Tropical Disaster and the Orange Escape

Maya's palms were sweating so bad she could practically water plants with them. Standing in the corner of Jake's tropical-themed house party, she felt like a total zombie—half-dead from social anxiety, awkwardly shuffling to the low-fi hip-hop thumping through expensive speakers everyone pretended wasn't annoying.

"Yo, you want some?" Jake materialized, holding out a fruit that looked suspiciously like papaya. "My mom went full Trader Joe's on us."

Maya's brain short-circuited. THE Jake Torres was talking to her. She'd been lowkey crushing on him since bio when he'd helped her pick up her dropped pencil and accidentally touched her hand. Her heart did that embarrassing flutter thing that felt way too intense for someone she'd said approximately twelve words to.

"Uh, sure," she managed, taking a slice. "Thanks."

He didn't walk away.

"You're Maya, right? From Mr. Harrison's class?"

She nodded, terrified she'd say something weird. "Yeah. You're Jake."

Smooth. Very smooth.

"You seem... not really feeling this?" He gestured at the room where people were taking videos of themselves not actually having fun.

Maya considered lying, but something about his easy grin made her accidentally honest. "Honestly? These things feel like performance art. Everyone acting like they're living their best life while actually just documenting it for clout."

Jake's eyebrows shot up. "Facts. I only threw this because my parents are out of town and everyone expected me to. I'd legit rather be gaming."

A girl with bright orange hair—freshly dyed, by the looks of the stained towel on her arm—squealed past them, sloshing red cup contents everywhere. The party was reaching that chaotic threshold where things either became legendary or tragic.

"Wanna bounce?" Jake asked suddenly. "There's a boba place down the street. My treat, as apology for whatever this is."

Maya couldn't bear it—her heart was doing cartwheels, her face felt hot, and she was pretty sure this was either the best or worst moment of her high school career.

"I'd love that," she said.

As they slipped out the front door, leaving the zombie-like performance behind, Maya thought maybe she didn't need to perform after all. Some things were better undocumented.