~ Slade ~

The following morning is off to a good start, despite the conversation I had with my mom previously. The sun is out, Jimmy's had a pancake discount, and Kendrick Lamar's Poetic Justice is blasting through my Beats by Dre headphones to enhance my vibe. I roll my sore shoulders back and continue on to the bane of my existence; Calculus. Science and math just doesn't make sense to me, and neither do the people who love it.

Something soft pokes me at my back, stopping me in my tracks and interrupting Kendrick's first verse. I frown and pull my headphones off to bring it down around my neck. When I turn around to face whoever nudged me, I inhale with a sharp breath of surprise.

Standing before me, looking sweet as ever, is none other than the new girl from yesterday. Her bouncy curls are freely floating around her waist with two butterfly clips glistening under the sun on either side of her head. Those long, curly lashes capture the sparkles of sunlight beating down on her smooth brown skin with each blink, making it harder for me to breathe.

In place of a skirt is a cream dress littered with lifelike roses around the curve of her waist and the hem right above her knees. Though it's initially a strange outfit to come to class in, it oddly enough suits her.

Her brown eyes seek mine in an eagerness that is almost overwhelming, and I stagger backwards a fraction of an inch.

"Uh—" I stutter, but she draws her hand up between us, halting whatever nonsense wanting to spill out of my mouth.

I blink as the pen I had let her borrow is shoved in my face. Same brand, barely used, and now scented with whatever floral perfume the girl uses. It holds my attention for all of two seconds, before I look down at the girl again, catching her bright smile. My heart thumps hard against my chest.

"Thank you for letting me borrow this yesterday," she tells me. "It was greatly appreciated."

I blink again. Why the hell does she talk like that? Is this how city folk talk? I know I haven't left Normrock before, but I'm more than sure at least half of the United States no longer talks in "perfect" English.

"Er, no problem," I murmur, plucking the pen carefully from her fingers. "I'm guessing you remembered one today?"

She holds up her other hand and sure enough, a pink pen with sunflowers printed along the plastic casing is sitting in the center of her palm. Her cute, boasting smile only grows at the pride she has in herself for remembering something as trivial as a pen.

"Cool," I say, shoving my pen in my pocket.

Her eyebrows furrow. "What's cool?"

I pause, puzzled. "Um, your pen?"

Is that the wrong thing to say?

"Is "cool" a good thing?" she wonders, her eyes wide as she glances down at her hand. She runs her thumb over one of the flowers.

Containing my bewilderment feels nearly impossible at this point but I think I do a decent enough job at hiding it, considering she doesn't suspect my awkward silence. Maybe the girl just doesn't get out often? Or she grew up sheltered? I don't really know her enough to make assumptions, though, so I drop it.

I mean, it doesn't really matter if she knows what cool means or not. It's not like I want to embarrass her with my silent rendition of "what the hell", so I nod my head and clear my throat.

"Definitely a good thing," I agree.

Her animated eyes sparkle again as she looks back at me, her full lips pulling into an answering smile that makes my stomach flip. "Cool," she repeats, smoothly.

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. She's charming, that much I can admit. Different, but charming.

"Well, I'll see you in class tomorrow. Chi pisa la chike," she chirps, getting ready to turn away from me when she notices the bulging of my eyes. "What is it?"

"You speak Chahta?" I ask, incredulous. Even Nakai and Victor don't speak the language very often, and Roy speaks the Diné Bizaad with his grandmother. The only reason I talk the language at all is because my mother instilled the importance of it for as long as I can remember.

And to meet another person who speaks the language so perfectly is mind baffling.

Her confident smirk is slow and secretive, igniting a stream of goosebumps up my arms. "Of course I do. My mother is Chahta, so she made sure I grew up well versed in our language."

That's fucking hot, I want to say, but I don't. Instead, I breeze out with a breathless, "Cool."

"Cool," she echoes, her body tilting towards me as her eyes drift over me from head to toe.

My cheeks grow uncomfortably hot as her curiosity burns a hole across the expanse of my chest, but I can't say I'm mad about it. The egotistical part of my brain almost loves the attention the new girl's giving me, and despite how nerve-wracking it is, I can't deny the vibrating buzz pulsating through my veins under her pretty eyes.

Amusement dances across her vision then, and she tucks a loose curl behind her ear. But that's as far as her interest goes. Instead of saying anything else, her feet shuffle backwards, leading away from me.

But I don't want to stop talking to her. Not yet.

"I have one more question for you," I call out, hoping she'll take the bait.

She tilts her head to the side. The tips of her lips twitch at the edges as if fighting another world-shattering smile. "You may ask your question," she grants.

Wow.

Wait, now's not the time to focus on how attractive that was, Slade. Get the name first, overthink later.

"What's your name?" I ask, marveling at the bloom of light that beams across her gorgeous features from the question.

She bites the corner of her lip and raises an eyebrow. Her feet, however, never stop moving. And believe it or not, they hardly make a sound either, which is . . . odd. "Hmm, my name? I believe it's only fair that you give me yours first."

Fair enough. "Slade Locklear."

Her face lights up at my answer, drawing a flame to my cheeks. "Slade," she tests, nodding her head in approval. "I like it."

I don't move despite how sweet my name sounds rolling off the tip of her tongue. Instead, I arch an eyebrow, waiting for hers.

And she knows this because she laughs; the dainty sound smoother than the strum on an acoustic guitar. Her light giggle carries on the shoulders of the wind and makes its way to my eager ears, igniting a thrum of adrenaline into my heart.

"Makaiyah Na Pakanli Haile," she allows.

Makaiyah. The name fitting for a billion sonnets and soliloquies all over the world, especially since her middle name means flowers in Chahta. It's a name that puts Annabelle Lee to shame, as Makaiyah tells the story of a goddess by the sea. She travels through well-known stories that we all know and love, and lands in Troy as she launches a thousand ships to war over such a face. She bounces into the best version of the goddess of love and beauty next, changing the stories to include a woman wearing flowers for dresses and butterflies for hair. Her smile alone challenges that of the Mona Lisa's, and the secrets behind her grinning teeth draws more questions than answers. If Romeo had met Makaiyah, he surely would have cast Juliet off the balcany in search of her name instead.

"Makaiyah," I repeat, the name like honey on my tongue. "I like it."

Makaiyah releases that smile I've been subconsciously waiting for.

And damn, is it a sight to see.