The Orange Ceiling

Maya's bedroom ceiling was painted this obnoxious shade of orange when she moved in last summer — like, construction cone orange. Her mom said it was "temporary," but six months later, Maya still stared at it every night while her iPhone battery dipped into the red zone.

The charging cable lay frayed beside her pillow, its wires exposed like tiny silver veins. She'd been meaning to replace it for weeks, but that required asking her dad for money, which required conversation, which required energy.

"MAYA! Your phone's dying AGAIN!"

Chloe's voice through the door. Maya groaned. Friday night, and she was stuck at home with the flu while Chloe was at Tyler's party. THE party. The one where Jake supposedly admitted he "low-key thought Maya was cute." Maya had spent three hours perfecting her eyeliner before the fever hit.

Now she was scrolling through Instagram stories, watching her friends live what should've been her night, while her battery percentage mocked her: 9%.

"Incoming call: CHLOE <3"

Maya answered, and Chloe's face filled the screen, bright and slightly blurry.

"Okay so," Chloe shouted over the bass, "Jake is literally asking where you ARE and I'm DYING—"

"Chlo, I'm literally in my sickbed wearing Naruto pajamas, this is fine—"

"NO. Listen. He's by the orange punch — literally the only good thing here, btw — and he keeps checking his phone like he's waiting for a text. Maya. MAYA. Did you text him?"

"I don't have his number!" Maya protested, then coughed.

"Oh my GOD you're hopeless." Chloe spun the camera around. There he was — Jake, standing awkwardly by the orange Hawaiian Punch bowl, phone in hand, actually checking it.

Something in Maya's chest did that stupid flutter thing.

"Okay," Chloe said, voice suddenly serious. "I'm giving you THREE SECONDS to live your best life or I'm doing it for you."

"Chloe, DON'T—"

"Jake!" Chloe yelled. "Maya wants your number!"

The screen went black.

Dead battery.

Maya stared at her reflection in the dark iPhone glass. Her orange-dyed roots were showing. Her face was flushed. She felt like she might throw up or maybe laugh hysterically.

Somewhere across town, Jake had possibly just heard that she wanted his number. And Maya would have to wait until tomorrow — until she could buy a new cable, could leave this house, could face Chloe — to find out what happened next.

She stared at the orange ceiling and smiled. Some things were worth the wait.