Chapter 9

Prue

The hallway buzzed with the low hum of teenage chaos – lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone shouting for a pen like it was a life-or-death emergency. I walked beside my girls, weaving through the crowd. Then I saw her – Tessa – walking alone, clutching her books too tightly, eyes flicking sideways like she expected someone to jump out of the shadows. Classic anxiety posture. I veered slightly off course.

“Hey,” I said, soft and warm, like I was approaching a wounded puppy. “How are you?”

Her eyes widened for a split second before she masked it with a polite smile. She furrowed her brows – just enough to show suspicion.

“I’m… fine. Why?”

Yup. Self-defense mode activated. I knew that look too well.

“Is that dou.che giving you trouble again?” I asked gently, like comforting a battle-worn soldier still waiting for the next hit.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head with a little scoff.

“Please, no! He tucked his tail and ran off.”

Her voice was lighter now, her stance easing. Progress.

“He still glares at me in the halls sometimes, but honestly?” She smirked. “I take it as a compliment.”

I liked her spark. Resilience always earned points in my book.

“Good,” I nodded, studying the faint tension still in her jaw. “Really glad to hear that.”

I let silence rest a beat before adding, softer, anchoring my words like laying bricks to a bridge:

“If he ever bothers you again – even a foul word – you let me know. We’ll bring him double trouble.”

I nudged her with my elbow and flashed a bright grin. She chuckled – real this time.

“Sure, I’m always open to trouble,” she said, with a half-grin that made me smirk. Oh, weren’t we bonding just delightfully?

“We should eat lunch together sometime – or grab a drink after school,” I said, locking eyes with her. Steady. No blinking. Pure podcast-verified bonding technique. Eye contact: the fast-track to human connection.

She blinked. Yeah, I may have overdone it.

“Suure...” she said, dragging the word out like she wasn’t sure whether I was flirting or recruiting her for a cult.

I chuckled, shaking my head.

“Don’t worry,” I said, with a wink. “You’ll warm up to me.”

She snorted, trying to hide her laugh.

“Okay.”

Clearly, she thought I was a weirdo. Not the first time. Definitely won’t be the last.

But here’s the thing – once you embrace your weirdness, own it like designer leather. Life’s easier. Who cares what people think? Not me. Not anymore.

They say women don’t stop giving a da.mn until their thirties. Well, I guess I’m an early bloomer. I smiled to myself, amused. Honestly, it’s fun being me.

As I turned to go, I brushed her shoulder with a soft squeeze.

“Have a great day, Tes. I’ll see you around.”

“You too,” she replied, polite as ever. Trained into us from birth, wasn’t it? Americans practically get a gold star for basic manners.

I rejoined my girls, who were very obviously watching everything from a safe distance.

“What was that about?” Kate asked, raising a suspicious brow.

“Just a little project of mine,” I replied cryptically.

Three sets of eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said with a mischievous grin, slipping my arms through Christina’s and Rose’s elbows and tugging us in the opposite direction. The bell had already rung. Time to strut into class like we hadn’t just staged a social intervention.

***

The halls had emptied out ages ago, echoing with the last notes of chatter and footsteps long gone. I was still dragging my butt like a snail toward my locker, already feeling the weight of homework and the emotional drain of surviving another day of teenage melodrama. I pulled open my locker and started shoving the stuff I’d need for tonight’s homework into my bag with the enthusiasm of a corpse.

Then I caught a scent – floral shampoo with a hint of anxiety – and heard the metallic clatter of the locker close to mine. Tessa.

Maybe I wasn’t done with today after all. I smirked quietly to myself and closed my locker with a definitive clunk.

Taking two steps toward her, I leaned just enough to enter her periphery. She glanced at me briefly, then resumed rifling through her locker like I was a pop quiz she hadn’t studied for.

“Hey,” I said, casual but warm, like tossing a pebble into still water to test the depth.

“Hi,” she replied, eyes not leaving her locker.

“You done for today?” I asked, leaning lazily against the locker beside her.

“Yeah, thank God,” she huffed with that perfect blend of exhaustion and sarcasm only teenagers can pull off.

“Mm, the endless joy of compulsory education,” I said with a smirk.

Her lips twitched, just barely. A crack in the armor.

“I’m done too,” I offered. “Wanna hang out in the school garden for a bit?”

She paused mid-motion, then finally looked at me – really looked. Measuring. Weighing.

“You really are obsessing over me, huh?” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. I grinned.

“I like your sass. Makes me think we’ve got more in common than you think.”

My smile must’ve been contagious, because hers followed right after. She slammed her locker shut and hoisted her backpack over one shoulder.

“Lead the way, Miss Sassiness,” she teased.

Hooking my arm through hers, I guided us toward the school garden. The place was kind of magical in its own hidden way – old fruit trees, messy vegetable beds, wildflowers climbing over rusting trellises. Apparently, a biology teacher started it decades ago as a living textbook. Now it was half-legacy, half-forgotten. I liked that. I hadn’t seen anything like it elsewhere.

We found a bench under an apple tree, its branches offering a gentle dapple of light. I gestured for her to sit. She flopped down, letting her bag slide to the ground, and I joined her, the space between us shrinking naturally. I waited a second, letting the silence settle before going in.

“So how was your day?” I started lightly, kicking a fallen apple with the tip of my shoe.

“Boring,” she said with a scrunch of her nose.

“Yeah,” I sighed dramatically. “Nothing like a thrilling deep-dive into mitochondria and math to get the blood pumping.”

That earned a real smirk.

“So I’m still new around here,” I continued. “What’s there to do in this town?”

She shrugged. “There are a couple of fairs that come through twice a year. Some rich kids throw wild parties when their parents vanish, but otherwise? Pretty dead. I can’t wait to get out.”

Her frustration was raw. I could feel it vibrating off her like heat from asphalt.

“Is that why you use guys to keep things interesting?” I asked with a sly glance.

She laughed, no hint of offense.

“Totally. Gotta make my own entertainment.”

“I’m an only child,” I offered. “I get bored easily too. You got siblings?”

I keep the conversation casual, making sure I’m offering as much honesty as I’m asking for.

She snorted. “God, I wish I was an only child. My parents are like rabbits. I’ve got four younger ones I babysit almost daily.”

“Oof,” I winced. “What ages?”

“Nine, seven, five… and two.”

She mimed a gun to her temple. I let out a low whistle.

“That’s basically a daycare center.”

“I know, right?” she groaned.

I empathize with that – those ages are still so young. She’s basically playing mom at home.

“I’m still worried that one day my mom will come home and tell me she’s pregnant again,” she says, scrunching her nose with a look of dread.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding with genuine sympathy. “I’d be worried too if I were you.”

“I’m traumatized by the sound of pregnancy tests.” she adds with clear disgust.

I laughed, then softened.

“Does your mom work?”

“Yeah, afternoons mostly – after I get home from school so I can watch the littlest ones.”

“Wait, really?”

She nodded. “Daycare’s too expensive, so she works nights and weekends too.”

“Damn,” I said, surprised by her openness. “So you’re like… second mom.”

“Not like I have a choice,” she muttered with a shrug.

“You could get a job instead, earn some cash during that time,” I suggested gently.

“I would just end up giving most of it to my family anyway,” she said without bitterness. Just fact.

“At least you’d be saved from the chaos of little demons.” I say with a small smile.

“Nah. The kids are cute, but customers can be the demons – rude, mean, entitled. I’ll take my siblings any day.” She says it with a quiet certainty, the kind that comes from having lived through it.

“Some customers might be cute boys who slip you their number though,” I teased.

She laughed. “Okay, yeah, that part can be fun and beneficial.”

“Muscled boys definitely beat sticky-handed toddlers.” I toss in a little extra heat, and it earns me another smile from her.

“They’re not that bad,” she said, half-defending them.

“At their age? Please. They ought to be naughty, so don’t lie to me, Tes,” I said with mock sternness.

She chuckled. “Fine. They’re little gremlins. But they’re cute when they sleep. And when they’re eating and can’t talk back.”

Her smile softened, and for a second I saw the real warmth beneath her exhaustion.

“My dad works in construction,” I said, sliding the spotlight back her way. “What about yours?”

The shift in her body was instant – tense shoulders, a heartbeat spike I could feel even without trying.

“He’s… on and off with work,” she said slowly. “The bottle’s more of a friend to him than money.”

There was a bitterness in her voice that had roots – deep, old ones.

“Ah,” I said, dry as sandpaper. “Let me guess – lifelong subscriber to Drunk & Dysfunctional?”

That made her exhale something between a snort and a laugh.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s about right.”

I was still leaning back on the bench, watching her face closely, letting the conversation naturally unfold as we peeled back layers of her life – one raw truth at a time.

“So is he one of those who gets drunk and loud, or drunk and silently broody?”

I kept my tone light, curious, but not too probing. I could see her body subtly tense again, a flicker of discomfort crossing her eyes before she slipped back into the well-rehearsed mask of nonchalance.

“Oh, he’s a bit of everything,” she said dryly, eyes scanning the garden like she was somewhere else entirely. “There’s the silent phase. Then the loud phase – when I pray the neighbors won’t call the cops again. Then comes the crybaby phase. And, of course, the famous ‘I love you all’ phase.”

I couldn’t help but snort. “Ah, the full drunken bingo card.” Like we haven’t all witnessed those drunk phases before. Classic.

She cracked the faintest smile at that, but there was no real amusement behind it. Just a tired kind of acceptance.

“So why hasn’t your mom kicked him out yet?” I asked softly, without judgment. Still, I was digging.

Her jaw clenched just a bit.

“God knows. Maybe because he brings in some money. Or because, in his sober phase, he fixes things and cooks ridiculously good food. Maybe it’s mind-blowing se.x – ugh, I don’t even want to think about that.”

She shuddered and gave a half-laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “But you know how it is with alcoholics – those good phases don’t last.”

There was disappointment in her voice, sure – but underneath that, something heavier, more bitter. A long-standing ache. She was staring off ahead, eyes cloudy with some distant memory.

“So… does he ever get aggressive?” I asked, my voice dropped with sincerity. This was where I’d been heading since I first laid eyes on her.

Her heart rate picked up. I felt it before I saw it – her breath tightened, though her face remained expressionless.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, finally:

“Don’t they all?”

She met my eyes, her own haunted, glassy. It was one of those moments when words didn’t need to be said. I nodded – silent, firm, understanding exactly what she meant.

“Just another phase of drunkness, right?” She tried to pass it off with indifferent humor, but her voice cracked ever so slightly.

“You should report it.” I said it firmly, my tone no longer playful. This mattered.

She looked away, jaw twitching.

“My mom would just spend a fortune to bail him out.”

She replied bitterly, even defeated. And somehow… protective of her mom, even in the mess. I swallowed my rising anger. This was so fu.cked up.

To give her a breather, I pivoted the conversation. “So what music are you into?”

She blinked at me, startled by the switch. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, studying me as if trying to figure out what game I was playing.

“Totally into indie pop and chill. But a good hip-hop beat? That’s a turn-on.”

Her tone lightened, finally.

“Nice,” I said, relieved. “I’m a rock girl through and through, but that’s no surprise, huh?”

She smiled back, the tension in her shoulders finally softening.

“So… do you rhyme, too?”

I nudged her playfully while she looked at me with a frown.

“A bit,” she admitted, looking down but clearly pleased with herself. I have to resist the urge to fist bump the air – God, I love when my intuition nails it. I just toss out the first random thought that hits me, and half the time it lands like some spooky psychic prediction.

“Noice! I’d love to hear that sometime.” I flash her a warm smile.

“Yeah, sure.” She says it easily enough, but the lack of conviction in her voice gives her away – it’s not a real yes, just a polite deflection.

“How do you drink your coffee?” I kept the questions coming, random but revealing.

She narrowed her eyes with suspicion.

“Like a queen – sugar, cream, and a mountain of whipped cream.”

She throws it out with playful sass, making me grin.

“Damn, now I have to try that.”

I grinned, intrigued by the idea of something so indulgently rich it might stop my heart – and still taste divine.

“You should. It's heavenly,” she said, genuinely delighted.

We were getting somewhere. So I dropped my next line like a pillar:

“Alright, now that I know the basic fun facts about you, I think it’s only fair to seal the deal with a number exchange, don’t you think?” I said it in the voice of a cheesy news anchor.

She laughed out loud. “Wow. You really are obsessed with me.”

“Totally. I mean, what’s not to obsess over?”

I play along with an exaggerated duh tone, making her chuckle even more. Then I handed her my phone, and she tapped in her number. A moment later, I gave her a call, grinning as I herd the faint buzz of her phone vibrating from inside her bag.

“FYI, I only accept se.xting and X-rated video calls after 9 p.m.”

I deadpanned with a devilish smirk while I saved her number in my phone.

She burst out laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“Ah, and now you know me well,” I say with a bright smile. “That’s actually the trait people use to describe me the most.”

She smiles back and shakes her head in amusement.

“Well, I’ve got to get home to my little rascals,” she says, standing up and dusting off her jeans. I spring to my feet and fall into step beside her as we make our way toward the school gate.

“I could come help babysit sometime,” I offered sincerely.

She glanced at me sideways, unsure how to respond. She didn’t answer right away.

“What do you say?” I nudge her for an answer, watching her reaction.

“Yeah… we’ll see.” She gave a polite laugh, but I could tell she didn’t really mean it. Still, I wasn’t backing off.

We slipped into light conversation – music, memes, celebrity drama, the usual teenage fluff. And as we stepped out into the warm glow of the late afternoon sun, I glanced at her.

Isn’t it surprising how little it can take to spark a meaningful connection with someone? A shared laugh, a moment of honesty, the feeling of being seen. Sometimes, that’s all it takes. And before you know it, you’ve found something precious – a real bond.

Something we end up cherishing more fiercely than our own pride, our fears… maybe even our own life. Funny how the smallest things can open the biggest doors.