Spying on people from kitchen islands?"

"Performing instead of living." She opened the door. "You think he'd still talk to me if I promised to never be cool again?"

Jo grinned. "Honestly? I think that's your best shot."