How to save your mate

If there were an Olympic sport for embarrassing yourself in front of your crush, I would've taken gold three years in a row.

My name is Lia Rivera. Sixteen. Junior. Certified drama queen, occasionally allergic to common sense. And as of this morning? Public enemy number one of my dignity.

Let me explain.

It started like any other weekday at Jefferson High - a melting pot of pastel lockers, underfunded vending machines, and enough teenage hormones to power a soap opera.

I was running late, again. Mostly because my afro refused to cooperate and decided to revolt like it had its own freedom movement.

"Lia!" My mom's voice echoed from downstairs as I wrestled with a scrunchie. "You're gonna miss your bus!"

"Tell the bus to wait!" I yelled back, yanking my curls into what I hoped resembled a bun and not a wild nest of secrets. Spoiler alert: it was the nest.

My mom, Rochelle Rivera - aka Queen of Sarcasm and Mom Jeans - popped her head into my room with a raised brow. "Girl, that bus waits for no one. Especially not for you and your full-on Beyoncé hair moment."

"Love you, bye!" I sprinted past her, grabbed a half-eaten granola bar, and slammed the front door behind me.

---

Ten minutes later, I made it to school just as the warning bell rang - heart racing, curls bouncing, and sneakers untied like some kind of tragic metaphor.

Jefferson High was buzzing. Posters for "Fall Spirit Week" were everywhere, reminding us that pajama day was coming, and so was a quiz in trig, which was not nearly as exciting.

I dodged a freshman with a trombone, barely missed slipping on someone's spilled iced coffee, and finally approached my locker with the grace of a penguin on roller skates.

That's when it happened.

The Locker Incident™.

One second I was spinning my lock (left-right-left-curse), and the next-BOOM. I slammed into a wall.

Except it wasn't a wall.

It was Ethan Park.

Six feet tall, lean build, perfect posture like his spine was sponsored by a yoga studio. Hair black as midnight and annoyingly perfect, even though we all knew he didn't even use product. His jawline? Sharp enough to file government secrets. And don't even get me started on his smile. It was soft. Like he knew how to laugh but didn't do it often. Like when he did, it meant something.

And right now, all of that was about two inches from my face.

"Oh my God-Ethan-I-" I scrambled back, nearly tripping over my own backpack.

He blinked. "Are you okay?"

"I-yes-I'm just-my locker betrayed me."

"...Your locker?"

"It moved. I swear. It lunged."

He stared at me, lips twitching.

Please don't laugh. Please don't-

He smiled.

Not just any smile. That smile. The one he gave teachers when he answered questions like he didn't know he was a genius. The one that made girls in Honors Bio develop asthma.

"I didn't know lockers had legs," he said, voice light, amused.

"I didn't know hallway crushes were fatal, but here we are!" I blurted out before my brain could catch up to my mouth.

Silence.

My soul ascended.

Ethan tilted his head, lips parted. And then-

He laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A real, caught-off-guard, nose-wrinkling laugh.

I wanted to crawl into my locker and live there forever.

---

"LIA!" Maya screeched, grabbing my arm and yanking me away like the building was on fire.

"Wait, my dignity-!"

"It's gone, girl. Gone. Come on."

Maya Caldwell was my best friend and part-time life coach. Half-Trinidadian, half-sass, and built like a track star with the voice of someone who didn't believe in indoor volumes.

She dragged me around the corner and planted me against the wall. "You ran into him. Again. How many times is that?"

"Four," I muttered.

"Four! Girl. This is officially a pattern. You need help."