Chapter 1

The inside of the gorilla suit smelled like old gym socks and cheap strawberry perfume. Leo shifted his weight, feeling the scratchy tulle of the pink tutu dig into his waist, and prayed for the sweet release of a fire drill. Through the mesh of the gorilla’s mouth, the Westview High cafeteria looked like a war zone draped in glitter. Students were screaming, carnations were being brandished like weapons, and in the center of it all stood Maya.

"Gorilla Number Four! Stop skulking behind the vending machine!" Maya’s voice cut through the roar of three hundred teenagers. She didn't just walk; she marched, her clipboard tucked under her arm like a tactical shield. "We have three minutes before the senior block leaves. You have one delivery left. Table twelve. Move it, or I’m calling Mr. Henderson and telling him you skipped the algebra midterm for a nap."

Leo let out a muffled groan that sounded more like a dying animal than a primate. He shuffled forward, his oversized foam feet squeaking against the linoleum. Table twelve was the epicenter of his personal nightmare. Sitting there, laughing at a phone screen, was Sarah—the girl who had occupied three-quarters of Leo’s internal monologue since freshman year.

Maya shoved a crumpled pink envelope into his furry paw. "Read the card, do the dance, and try not to trip over your own tail this time. Go!"

Leo looked down at the card. His heart did a slow, painful somersault. It wasn't the standard "Someone thinks you’re cute" message. Someone—likely the varsity soccer pranksters—had swapped it. The card was a graphic, rhyming disaster involving explosive diarrhea and a specific incident from third grade that Leo had spent years trying to bury. If he read this out loud, his social life wouldn't just be over; it would be carbon-dated and put in a museum of failures.

He reached the table. Sarah looked up, her eyes widening with a mix of amusement and pity. The rest of the table went silent, phones rising like periscopes to record the impending disaster.

Maya stood five feet away, arms crossed, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "Well?" she prompted, her eyes narrowing. "We’re waiting."

Leo looked at the card. He looked at Sarah. He looked at the exit. Survival, he realized, required a total departure from reality.

Instead of opening the envelope, Leo dropped it into the bowl of mystery chili in the center of the table. A collective gasp went up. Before Maya could bark an order, Leo reached into the hidden pocket of the suit and pulled out a small, neon-yellow squeaky chicken he’d found in the drama department’s prop bin.

He didn't sing. He didn't speak. He began to dance.

It was a frantic, rhythmically confusing interpretation of a gorilla caught in a thunderstorm. He leapt onto a chair, the tutu fluttering wildly, and squeezed the squeaky chicken in time with his frantic hopping. *Squeak-squeak-hop. Squeak-squeak-twirl.* He did a clumsy pirouette, his foam bottom nearly knocking over a tray of tater tots.

The cafeteria fell into a vacuum of silence. Then, a single snicker broke the quiet, followed by a wave of genuine, hysterical laughter. It wasn't the "look at the loser" laughter; it was the "this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen" laughter. Even Sarah was leaning back, clutching her stomach, a bright, genuine smile on her face.

Leo finished with a dramatic, one-kneed bow, the squeaky chicken giving one final, pathetic chirp.

"What was that?" Maya demanded, stomping over as the bell rang. The crowd began to disperse, still buzzing about the 'Squeaky Gorilla.' "That wasn't the script, Leo. You destroyed official Student Council property. The chili-soaked card is a biohazard."

Leo didn't answer. He was panting, his face drenched in sweat inside the mask. He reached into the tutu’s waistband and pulled out a single, slightly crushed white carnation. It wasn't a "Crush Delivery" flower; it was one he’d bought with his own five dollars before the shift started.

He pressed the flower into Maya’s hand. She froze, the megaphone in her other hand dropping an inch. Her fierce, organized expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion.

"Shift's over," Leo rasped, his voice disguised by the foam padding.

He turned and waddled toward the gym lockers, his tutu bouncing with every step. Behind him, Maya stood in the thinning crowd, looking down at the white flower and then at the retreating gorilla. She glanced at his shoes—the specific, beat-up blue high-tops Leo wore every day—and her eyebrows shot up.

Leo didn't look back. He just kept squeaking.