MY CRUSH IS AN ALPHA MALE

The alarm clock was screaming at me like it had a personal vendetta. I smacked it off the nightstand (it fell, obviously, because my life is a disaster) and rolled over, realizing immediately that the sun was way too high in the sky.

Crap. Late. Again.

I shot out of bed so fast I tripped over the hoodie I'd worn yesterday and faceplanted right into the floor. Nose still intact (barely), I scrambled to throw on something that wasn't technically pajamas. Found jeans. Found one sock. Could not, for the life of me, find my other shoe.

"Mom!" I yelled, hopping around like a deranged flamingo. "Where's my-"

"Check under the couch!" she yelled back. Which... okay, why would my shoe be under the couch? Spoiler: it was. Because my little brother likes to "borrow" my stuff for his stupid Nerf battles.

By the time I finally had shoes on, I was already ten minutes late. I grabbed what I thought was toast from the counter, only to realize it was basically charcoal. Black, crunchy, smoke-alarm-toast. My mom gave me that look like, why are you the way you are, but didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

I bolted outside, chewing on burnt bread like it was punishment, and sprinted for school. Backpack bouncing, hair a mess, mascara smudged on one eye but not the other. Basically, if anyone saw me, they'd think: yep, she's thriving.

Halfway down the street, I nearly got run over by a guy on a motorbike. He didn't slow down. Just roared past, leather jacket, dark hair flying, attitude basically dripping off him. Everyone knew who he was.

The bad boy.

The one parents warned you about.

The one teachers sighed about.

The one girls whispered about in bathrooms.

And, okay... yeah, the one I maybe, possibly, definitely had the dumbest crush on.

By the time I made it to school, I was already sweating and wheezing like I'd run a marathon. My backpack strap had nearly sliced off my shoulder, my burnt-toast breakfast was still glued to the roof of my mouth, and to make things worse-he was there.

Bad Boy on Motorbike, leaning against the bike rack like a scene from a movie he didn't even audition for. Leather jacket, messy dark hair, bored expression that said he hated everyone but somehow still looked stupidly hot doing it.

I ducked my head, pretending to be very, very interested in the cracks on the sidewalk. Did not look at him. Definitely didn't notice that he looked up right as I passed.

"Girl," a voice hissed, making me nearly choke on my spit. My best friend, Riley, materialized at my side like a demon summoned by gossip. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the cafeteria before I could collapse on the spot.

"Did you see him?" Riley whispered, eyes bugging out like she'd just spotted a celebrity. "Motorbike. Jacket. Literal jawline of a god. I swear, he's the reason I believe in reincarnation."

I snorted, dropping my tray on the cafeteria table. "Please. He looks like the reason people don't believe in parole."

Riley gasped. "You're just jealous."

"Of what? His bad attitude? The fact he probably smells like gasoline and broken dreams?" I stabbed my pizza slice with a fork (yes, I eat pizza with a fork, fight me).

Riley leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. "Rumor is, he got expelled from his last school for fighting. Like, broke some guy's nose in three places."

"Rumor also says our principal is secretly a vampire," I muttered. "Doesn't make it true."

"Okay, but admit it," she pressed, grinning like she already knew my deepest darkest secret. "You think he's hot."

I choked. Literally choked on cafeteria soda. "I do not."

Riley raised an eyebrow. "Sure. That's why you went bright red the second he looked at you this morning."

"He didn't look at me," I shot back. "He probably didn't even notice I exist. Which is exactly how I like it, thanks."

But even as I said it, my stupid brain replayed the way his eyes had flicked up when I walked past. Sharp. Intense. Like he saw too much.

Great. Now I couldn't finish my pizza.

I stared at my pizza like it might give me life advice. It didn't. It just drooped sadly off my fork, mocking me for being pathetic.

Riley nudged me. "You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

"No." Too fast. Too defensive. Totally obvious.

"Yes," she sang, grinning so wide I wanted to stuff my pizza in her mouth just to shut her up.

Thankfully, the bell rang before she could roast me further. Less thankfully, the next class was gym.

Now, listen. Some people are born athletic. Graceful. Built to run and jump and not fall on their face. I am not those people. I am the opposite of those people. If there were Olympic medals for tripping over flat ground, I'd own the record.