How Maya Got Fierce by Sona Charaipotra

Author:Sona Charaipotra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

13

Monday barrels in out of nowhere, a day of great expectations and potential calamity.

My stomach boils with anxiety, like a pot of chai about to erupt. And my fashionista fairy god mum is so not helping. Shenaz, dressed and ready, is once again considering my first-day look.

Correction: She’s been pondering it for about forty-five minutes now. I’m dressed in the fourth outfit she picked before I threatened to go naked—a sleeveless pale pink silk tank and cashmere sweater (for the AC, she reminds me), a plum corduroy skirt, and silver strappy sandals, now that my toes are “appropriately done.” (Nixed the neutral for Fierce haute pink, and she insisted on doing them herself.) My hair is down, big, loose curls, the makeup minimal, even though I think it makes me look too young. “Fresh-faced, Maya Memsahib. First impressions are everything,” she keeps saying.

“I already met her.”

“But you’re going to meet everyone.” She readjusts my hair, a pair of jeweled hairpins in her mouth. “Trust. I know what I’m talking about.” She places another pin, pulling some curls to the side, then examines her handiwork. “Maybe a headband?” She pulls out a thin, purple sequined number.

“Too nineties.” I take a step back.

But she crowns me, satisfied. “Oh, dollface, so young, so oblivious. It’s seventies, way back. Like, do you even know who Zeenat Aman is?”

I turn to look, and it’s actually really cute. “Yeah, Cherry is obsessed with her.” But Shenaz ponders again, reaching for the headband, and I lightly thwack her hands away. “Nope. Done deal. We gotta bolt or we’ll miss the train. That’s definitely not the first impression I want to make. So come on, Fashionista God Mum. This time, I’m leading the way.”

Miraculously, the train pulls up about two minutes after we huff and puff to the station, and we actually score a seat. The sweater is very necessary, because even the train is freezing, and I weave expertly through the foot traffic on our walk to Times Square. Then we’re there, the Mac-Scott Tower looming large ahead of us.

I pause and take a deep breath. “Will you pinch me?” I ask Shenaz, and she laughs that bubbling, tinkling laugh.

“Oh, dollface, this is going to be amazing.” She squeezes one of my cheeks like an annoying auntie. “Imagine the stories you’ll tell when you’re old.”

It will make an awesome story someday. If I can pull it off.

My phone pings with a good luck message from Marcus. But nothing from Ranbir, which is weird. Whatever. Today will be perfect.

Shenaz scans me through the front turnstiles and ushers me into the elevator bank, hitting the button for the thirty-fourth floor. There are endless elegant media types milling through the lobby, the kind of people you only see in magazines or TV shows, in classic-cut business suits, designer dresses, or haute leather pants right off the runway. I can’t help but stare, and Shenaz laughs again, gesturing for me to pick my jaw up off the floor. I hear the sharp clack of heels behind me and turn despite her warnings, caught.

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