Under The Hat

Maya's beanie was basically her emotional support object. Pulled down to her eyebrows, it said don't-look-at-me without her having to actually speak. Which was perfect, because Maya didn't really do speaking. Not since seventh grade when she'd spent three months volunteering an answer in English only to have someone whisper, "Why is she so loud?"

Now a sophomore, she'd mastered the art of blending into lockers.

Until her mom brought home Barnaby.

"He's a rescue!" Mom had announced, beaming like she'd just cured cancer. "Three-legged and full of love."

Barnaby was a terrier mix with exactly zero chill. He barked at nothing. He got separation anxiety if Maya walked to the kitchen. He had zero concept of personal space and would crash into her legs when she tried to study.

Her social life was officially over before it had started.

"You have to walk him," Mom said, thrusting the leash into Maya's hands after school. "It'll be good for you. Fresh air. Exercise. Maybe you'll see someone from school."

That was exactly what she was afraid of.

She pulled her beanie lower. grabbed the leash, and let Barnaby drag her toward the park. Maybe she could text everyone that she'd moved to Antarctica.

They'd made it exactly ten minutes when Barnaby spotted something. A squirrel? A ghost? The meaning of life? He lunged, and the leash slipped through Maya's hands.

"Barnaby! NO!"

She took off after him, beanie flying off somewhere behind her. Her hair went everywhere. Her stupid backpack bounced against her spine. This was it. This was how she died: chasing a three-legged disaster while looking like a raccoon had attacked her head.

Barnaby cornered something near the creek. Not a squirrel.

A fox. Actual, wild, beautiful orange fox, watching them with bored energy.

Barnaby sat. He looked at Maya. He looked at the fox. He tilted his head like they were old friends catching up.

The fox yawned.

And Maya started laughing. Not her careful, controlled laugh. The ugly, bent-double, can't-breathe laugh that made her wheeze. Because this was ridiculous. Her life was a chaotic three-legged dog having a staring contest with a fox while she stood there hatless, hair in every direction, completely failing at being the cool mysterious girl.

"Nice dog."

Maya froze.

Standing twenty feet away: Fox. Actual Fox Miller. Junior. Varsity soccer. The kind of effortlessly pretty that made Maya's throat close up. Not staring at her phone. Watching Maya laugh like a total goof.

She'd never felt more exposed. Her bare head felt huge. Her ears were probably bright red.

"He's... he's a disaster," Maya managed, then instantly regretted it. Way to insult her own dog.

Fox smiled. Not fake-smiling, but genuinely amused. "I used to have a dog like that. Total chaos agent. Miss him, though."

The fox flicked its tail and vanished into the brush. Barnaby trotted back to Maya like nothing had happened, sat at her feet, and looked up like, see? I handled it.

"You're not putting your hat back on," Fox observed.

Maya blinked. She hadn't even noticed she was holding it.

"I, um—" What was the excuse? Cold? Bad hair day? Performance art?

"You should leave it off." Fox adjusted her own backpack. "You have really great hair. Also, your laugh is kind of amazing."

Maya stood there, hat in hand, Barnaby leaning against her legs like a furry anchor, and realized something terrifying: maybe the thing she'd been hiding under that beanie for three years wasn't something to hide at all.

"You wanna walk back with us?" she heard herself say. "He gets distracted by squirrels. Might need backup."

Fox's grin was real. "I have nothing better to do."

Maya's beanie stayed in her pocket the whole way home. She didn't even miss it.