3

As soon as I opened the door, I became someone else.

I walked through the narrow hallways smiling, giving people high-fives like I actually wanted to be there. My posture changed. My face loosened. The act slipped on naturally, like muscle memory.

The school itself was strange. Despite having millionaires attending, the building looked poor. There were only ten classrooms, each barely able to fit twenty students. The largest—and nicest—room was the principal’s office, which pretty much told you everything you needed to know.

The hallways were cramped, barely wide enough to walk through without bumping into someone. The floors were filthy, like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. Food crumbs, loose papers, and even clothes were scattered around for reasons I never understood. Some parts of the school smelled unbearable, especially the art room, which reeked of rotten eggs.

They tried to fix it once. During my sophomore year, someone set off stink bombs as a senior prank, and the smell never fully left. To this day, it lingered—strongest in the boys’ locker room.

The temperature was never normal. It was either unbearably hot or painfully cold. We didn’t have air conditioning, so fall and spring felt like punishment. In the winter, the school froze. We had heaters, but they refused to turn them on because once they did, they “couldn’t turn them off.” That morning felt colder inside than outside. You could see your breath when you exhaled.

The only comfortable place in the building was the principal’s office. She constantly complained about students exaggerating the temperature, insisting it “wasn’t that bad.” Easy for her to say—she was the only one with a working heater and air conditioner.

When I asked why the school couldn’t invest in better climate control, she told me the money was going toward a new football field.

That explanation sounded reasonable until you actually saw the field.

It was unusable. Holes were hidden beneath tall grass, perfect for breaking an ankle. It was too small for varsity games and had almost no seating, meaning spectators were always at risk of getting hit. Because of that, we played our home games at Springfield High School instead.

Their field was artificial, massive, and safe—everything ours wasn’t.

Later, I found out over half of our budget went toward renting Springfield’s field. When I asked how long it would take to build our own, the principal said ten to fifteen years. Then she casually mentioned they had already been investing in it for the past fifteen.

At that point, it was clear the football field wasn’t the problem.

Priorities were.

The walls of the school were painted a dull brown and decorated with old pictures of athletes. None of them had been updated in years. Sports were what our school was known for, even though none of our teams had made it past sectionals recently.

The first hallway belonged to the freshmen. There were only about thirty of them—the smallest class. They were surprisingly nice. Too nice.

If you were a senior, they treated you like royalty. They knew your name, your business, sometimes even your entire life story, which was unsettling. They handed out compliments and high-fives like it was their job. Some made jokes about my ethnicity. I ignored it. Fake-laughed. They were desperate to fit in, copying upperclassmen in everything—including their ignorance.

At the end of the hallway were stairs leading upstairs. Juniors on the left. Seniors on the right.

I went up and immediately felt it.

The look.

The look that told you you didn’t belong.

The junior class was easily the worst in the school. There were about forty of them, and they acted like they owned the place. They were popular in every nearby town, partied every weekend, and posted everything online—even the stuff that should’ve ruined their futures.

Six of them stood out. I called them the Sinister Six.

Jason Stokes was the leader. Tall, good-looking, green eyes, messy black hair. He treated everyone like trash unless you were attractive enough to matter. He had a scar on his shoulder from a party fight—at least that was the story. The story changed every time, so maybe he just cut himself making a sandwich. Either way, intelligence wasn’t his strength.

His girlfriend, Emma Carlson, was worse. The only redhead in the school. Pretty privilege followed her everywhere. She smiled sweetly, spoke softly, and insulted you so subtly you didn’t realize it until five minutes later. She wasn’t athletic, but she was smart—and manipulative. Especially with Jason.

Amy Watterson and Laney Crandall followed her everywhere. Pretty, blonde, cheerleaders. Always holding Starbucks. Always filming TikToks. They weren’t openly cruel, but their expressions alone warned you to keep your distance.

The last one was Sean Bride. Strong, lean, always carrying a guitar he wasn’t allowed to have. People liked him. Outside of school, he was reckless—constantly high and somehow ignored despite having assault charges against him. Together, they ran the hallway.

Jason nodded at me as I passed. I nodded back.

That was our agreement: civil, distant, safe.

The hallway was chaotic. Girls gossiping. Wrestlers fighting each other. Basketball players begging for algebra answers. Kids lining up to buy gum from Charles Hartley for two dollars a pack.

I rushed to my locker. Five minutes until the first period.

“Yo!”

I turned. Mason Drew.

One of the few genuinely evil people in my class. Buzz cut. Good face. Around my height—thankfully. He wore a pair of Miles Morales Jordans, my dream shoes.

“How was Mexico, my man?” he asked.

“I didn’t go this year. Budget.”

He laughed. “Dude, you got infinite money.”

“I’m not rich. Have you seen my car?”

“That doesn't mean anything, homie.”

I was clearly annoyed, so he switched topics. “What class did you get?”

“College Algebra Prep.”

“Crazy. I took the most chill classes possible. Senior year survival.”

“I just want to get out of here.”

He frowned. “Why are you excited to graduate? That’s when life gets hard.”

I laughed. “We only have a few months left. That’s funny to me.”

He shook his head. “You're weird, man. I got Theology.”

Then he ran off like a cartoon character.

Somehow, he was still one of the coolest people I knew.

I barely made it to algebra on time.

The classroom was small, packed with desks and whiteboards. Mrs. Payne was already watching Bridgerton on the smart board. Teaching seemed optional for her. Her desk was buried under papers, Cheetos, and empty Starbucks cups.

The bell rang.

She didn’t look up.

Eventually, she paused the show and asked about slope-intercept form. Silence. Then a hand went up.

“It’s y equals mx plus b.”

I turned toward the voice.

The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks.

“That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?”

“Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”