(Amara's POV)
If someone had told me transferring schools in junior year would feel like walking into a movie set, I would have laughed. Not the cute laugh either—the full-on cackling one my sister Amaka says makes me sound like a goat. But here I was, standing in the middle of Cleverly High's hallway with a stack of transfer papers in my sweaty hand, staring at rows of lockers that looked like they belonged in High School Musical.
"Of course," I muttered under my breath. "Brand new school, same ugly lockers."
The hallway buzzed with students who already knew where they were going. People hugging, laughing, sliding into their cliques like they had rehearsed it all summer. And then there was me—new girl, transfer kid, awkwardly clutching a backpack my mom bought at Walmart like it was a peace offering.
I stopped in front of the locker the secretary had assigned me and stared at the combination lock like it was the final boss in a video game. Turn left, then right, then left again. Simple, right? Wrong. I twisted, fumbled, tried again. The stupid lock refused to open.
"Okay, maybe you're shy," I told it softly, like I was coaxing a toddler. "Or maybe you just hate me personally."
A girl with sleek hair and a soft smile slowed near me. "Need help?" she asked, her tone casual but kind.
I considered saying no because pride is a disease, but my pride was currently losing against this demonic lock. "Yes, please. Before I dropkick it and get expelled on my first day."
She chuckled, took the lock from my hand, and opened it in two seconds flat. Just like that. I swear the lock was mocking me.
"Wow," I deadpanned. "So it does work. Just not for me. Love that for me."
She smiled again, the type of smile that looked like it belonged in toothpaste commercials. "I'm Adela," she said, offering her hand.
"Amara," I replied, shaking it. "Nice to meet you, my locker whisperer."
Her laugh was warm, and I couldn't help but like her immediately. She had this easygoing vibe, like the kind of girl who bakes cookies just because she feels like it. We chatted as we walked toward our first class—she pointed out the gym, the cafeteria, the auditorium that apparently doubled as a fashion show stage during pep rallies.
By the time we slid into English class, I was starting to feel a little less like the awkward transfer and more like maybe—maybe—this wouldn't be so bad.
Then he walked in.
Late, of course. Because hot people are never on time.
He strolled through the door like he owned the place, hoodie slouched over his head, jawline sharp enough to slice bread. His skin was a warm golden-brown, the kind that caught the light and made it unfair to look directly at him. His hair—thick, black, and wavy—looked like it had been styled by accident, messy but perfect. His eyes were dark, almond-shaped, and so steady it felt like he saw more than he should.
And his accent—British, smooth, expensive-sounding—slipped out as he muttered something to the teacher about "traffic" before heading down the aisle.
And then the universe decided to use me as its personal joke.
His bag brushed my desk, knocking my pen off. No big deal. But when he leaned down to pick it up, his drink tipped—cold liquid splashing across my notebook, soaking the page I had just written my name on.
I froze. He froze. For half a second, I thought maybe he'd apologize. Maybe he'd even offer to clean it up.
But no. This boy—this tall, ridiculously good-looking boy—straightened up, shrugged, and kept walking.
Like. I. Wasn't. Even. There.
"Excuse me?!" I snapped, loud enough for half the class to turn.
He paused mid-step, looked back with eyes so annoyingly perfect I almost forgot I was mad. Almost.
"Yes?" he drawled, accent dripping like honey.
"You just baptized my notebook and you're walking away?!"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "You're welcome. Now it's blessed."
The audacity. The confidence. The pure nonsense.
My jaw dropped. "Blessed?! Are you insane?!"
He tilted his head, like I was the one being dramatic. "It's just paper."
"Just paper?! That was my transfer paperwork! Do you know how hard my mom worked to print that out? The ink alone—"
The class was giggling now, enjoying the free entertainment. Adela pressed her lips together to hide a laugh, her eyes flicking between us like she was watching a tennis match.
He shrugged again. "Buy a new notebook. Problem solved."
I narrowed my eyes. "You think because you sound like you swallowed the Queen's dictionary, you can just spill juice on people and walk off?"
His smirk widened, and for a split second I swear he enjoyed me yelling at him. "You're loud," he said simply, and sauntered off to the back row like he hadn't just set fire to my morning.
I sat back, fuming. Loud? LOUD? My people didn't cross oceans and move continents for me to be reduced to "loud."
But here's the problem: as much as I wanted to hate him, my brain betrayed me. Because while my mouth called him names, my eyes had clocked everything—the height, the sharp cheekbones, the way his accent curled around his words.
He was hot. Painfully, frustratingly hot.
And that was the worst part.
Adela leaned closer, whispering, "That's Malik. He's… trouble."
Trouble. Great. Of course the first boy I talk to in this school is a walking red flag with cheekbones.
I forced a smile, flipping my soggy notebook closed. "Good. Trouble and I go way back. We're basically family."
The rest of class dragged on, and I tried not to glance at him again. Tried, and failed. Because every time he shifted in his seat, every time he leaned back with that cocky posture, my stupid brain noticed.
But I wasn't about to let him think he got to me. Nope. Malik might've been blessed by the skincare gods, but I was Amara Okoye.
When the bell rang, I shoved my wet notebook into my bag and stood up with all the grace of someone determined not to let a boy ruin her day.
Malik might be a problem, sure. But he wasn't my problem. Not yet.