By late morning at Canyon High, you had taken sanctuary in the Student Lounge—a sacred space masquerading as a study haven but better known for Olympic-level loafing and social maneuvering. Lined with shelves of crusty dictionaries and guarded by Mrs. Stinson at her post like a sloth in bifocals, the real action was found at the cushy couches. That’s where Paper Football reigned supreme: a sport that turned scrap paper into pigskin gold. Flick the triangle across the table. Let it hang off the edge—touchdown. Launch it between your opponent’s outstretched fingers—extra point. You figured ninety percent of student productivity was lost to this noble art.
You were flopped on an orange couch, thumbing through Nectar in a Sieve, trying to survive its soul-crushing tour of starvation and sorrow, when your survival instincts kicked in. You swapped it out for a bodybuilding magazine. Surely a glimpse of sculpted abs and hypertrophic deltoids could rescue your psyche.
That’s when Liz Murphy appeared—red hair blazing like a warning flare. Wearing a ketchup-colored tee and jeans, she plopped down beside you with the kind of energy that should be illegal before noon.
“What are you reading?” she asked, peering at the magazine.
“Article on Robbie Robinson. Some say his biceps peak is the best in history,” you said, delivering it with the gravitas of a man discussing global diplomacy.
She raised an eyebrow at the photo. “You want to look like that?”
“That’s the plan,” you said, puffing your chest with delusional pride.
She squeezed your bicep. “I think you look perfect just the way you are.”
“Perfect if you’re into track runners,” you said, trying to hide behind self-deprecating cool.
Mrs. Stinson glared at the two of you from her help desk, her eyes sharp enough to etch disapproval into stone. You buried your nose in Robbie’s glistening biceps and pretended to read.
Liz, undeterred, asked, “You seriously want to look like that?”
“My goal,” you declared, slipping into motivational speaker mode, “is to become Mr. Universe, then open a gym in the Bahamas.”
As the words exited your mouth, you immediately regretted them. But Liz didn’t blink.
“That’s so cool. You’re only fourteen and already have goals.”
“It’s called the Creative Visualization Principle,” you explained, summoning a vaguely authoritative tone. “You visualize your higher self, then manifest.”
“Where’d you read that?”
“My mom’s self-help books… or maybe one of these mags. I can’t remember.”
“You crack me up,” she said, smiling.
Then came your confession. “Liz, I did something gross. You might hate me.”
“I doubt it,” she said, intrigued.
You took a breath. “First day of school, I showed you a picture in that book. Said it was me hanging upside down on a chin-up bar.”
“Yeah?”
“It wasn’t me. I made it up. Just flat-out lied.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to impress you, I guess. And I’ve felt like a fraud ever since.”
“I don’t hate you,” she said, calm and kind. “You were nervous. It’s not the end of the world.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you nodded.
After a pause, she asked, “There’s a dance Friday night.”
You nodded again, unsure where this was going.
“You going?”
“Didn’t plan on it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like shaking my butt in public.”
“If you go, I’ll slow dance with you. First dance—promise?”
“Yeah,” you said, barely breathing. “Promise.”
And just like that, your Friday night was rewritten by the girl you once lied to—and who somehow still wanted to be your first dance.
Cinemorphosis 
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