Kiss of Chance

The rumble of Michelle Foster's car engine cuts through the morning quiet as Natalie Lewis slides into the passenger seat, backpack clutched to her chest like armor.

"Morning," Natalie mumbles, clicking her seatbelt into place with practiced efficiency.

"Hey there, sunshine," Michelle replies with far too much enthusiasm for 7:30 AM. "Sleep okay?"

"Same as always." Natalie shrugs, staring out the window as suburban houses blur past. "You?"

"Decent. Ready for another thrilling day in the hallowed halls of education?" Michelle asks with a dramatic flair, pulling away from the curb.

"As I'll ever be," Natalie says, settling into the familiar rhythm of their morning routine.

This is how it's been since freshman year—Michelle driving, Natalie riding shotgun, the two of them against the world. Or at least against the social hierarchy of Westlake High. Four years of friendship condensed into a fifteen-minute commute that feels as natural as breathing.

"Can you believe we're actually seniors now?" Michelle asks, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel at a red light. "Two weeks in and I'm already counting down to graduation."

"Trust me, I've been marking off calendar days since orientation," Natalie agrees.

The car falls silent for a moment, just the soft hum of the radio filling the space between them. Natalie watches houses give way to storefronts, mentally preparing for another day of strategic invisibility.

"So," Michelle says in that particular tone that immediately puts Natalie on edge. "Heard about James Stevenson's thing Friday night?"

Natalie groans internally. "Let me guess—another house party with the same people doing the same stupid things they do every weekend?"

"It's not just any party," Michelle insists, excitement coloring her voice. "It's his first big bash of senior year. Everyone's going."

"Everyone except me," Natalie counters, already knowing where this conversation is headed.

"Come on, Nat," Michelle sighs, shooting her a quick glance. "Would it actually kill you to step outside your comfort zone for one night?"

"Possibly. I haven't conducted that experiment yet."

Michelle makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You know what I think? I think you're missing out on the whole high school experience."

"If by 'experience' you mean watching our classmates make fools of themselves while drinking cheap beer in someone's basement, I'm okay with that gap in my education."

"It's our last year, Nat. Our last chance to actually live a little before real life starts." Michelle's voice softens. "Don't you ever wonder what you're missing?"

The question hangs between them as Michelle turns into the school parking lot. Natalie stares at the brick building looming ahead, teeming with social landmines she's spent three years carefully navigating.

Sometimes, in quiet moments she'd never admit to Michelle, she does wonder. What would happen if she stopped being so careful? If she let herself be seen? But then she remembers the blessed simplicity of her life—good grades, one solid friendship, no drama—and the wondering stops.

"I like my life exactly as it is," Natalie says finally, unbuckling her seatbelt as Michelle parks. "Predictable. Drama-free."

"Boring," Michelle counters, killing the engine.

"Peaceful," Natalie corrects.

It's a conversation they've had countless times. Michelle, social butterfly with one foot in various friend groups, forever trying to coax Natalie out of her self-imposed isolation. And Natalie, content with her books and quiet weekends, resisting every attempt.

They're opposites in almost every way, which makes their friendship all the more puzzling to outsiders. Michelle with her easy smile and effortless charm; Natalie with her careful distance and deliberate invisibility. Yet somehow, they fit.

As Natalie reaches for the door handle, Michelle's hand on her arm stops her.

"This conversation isn't over," Michelle says, her expression determined.

"It never is," Natalie replies with a resigned sigh.

They walk toward the main entrance together, Natalie already calculating the fastest route to her locker that avoids the main social hubs of the school. The morning bell won't ring for another ten minutes, but she prefers to be settled in class before the hallways become a gauntlet of social interactions.

Just inside the doors, they're greeted by the school's royal couple locked in what can only be described as a public spectacle. Owen Mitchell—football star, honor student, and genuinely nice guy—has his back against the lockers while Jade Phillips—queen bee and nightmare in designer jeans—practically devours him.

"Get a room," Natalie mutters under her breath as they pass.

"That's Jade marking her territory," Michelle whispers. "Making sure everyone remembers who Owen belongs to."

Natalie shakes her head. Owen Mitchell deserves better than Jade "Venom" Phillips—a nickname Natalie and Michelle coined freshman year after witnessing Jade reduce a sophomore to tears for accidentally scuffing her shoes. Behind Owen's back, Jade is a different person entirely: calculating, cruel, and constantly reinforcing her position at the top of the social food chain.

They reach Michelle's locker first, stopping in the relatively quiet hallway.

"See you at lunch?" Natalie asks, already backing away toward her own locker in the science wing.

"Same table, same time," Michelle confirms, distracted by something over Natalie's shoulder.

With a nod, Natalie turns and weaves through the increasing flow of students, keeping her eyes down and her presence minimal. It's a skill she's perfected—being forgettable. Not invisible, exactly, but unremarkable enough that people's eyes slide right past her. In a school where attention often leads to drama, being overlooked is a superpower.

She reaches her locker, quickly exchanges books, and heads to her first class, sliding into a seat near the back. Not because she doesn't pay attention—her 4.0 GPA proves otherwise—but because the back row offers the perfect vantage point: she can see everyone, but few bother to look her way.

The classroom gradually fills with students, including Jade and her shadow, Willow, who make a production of claiming their usual front-row seats by displacing two unfortunate sophomores who didn't know better.

Just as the warning bell rings, Roland Dunster strolls in like he owns the place—which, socially speaking, he kind of does. With his perfectly tousled dark hair and perpetual half-smile, he's the walking definition of "heartbreaker." Natalie watches him from behind her curtain of jet-black hair, noting the practiced confidence in his stride, the casual way he acknowledges greetings from classmates.

Roland is Westlake's most notorious player, leaving a trail of broken hearts and regrettable hookups in his wake. Girls know his reputation and fall for him anyway, convinced they'll be the one to change him. They never are.

He passes Natalie's desk without a glance—as he has every day since freshman year—and takes his usual seat directly behind her. She can feel his presence like a weight, though she knows he's not actually paying her any attention. Why would he? In Roland Dunster's world, girls like Natalie don't even register.

What she doesn't see is the way his eyes linger on her for a moment longer than usual, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

Who is she? Roland wonders, studying the back of her head with mild curiosity. A new student, maybe?

The irony that they've shared classes for three years without him noticing her once would be amusing if it weren't so predictable. To guys like Roland Dunster, girls like Natalie might as well be invisible—until, suddenly, they're not.

But Natalie doesn't know that moment is coming. For now, she's exactly where she wants to be: unnoticed, unbothered, and counting down the days until she can leave high school behind forever.

Meanwhile, across the school, Michelle is having a very different morning.

She settles into her seat in AP Literature, arranging her color-coded notebooks just so, when someone drops into the desk beside her. She doesn't look up, assuming it's just another classmate, until a voice breaks through her concentration.

"Morning," says a voice that definitely doesn't belong to her usual desk neighbor.

Michelle freezes, then slowly turns to find Ryan Matthews—Owen's best friend and one of the most sought-after guys in school—smiling at her. Actually smiling. At her.

"Me?" she asks before she can stop herself.

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Unless there's another Michelle Foster sitting in that chair."

"Hi," she manages, mentally kicking herself for sounding so breathless.

"Ryan Matthews," he says, offering his hand. "Though I think we've had chemistry together."

"We have chemistry—I mean, we're in chemistry. Together. The class," Michelle stammers, taking his hand briefly before withdrawing hers like she's been burned.

His smile widens. "So, James's party on Friday. You going?"

"I—yes. Definitely," she replies, though until this moment she'd been on the fence.

"Save me a dance?" he asks, and Michelle can only nod, not trusting her voice.

The bell rings, saving her from having to form actual words, and the teacher begins class. But for the next fifty minutes, Michelle can't focus on a single word about Shakespearean sonnets. All she can think is: Ryan Matthews knows my name. Ryan Matthews wants to dance with me.

And, most pressingly: How am I going to convince Natalie to come to this party?