When Lightning Split the Sky

Maya's mom had spent forty-five minutes flat-ironing her hair before the party, and now it was probably frizzing into a halo around her head. Great. Just great.

The summer bash at Tyler's house was already in full swing when she arrived, papaya-colored sunset fading behind the trees. Someone had dragged a speaker onto the back deck, and bass thumped through the humid air. Maya grabbed a soda and pretended to check her phone, scanning for her friends.

"Hey, Maya!"

She froze. Tyler. The Tyler. The one she'd had a crush on since seventh grade, currently standing way too close with that infuriating grin that made her knees feel like Jell-O.

"Hey," she managed, her voice coming out weirdly squeaky. Smooth. Totally smooth.

"I love your hair like that," he said, and her brain short-circuited. Was he flirting? Or just being nice? Why did teenage boys have to be so impossible to read?

Before she could overthink it into oblivion, lightning cracked across the sky—a jagged scar of white that made everyone on the deck scream. Then came the rain, sudden and torrential, sending the entire party scrambling inside like ants from a flooded hill.

Maya found herself squished onto the couch between Tyler and his best friend, everyone dripping and laughing and complaining about their ruined outfits. Tyler smelled like rain and something citrusy, and his knee kept brushing against hers, and her heart was doing this embarrassingly erratic thing that she hoped wasn't audible.

"This is such bull," someone groaned from the floor. "My hair's gonna look like a poodle tomorrow."

The group erupted into laughter, and something shifted. The tightness in Maya's chest loosened. She wasn't the awkward girl with the overly anxious mother anymore—she was just part of this ridiculous, perfect moment.

Tyler caught her eye and grinned again, but this time she grinned back, genuine and unselfconscious. His friend Jo—who'd been quiet all night, curled in the armchair like a fox ready to bolt—suddenly said, "Okay but real talk, who actually likes papaya? Be honest."

"My grandma," Tyler deadpanned. "She puts it on everything. Pizza. Pasta. Ice cream. It's a whole situation."

Maya laughed so hard she spilled her soda, and instead of dying of mortification, she just grabbed napkins and kept laughing with them. Later, when the rain stopped and everyone reluctantly trickled home, Tyler walked her to the door.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the doorframe, "you should come to the bonfire next weekend. If you want."

The grin she gave him this time was anything but awkward. "Yeah," she said. "I want to."

Her mom was asleep when she got home, but Maya caught her reflection in the hallway mirror—hair a disaster, makeup smudged, grinning like an idiot. She didn't fix it. Some things were better imperfect.