It’s Tuesday, I think. To be honest I’m still half asleep and wish we had another week of winter break. I step off the mud-snow soaked bus steps, taking one earbud out. I can hear Peyton’s feet crunch on the salted sidewalk behind me, trying to catch up so we can see who got better Christmas presents. Probably him. Not much of a competition since his dad works in tech and my parents just run the local bakery.

He’s always got the latest gadget, meanwhile I’m still using wired buds. I tried convincing the parents to buy me the new iPhone this year, but Mom huffed at that saying, “Just because it’s paid off doesn’t mean you need a new one Tyler.” I bet Peyton got one. He probably didn’t even have to ask for it.

Oh, here he comes. Commence the bragging.

“Hey Pey-“ I say, pulling my voice back as I realize the crunchy footsteps belong to someone in obnoxious purple Uggs. I look up from the sidewalk, definitely not Peyton. Purple Uggs, a puffy black coat, and neon green headphones are walking beside me toward the school. My eyes dart back to the ground, staring at my feet. But I can’t keep them down, I need to know who’s wearing those disgusting Uggs and dope headphones.

I slow my pace a little, let her pass, and creep my eyes up again. Black hair, curly. Long. Wild. Kind of like springs coming out all over? Her headphones could pop off her head any second. Her backpack is plain, just a black Nike bag. But there’s a pin on it. I can’t tell what it says, so I pick up my pace a little to get a better look. The crunch of my footsteps quickens, and suddenly, her head turns back at me.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

My eyes bolt back to my shoes. She CANNOT know. What kind of a weirdo would she think I am?

“Sweet skully” I hear her half yell over the sound of whatever probably sick music’s playing in her ear. I feel every single set of eyes within earshot burning into my Foo Fighters merch hat and know at least one starting basketball player will be echoing that line later while snatching it off my head to play keep away. Weirdly, I think she meant it?

Still staring at my muddy, snowy shoes, I mutter back, “Uhh, thanks, yeah.” I shove my other earbud back in and try to disappear, but my shoes are crunching into the salted sidewalk as loud as a rock tumbler in a library. I quicken my pace, gotta get to my locker and find Peyton.

But as I near the door, I see those lame purple Uggs standing there. I look up at her, headphones nestled around her neck, under the coils of hair, of course. Her eyes are pools of deep, warm chocolate. They’re soft and kind; not the kind of eyes that’d see my hat as an opportunity for some Tuesday morning bullying.

“My mom met Dave Grohl once,” she declares as if she’s used that sentence in one too many ice breakers. But even then, I’m entranced by her voice. It’s smooth, but powerful.

“I’m Gia, by the way.”

Every word in the book has left my brain, so instead of responding like a normal person, I do the only thing I can think and gesture for Gia to go in through the door first. As I follow behind trying to remember my own name, I notice the pin on her backpack. Foo Fighters. I guess Gia’s the only name I’ll ever need to know anyway.