Head Over Sneakers

Mia Anderson had one rule for surviving high school: Don't stand out.

It wasn't that she hated attention—it just never seemed to end well for her. Whether it was tripping over her own shoelaces in gym class or accidentally walking into the boys' bathroom freshman year, Mia had a knack for becoming the center of the wrong kind of attention. So, her plan was simple: blend into the background, keep her head down, and make it through junior year unscathed.

But, of course, things never went according to plan.

It all started in the cafeteria. Mia wasn't even supposed to be there—she'd promised herself she'd skip the crowded chaos and eat outside under the bleachers. But Lila, her best friend and eternal optimist, insisted she "be normal for once" and join her for lunch inside.

"Come on, it's not that bad," Lila had said, dragging Mia toward the cafeteria doors.

"It's literally a jungle in there," Mia argued, clutching her lunch tray like it was a shield.

"You'll survive," Lila teased, giving her a playful nudge.

Mia sighed and followed her inside, weaving through the crowded tables and trying to keep her head down. But just as she turned the corner to find their usual spot, disaster struck.

She didn't see him. She was too focused on maneuvering through the maze of chairs and backpacks. One second, she was walking, and the next—

Splat.

Her tray tipped forward, and her soda went flying. Time slowed down as the cup spun through the air, its sticky contents soaring toward an unsuspecting victim. The victim in question? None other than Dylan Westwood.

Dylan freaking Westwood.

Mia froze as the soda hit him square in the chest, drenching his white hoodie and splattering onto his sneakers.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her heart plummeting to her stomach.

The cafeteria went dead silent.

Dylan looked down at his soaked hoodie, then back up at Mia. His deep blue eyes, the ones every girl in school seemed to swoon over, were locked on her.

"Seriously?" he said, his voice calm but sharp enough to make her flinch.

"I—I'm so sorry!" Mia stammered, her face burning with embarrassment. "It was an accident, I swear!"

Dylan didn't say anything at first. He just stared at her, his jaw clenched as he pulled his hoodie away from his chest. "This is my favorite hoodie."

"I'll—I'll pay for it to be cleaned!" she offered, though she had no idea how she'd afford that. Babysitting money didn't exactly cover dry-cleaning bills.

He raised an eyebrow, like he didn't believe a word she was saying. "Right," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just... watch where you're going next time."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Mia standing there, soda pooling at her feet and the entire cafeteria staring at her.

"Let me get this straight," Lila said later that afternoon, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You spilled soda on Dylan Westwood? Like, the Dylan Westwood?"

"Yes, Lila. The Dylan Westwood," Mia groaned, burying her face in her hands.

They were sitting outside under the bleachers—Mia's usual hideout—while she recounted the disastrous lunch incident. Lila, of course, found the whole thing hilarious.

"This is insane," Lila said, practically bouncing with excitement. "Do you realize how many girls would kill to get that close to him?"

"Yeah, well, I doubt they'd want to get close to him by dumping soda all over him," Mia muttered.

"Oh, come on. This is like, prime meet-cute material. It's straight out of a rom-com!"

Mia shot her a look. "Lila, this is not a rom-com. This is real life. And in real life, I just made a complete idiot of myself in front of the most popular guy in school."

Lila shrugged, unbothered. "Whatever. I still think it's kind of romantic."

Mia groaned again and leaned back against the bleachers, wishing she could rewind the entire day. Maybe then she wouldn't have gotten soda on Dylan Westwood. Or maybe she'd have stayed home entirely.

Later that night, Mia lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying the scene over and over in her head. She couldn't stop thinking about the look on Dylan's face—annoyed, confused, and maybe a little amused.

What was he thinking about her now? Did he even care? Or was she just another random klutz he'd forget about by tomorrow?

She sighed and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head.

Tomorrow, she told herself, would be better.

It had to be.