Three Strikes at Being Cool

Maya's first day at Ridgefield High could have gone better. Actually, it couldn't have gone worse.

Strike one: The vintage cowboy hat she'd bought at a thrift store, thinking it would make her look mysterious and artsy. Instead, it made her look like she was attending a hoedown in 2004. The sophomore hallway had fallen silent as she walked past, dozens of eyes following the hat's ridiculous silhouette.

"Love the hat," said Zara, the girl whose Instagram Maya had been stalking for weeks. Her voice was flat. "Very... authentic."

Strike two: Lunch. Maya had somehow managed to choose a spinach salad on the day her crush—Jake, the tall junior with the messy hair and somehow perfectly white Converse—decided to sit at her table. They'd talked for twenty minutes about his indie band and how he wanted to transfer to art school. She'd been charming, funny, completely normal.

Until she'd caught her reflection in the cafeteria window. A perfect, vibrant piece of spinach wedged between her front teeth like a green betrayal of all her hopes and dreams.

"You got a little something," Jake had said, gesturing vaguely at his own mouth.

She'd bolted. Literally bolted, dumping her tray and sprinting to the bathroom.

Strike three came after school when Zara found her crying behind the gym.

"Hey, hat girl," Zara said, sliding down the wall to sit beside her. "Rough day?"

Maya expected the mockery. Instead, Zara pulled out her phone. "We're doing padel after school if you want to come. It's this sport, kinda like tennis but easier. Everyone's terrible at first, so you'll fit right in."

"I don't play sports," Maya muttered.

"Neither does half the team. We mostly just talk and complain about how sweaty we are."

That was how Maya found herself on the padel court an hour later, hat abandoned, still wearing her embarrassing outfit, swinging at a ball she couldn't hit. Jake was there too, terrible at the game but somehow making it look cool.

"Nice form," he said when Maya accidentally smashed the ball into his shin.

She'd died inside. But then he'd grinned, spinach-free and gorgeous. "No, seriously. You're better than me."

Zara winked from across the court.

Maybe being cool was overrated anyway. Maybe it was okay to be the girl with the terrible hat and the spinach incident and the zero athletic ability. Sometimes the best stories started with three strikes—and ended with an invitation to come back tomorrow.