Sweaty Palms and Running Away

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could practically water plants with them. Which was ridiculous, because it was justTyler. Just Tyler with his stupid perfect hair and his skateboard that he carried everywhere like it was an extension of his body.

"You coming to the party tonight?" Tyler asked, leaning against the lockers like he owned the school.

Maya's brain went full panic mode. She'd been dreaming about Tyler noticing her since September, and now here he was, actually talking to her, and she was just standing there like a statue.

"Uh, maybe?" she managed, her voice cracking. Because smooth, Maya. Real smooth.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Her mom. Again. The fifth time today.

"Cool. Bring your friend Jake if you want. His cousin's band is playing." Tyler pushed off the locker and started walking away. "See you there."

Maya watched him go, feeling like she'd just survived a natural disaster. Then she checked her phone. Her stomach dropped.

*We need to talk. Come home after school.*

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Maya spent chemistry class running through worst-case scenarios. Her parents had been fighting a lot lately. The kind of fighting where they thought they were being quiet but the whole house vibrated with tension.

When she got home, the house was too quiet. Her dad sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Buster, their ancient golden retriever, pressed his wet nose against Maya's palm like he knew something was wrong.

"Your mom and I are separating," her dad said, and just like that, the floor dropped out from under her.

Maya ran. She didn't think, just grabbed her jacket and bolted out the back door, shoes slapping against the pavement. She ran until her lungs burned and her eyes stung, until she found herself at the park where Tyler and his crew always hung out.

They were there, of course. Tyler saw her first—red face, messy hair, probably looking like she'd been crying.

"Maya? You okay?"

She shook her head, words stuck somewhere in her throat.

He didn't ask questions. Just sat down beside her on the bench and offered her his earbuds. They sat there listening to some indie band she'd never heard of, while Buster (who'd somehow followed her) curled up at their feet, snoring softly.

Sometimes running away leads you exactly where you need to be.