Chapter 2 Public Humiliation 101

The next morning, I woke up with one thought: Today, I will ruin my own life.

Technically, it was Maya's idea. But I said yes. Which makes me an accomplice to my own destruction.

"Just a little public embarrassment," she'd said with a wink.

"Something light. Flavored with a side of dignity loss."

I groaned into my pillow, wondering how I went from hopeless romantic to emotional stuntwoman.

---

At school, I dragged my Converse through the hall like I was on my way to a funeral. Maya, on the other hand, was thriving. She slid up beside me in a neon hoodie like it was her job to scream chaotic best friend energy. "You ready, superstar?"

"Define 'ready,'" I mumbled.

"To humiliate yourself in the name of personal growth and questionable emotional strategy."

"Cool, cool, yeah, I'm ready to emotionally combust."

"Good girl." She patted my shoulder like a proud villain. "We do it at lunch. High traffic. Maximum exposure."

I stared at her.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Obviously."

---

By third period, I was sweating like a popsicle on a grill. Every time I saw Ethan in the hall, my brain short-circuited like someone poured soda on the motherboard. He looked good in that faded denim jacket. Too good. The kind of good that made you mad because it wasn't fair.

"Stop staring at him like you're doing a project called Ethan's Face: A Visual Study," Maya muttered during chem.

"I'm trying to memorize it so I know what I'm sacrificing."

"Girl, this isn't a Marvel movie. You're not saving the universe. You're just dumping noodles on your own shirt."

"Same level of emotional damage."

---

Lunchtime.

The Cafeteria.

Scene of many social deaths. My hands trembled as I picked up my lunch tray. It was heavier than I expected. And redder. The spaghetti was too saucy. Like it knew it had a destiny.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I whispered. Maya stood behind me, phone out, ready to record (for "scientific purposes," she claimed).

"Absolutely not. But it'll be iconic."

"I hate you."

"You'll thank me when you're finally over him."

I took a deep breath, centered myself like I was about to walk a fashion runway. Except this runway led straight to a crash site. I saw him.

Ethan.

Sitting at his usual table, laughing at something Lucas said. Fork mid-air. Unaware that a walking disaster was heading his way like a sauce-covered meteor.

"Go," Maya whispered, like a general sending her soldier to war.

So I walked. I walked like my legs were rented. I walked like I had just been born and never learned how to exist in the world. Each step echoed with doom. And then-the moment. I tripped over my own foot, launched the tray into the air like it was a freaking Olympic discus, and-

SPLAT.

Spaghetti.

Everywhere.

On my shirt.

On my hair.

A single noodle clung to my ear like it was trying to hold on for dear life. Gasps echoed. A fork clattered dramatically. I stood frozen, dripping marinara sauce and shame. Ethan stared. Everyone stared. And then-he stood up.

Oh no.

Abort.

ABORT.

"Lia?" he asked, stepping toward me. I tried to speak. Failed.

Noodle still flapping from my shoulder like a flag of surrender. Lucas laughed. Loudly.

"Bro, she spaghetti-ed herself!"

Ethan looked... confused.

Concerned.

Like I might cry. Which, let's be real, was not off the table.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm just... very passionate about pasta," I said weakly.

He blinked. And then... he smiled. Why was he smiling?! "You, uh... you've got a little..." He pointed to his own cheek.

I touched mine. Yep. Sauce. Of course. I probably looked like I got into a fistfight with a plate of lasagna and lost.

"I was trying to quit carbs," I muttered.

"Didn't go great, huh?"

"No. It did not."

He laughed. Again. Why was he always laughing at me like I was a walking meme? I turned to leave-but slipped on a rogue meatball and nearly yeeted myself into the dessert cart.

Ethan caught my arm.

"Whoa-careful."

My body betrayed me and tingled. Rude.

"I'm fine. Just trying out slapstick comedy."

He let me go, eyebrows raised, lips twitching.

"You're... unique." Kill me. Just bury me in marinara. I nodded and sprint-walked away, dripping noodles.

---

In the bathroom, Maya was practically vibrating with joy.

"You were GLORIOUS," she shouted, clutching her phone.

"Like a disaster goddess! Do you know how many views this video already has?!"

"You recorded it?!"

"Of course I did! That was comedy gold!"

"I hate my life."

"You're doing great, sweetie."

"I LOOKED LIKE A PIZZA CRIME SCENE."

"You looked adorable."

I sighed and stared at myself in the mirror. Red-streaked shirt. Hair clumped. Noodle still stuck in my braid like a decorative garnish.

"I think I made him like me." Maya blinked.

"Wait, what?"

"He smiled. He helped. He called me unique. That's bad, right?"

"No, that's... kind of terrifying."

"I think he thinks I'm a rom-com character."

"You are a rom-com character."

"This plan is backfiring."

"Or maybe it's working too well."

I groaned.

"What if I never get over him?" Maya threw an arm around me.

"Then we just keep embarrassing you until one of you gets married or changes schools."

"Comforting."

"You're welcome."

---

Later that night, I lay in bed freshly showered and full of regret.

My phone pinged.

It was a message from an unknown number:

Unknown: That was quite the lunch performance. Unknown: You okay?

My heart punched my ribs.

Then the next message came.

Ethan: It's Ethan, by the way. In case the marinara erased your memory.

I stared at the screen.

I typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Me: I've decided to pivot to slapstick comedy full-time. Ethan: You've got potential. Might want to avoid meatballs, though.

I laughed.

Then paused.

Then groaned.

Because I was supposed to be uncrushing him. But instead? I was falling harder.