The Truth About Orange Soda

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating through her favorite vintage band tee she'd thrifted last summer. The one that made her feel cool and mysterious, like someone who listened to obscure indie records and read philosophy for fun.

"You good?" Jace whispered, elbowing her. His eyes were doing that thing where they darted around the cafeteria like he expected someone to jump out and yell 'PSYCHE!' at any moment.

"I'm solid," Maya lied. She was far from solid. She was a freaking lightning storm of anxiety wrapped in a flannel.

The sphinx of the situation — because every high school disaster needed a mythological creature to guard its shame — was that Maya had accidentally told everyone she knew how to DJ. Like, with actual turntables and everything. The rumor had spread faster than wildfire in a drought, and now here she was, staring down an actual DJ setup at Brad's house party, having never touched a mixer in her entire sixteen years of existence.

"No cap, you've got this," Jace said, because his emotional support game was weak but his heart was in the right place.

Maya stepped up to the decks. Someone had already abandoned an orange soda precariously close to the equipment, its condensation dripping onto the table like it was personally mocking her life choices. She took a breath, touched the first knob she saw, and—

The bass dropped so hard it literally knocked over the soda. Orange liquid cascaded across the table in slow motion, splashing onto the pristine white tablecloth and creating a crime scene of sugary destruction. The music cut. The room went silent. And Brad — Brad whose dad owned like three car dealerships and whose parties were the stuff of local legend — just stared at her.

"My bad," she squeaked.

And then someone yelled "That's WILD!" and suddenly the whole room was losing it. Not laughing AT her, but laughing WITH her, because apparently destroying expensive electronics with off-brand soda was the most entertaining thing that had happened at a Brad party in, like, three years.

"Actually," Jace said later, when they were sitting on the front steps watching people filter out, "that was kinda iconic."

Maya laughed. She was still grounded when her parents found out about the fried mixer, but whatever. At least she wasn't a mysterious indie kid anymore. She was just Maya, the girl who killed a DJ setup with orange soda and lived to tell the tale. And honestly? That was way better.