The Orange Peel Incident

Maya's stomach did backflips as she disconnected the coaxial cable from the wall—her very first job as a "cable guy" (well, cable girl, but whatever). The orange company polo shirt was two sizes too big, and she'd already caught three customers doing that look. The one that said, *shouldn't you be in school?*

She was. Technically. This was the after-school gig her mom insisted would "build character." Meanwhile, her friends were posting 17th-birthday beach photos that Maya would see later on her cracked iPhone SE—the shame phone, the one everyone pretended wasn't embarrassing.

"You got this, Maya," she whispered to herself, climbing the creaky stairs to apartment 4B.

The door opened, and there stood Lucas. Lucas who sat behind her in pre-calc. Lucas whose Instagram stories she watched immediately every time. Lucas who was currently holding an orange.

"Um," Maya said. Her brain had short-circuited. "Cable... repair?"

Lucas blinked. Then laughed. Not mean laughing. Actual laughing. "Maya?"

"Present," she squeaked.

"You're the cable technician?" His orange juice, because of course he was mid-orange, "that's actually kind of sick."

Sick? He thought it was sick?

She fixed his cable in approximately 47 seconds, her hands shaking so bad she nearly dropped the tiny screwdriver three times. When she turned around, Lucas was still there, leaning against his doorframe, peeling another section of orange.

"Hey," he said, all casual. "My friend group's doing homework slash movie night at my place Friday. You should... I mean, if you want. Since you know about cables and Netflix and stuff."

Maya's heart did something concerning. "Like, come over?"

"Yeah?" He held out the orange. "Peace offering for almost making you fall off that ladder in fourth period."

She took it. Their fingers brushed.

"I'll be there," she said, then immediately regretted how excited she sounded. "I mean. Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

Walking home, Maya pulled out her phone and typed: *got invited to Lucas's Friday. send help.*

Her phone lit up with three responses instantly. But she didn't read them yet. She just stood there on the sidewalk, holding her orange, wearing her too-big polo, feeling weirdly proud of her awkward, messy, unexpectedly-awesome life.