90 MILES TO YOU

Chapter One: A Most Ill-Fated Encounter Maya Hale,a young girl of 18 years old had a plan, and the plan did not include boys. She repeated it to herself as she walked the last stretch of Willowbrook Avenue, her new backpack digging into her shoulders, a printed map of the school folded in her fist. Three weeks ago she had lived ninety miles from here, in a town where everyone knew her name and her mother's name and what her grandmother used to sell at the market. Now she was a stranger in a gray cardigan, in a town that smelled like wet pavement and someone else's breakfast. *Straight A's. Scholarship application by March. Nothing else.* The rain had stopped an hour ago, but it had left the road scarred with puddles. Maya hopped the first one, skirted the second, and felt quietly proud of herself. Her mother had ironed her white blouse twice that morning and pressed it into her hands like a flag. "First impressions, Maya," she'd said. She was thinking about that, about the blouse, the first impression, the clean start, when she heard the engine. It was a low, lazy growl, the sound of a car that knew it was being admired. Maya glanced over her shoulder. A black car was coming up the street, too fast for a road lined with schoolchildren, and its tires were headed straight for the long, brown puddle pooled along the curb. Straight for the puddle. And she was standing right beside it. "Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no..." The wave hit her from the knees up. Cold, gritty water slapped across her skirt, her blouse, her cardigan, even her chin. For a moment she simply stood there with her arms held out from her sides, dripping, too stunned to breathe. The car slowed. The window rolled down. The boy behind the wheel was handsome in the irritating way of people who knew it: dark hair pushed carelessly off his forehead, a jaw that looked sculpted for the sole purpose of smirking, and eyes the color of strong tea. He looked at her. He took in the blouse, the mud, the map still clutched in her hand. And he laughed. Not a cruel laugh, which would almost have been easier. It was a surprised, helpless bark, quickly smothered. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't see you there." "You didn't see me." Maya's voice came out thin and shaking. "I'm standing on the sidewalk. In a white shirt. In daylight." "It's a very small puddle." "It was a *lake*." His mouth twitched. "Fine. It was a medium puddle." He leaned an elbow on the open window. "Look, it's just water. It'll dry." *Just water.* Her mother had ironed that blouse twice. Maya stepped closer to the car, and she was dimly aware that she looked ridiculous: a drowned cat with a map. "Do you have any idea how rude you are?" "I get told often." He grinned. "Usually with more enthusiasm, though." Behind him, a horn honked. A girl leaned out of the passenger seat of the car idling in his rearview mirror, a sleek blonde with perfect lip gloss, waving impatiently. "Ethan! Come *on*!" Ethan cole was a young boy of about 19 years old rich and popular. *Ethan.* So the villain had a name. He didn't even glance at her. "Gotta go, new girl. Try the other side of the road next time." "How do you know I'm new?" "Nobody here walks around holding a map." He winked. Actually winked. Then the window slid shut, and the black car pulled away, throwing one last, careless sheet of spray across the hem of her skirt. Maya stood in the road and said a word her mother would not have approved of. --- By the time she reached the front office, the secretary took one look at her and pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, sweetheart. What happened?" "A puddle," Maya said through her teeth. "With a driver." The woman handed her a gym shirt in school colors and a towel that smelled faintly of detergent. Maya changed in the restroom, scrubbing mud from her cardigan until her knuckles burned. In the mirror, a stranger in an oversized shirt stared back, hair frizzing, eyes bright with fury and something dangerously close to tears. *Do not cry. You have survived worse than this.* She had. Moving here was the worst, and she had survived it. Her father's job had dried up, the house had been sold, and her mother had packed their lives into boxes while pretending not to cry. Maya had promised herself, on the long drive, that she would be the one thing her family didn't have to worry about. She would study. She would win. She would earn the scholarship, and then none of this would matter. She pulled her shoulders back. She was not going to be undone by a boy with a smirk and a car. --- The school was louder than she'd expected. Lockers slammed like gunfire. Laughter bounced off the walls. Everyone seemed to belong to someone, to move in clusters and currents she didn't understand, and Maya threaded through them with her head down and her schedule held tight. "You're the new girl, right?" A girl with braids piled on her head fell into step beside her, eyes warm and curious. Her name tag said *Priya* in looping marker. "Maya," Maya said. "Priya. I'm supposed to show you around. Mr. Alvarez asked me. Cute outfit, by the way." She tugged at the oversized gym shirt. "Bold choice." Maya let out a startled laugh, the first of the day. "It's a long story." "I love those. Tell me while we walk." By the time they reached the second floor, Maya had told her everything: the puddle, the car, the wink. Priya stopped dead in the middle of the hall. "Black car? Dark hair? Looks like he's never lost an argument?" "You *know* him?" "Everyone knows him." Priya lowered her voice, the way people do when speaking of weather that might turn dangerous. "Ethan Cole. Captain of the soccer team, king of the parking lot, and a different girl every month. Maybe every week. People stopped keeping count." "Of course he is," Maya muttered. "Don't take it personally. He's like that with everybody." Priya shrugged. "Charming for about five minutes, then gone. Honestly, you're lucky he only splashed you." "Lucky," Maya repeated flatly. "Just stay away from him, and you'll be fine." *Easy,* Maya thought. *I have no interest in him whatsoever.* She had a scholarship to win. A boy like that belonged in the category of weather, something to be avoided and eventually forgotten. --- The morning passed in a blur of introductions and textbooks. She answered two questions in Chemistry correctly and felt the old, steadying pleasure of knowing something for certain. In History, a teacher called her "bright" in front of the whole class, and Maya felt her ears warm. By lunch she was almost herself again. She did not see the black car in the parking lot. She did not see Ethan Cole in the cafeteria, though she noticed a table in the corner that seemed to hum with its own gravity, loud and bright and full of people laughing at nothing. She turned her chair so her back faced it. *Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.* It worked until sixth period. Mr. Alvarez's classroom was at the end of the east hall, a narrow room that smelled of dry-erase markers and old books. The English teacher was a tall man with rolled sleeves and the tired, kind eyes of someone who believed in lost causes. "Ah, Miss Okafor," he said, glancing at his list. "Welcome. We've saved you a seat." He gestured toward the second row, by the window. Two desks sat side by side there. The one on the left was empty, and the one on the right was marked with a small paper card that read *M. Okafor*. Maya set down her bag and slid into her chair, exhaling at last. Rain tapped lightly against the glass again. For the first time all day, something felt almost peaceful. Then she noticed the empty desk beside her. Not empty, exactly. There was a worn leather jacket hung over the back of the chair, a pen left uncapped on the desktop, and a soccer ball sticker half-peeled on the corner. And on the desk, face-up, a single card in neat teacher's handwriting. *E. Cole.* Maya stared at it, her stomach dropping slowly, like a stone into deep water. Behind her, the classroom door swung open. She heard a familiar, unhurried stride, and she didn't need to turn around to know whose smirk was waiting for her. "Well," said a voice, low and amused, "if it isn't the girl with the map.”