The Vitamin C Cat

The first day of freshman year, my mom thrust a bottle of neon-orange gummies at me.

"Take your vitamin," she insisted, like it was some magical shield against high school social warfare. "It'll help with stress."

I popped one in my mouth. It tasted like artificial orange and desperation.

The real problem wasn't stress—it was that I was about to walk into school wearing the stupidest hat in existence. My sister's oversized fedora, the one she'd worn to her theater camp production of "Guys and Dolls." I'd swiped it from her closet that morning, thinking maybe if I looked different enough, people wouldn't notice how desperately I wanted to disappear.

Bad plan. Worse execution.

"Nice hat," someone called out in the hallway. I couldn't tell if they were being sarcastic. I couldn't tell if the heat in my cheeks was embarrassment or just the fedora trapping my body heat like a sweat lodge for my face.

Then I saw the cat.

He was scrawny, orange-ish (probably from eating Cheetos from the dumpster behind the 7-Eleven), and glaring at everyone who walked past like they owed him money. He was perched on the windowsill outside Mr. Henderson's English classroom, tail twitching with attitude.

"That's Vitamin C," whispered the girl sitting next to me. She had blue hair and wore a denim jacket covered in pins. "The school cat. He's been here longer than the principal."

"Vitamin C?" I repeated.

"Yeah, 'cause he keeps us healthy," she said. "Someone started leaving him food, and now he's basically our emotional support animal. Last week during finals, he jumped into Jackson's lap while he was having a panic attack. Jackson says Vitamin C literally saved his GPA."

Something about that was so ridiculously perfect that I actually laughed. Out loud. In class.

The blue-haired girl grinned. "I'm Riley."

"Maya."

"Nice hat," she said, and this time I knew she meant it.

"It's my sister's. I think I'm committing a fashion crime."

"Nah, it's got vibes." Riley pulled a Sharpie from her pocket and scribbled something on a piece of notebook paper. "If anyone gives you crap, tell them Vitamin C approved it."

I looked down at what she'd written: a phone number. Underneath, she'd added: "For whenever you need your daily dose."

"Is this..." I started.

"My number? Yeah. We should hang. Maybe feed the cat together sometime."

Later that day, sitting outside with my new friends, I watched Vitamin C curl up on someone's backpack and purr like a tiny, furry motor. I adjusted my hat, finally feeling like I might actually be able to pull it off.

My mom was right about one thing: sometimes you need your vitamins. Just not in the way she'd expected.