Sweaty Palms and Sent Messages

Maya's **hair** refused to cooperate. She'd spent forty minutes perfecting those beach waves, but now her reflection showed something closer to electrocuted poodle than effortless summer vibe. Of course this would happen today.

Her **iPhone** buzzed again. *r u coming??*

Maya's stomach did that familiar flip thing. Alex's text sat there like both a promise and a threat. The party was at Jordan's house—Jordan, who moved in those elite circles that Maya normally observed from the safety of her honors classes. But Alex would be there. Alex, who'd smiled at her in AP Bio yesterday. A real, actual smile, not the polite kind.

She was actually **running** late now.

The Uber pulled up outside Jordan's house, which was basically a mansion with more rooms than Maya's entire apartment building. Music thudded against the windows. Through the glass, she could see bodies moving, colorful lights, people who already seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

Her **palm**s were sweating. Why were her palms sweating? This was ridiculous.

She almost told the driver to just keep going. Instead she grabbed the door handle and stepped into the cool evening air.

"Maya!" Alex appeared in the doorway, looking unfairly good in that effortless way that probably came naturally. "You made it!"

Behind Alex, someone laugh-yelled something about beer pong. Maya's heart hammered against her ribs.

"Yeah," she managed. "Traffic was... traffic."

Alex's eyes crinkled. "Wanna get out of here? This party's actually kinda lame."

Maya blinked. "What?"

"I mean," Alex stepped closer, "unless you really wanted to watch Jordan spill cheap soda on everything. I was thinking we could walk to the park instead? If you're cool with that?"

Something in Maya's chest unlocked. The sweaty palms, the perfect hair, the anxiety that had been coiling through her all afternoon—it all suddenly seemed very far away.

"Yeah," Maya said, and this time she actually smiled. "Yeah, I'm cool with that."