The mousetrap car was a rite of passage for all Physics students. Riya’s own had hit a record time last year, its design optimized to the point of near perfection. Mel’s, however, had been... Mel-ified: garish green flames and neon-pink flowers swirled across its surface, like she’d handed the carand a can of paint to Lisa Frank and Guy Fieri and said,“Go nuts!”
“It’s... certainly unique.”
“I know.” Mel beamed. “I stayed upall night, channeled all my frustrations about Andrew into it. Plus, I figured I should make my baby stand out, you know? It’s important to be noticed.”
“Is it?”
Mel clicked her tongue. “Youwouldn’t get it.Younaturally have presence.” Except there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in her voice. If anything, she sounded proud.
Riya blinked, puzzled. In her experience, the only reason why people paid her any attention was because of her formidable height, or her ability to scare people into submission with a well-timed glare. Just last week, she’d scolded a freshman for running in the halls, and he’d blanched like he was about to faint. Her practical choice of attire—polos and button-down shirts, paired with her glasses—probably didn’t hurt, either.
Even if her sisters said, in a way that felt suspiciously derogatory, that she dressed like achild prodigy.
A tiny smile tugged at Riya’s mouth. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to get yourlove prescriptionchecked.”
Mel opened her mouth to reply—but someone bumped into her from behind, sending her stumbling forward.
The mousetrap car sailed out of her hands.
Riya watched, frozen, as it turned in midair—painted flames flashing, neon flowers blurring into pink streaks.
For a split second, it almost looked alive.
She’d once read that sometimes, in moments of disaster, the brain could distort a person’s sense of time—a neurological coping mechanism to help absorb shock more effectively.
She hadn’t believed it.
But now, watching the car float, weightless and undeniably doomed—
she felt it.
And it was very, very real.
Chapter 2
Riya’s instincts finally snapped into action. She dove for the car, but she was too late: The mousetrap car hit the floor with acrack, splinters of thin balsa wood and dowel rods scattering across the tiles.
One lone CD wheel spun on its axle, a pitiful death rattle.
For a moment, Riya and Mel said nothing—though someone from the small crowd gathering nearby muttered,“Damn, skill issue.”
Riya’s chest tightened.
She hated waste,especiallywasted effort. And Mel had clearly worked hard. Even with all the industrial-strength glue in the world, there was no salvaging it in time for her Physics class.
She knelt beside Mel, scanning her friend for injuries.
“Are you... okay?”
“RiRiiii,” Mel whined pathetically. “Thathurt.”
Riya’s fingers twitched—that old familiar itch to fix things. To put things back in order, before the mess could spread. Slowly, she got to her feet, and her gaze, with all the precision of a heat-seeking missile, locked on to the culprit.
“Hey!” she snapped. “You pushed my friend.”
The culprit—a boy—froze.
He was lanky, Asian, his messy dyed-blond hair starkagainst the black brows that framed his knife-edged cheeks. Everything about him—from his scowl to the way he stood, all loose limbs and ready tension—reminded her of a hungry street dog. The kind that looked lazy until it snapped.
