The Hum Beneath My Skin

Vivian POV

Something’s off today, like the air’s holding its breath. It’s not just the rain clouds smothering the sky or the way my sneakers stick to Westbridge High’s polished floors. There’s a hum under my skin, faint but persistent, like a song I can’t quite hear. I’m Vivian Harper, the girl who’d rather disappear than stand out, and this feeling—this weird, buzzing energy—is not part of my usual routine. I shove it down, chalking it up to nerves. Third period’s looming, and I’m already bracing for the worst.

The hallway’s a zoo, same as every Monday. Jocks high-five over some weekend touchdown, cheerleaders trade gossip by the lockers, and I weave through it all, hoodie pulled low. Maya Delgado, my best friend, calls me a “professional wallflower,” which stings less than it should. I like my quiet life—books, sketchpads, and avoiding drama. But this hum? It’s throwing me off, making my heart skitter like I’m running late, even though I’m not.

I’m halfway to English when I nearly collide with Lila Carter and her posse. Her blonde ponytail swings as she laughs, loud and fake, her eyes slicing through me. “Watch it, Harper,” she says, voice dripping with that special venom she saves for me. I mumble an apology, ducking past. Don’t engage. That’s my mantra. Lila’s the queen of making my life miserable, and I’m not about to give her more ammo.

In the classroom, I claim my back-row seat by the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. The hum’s still there, pulsing in my fingertips as I doodle a jagged line in my notebook. It’s not much, but it keeps me grounded. Mr. Pierce, our English teacher, is already at his desk, glasses glinting like he’s plotting our doom. I’m praying for an easy day when the door swings open, and the room goes still.

He’s new. That much is obvious from the way everyone stares, like he’s stepped out of a movie instead of a high school hallway. Dark hair, just messy enough to look effortless, and eyes so green they cut through the gray morning light. His leather jacket’s out of place among our faded jeans and hoodies, but he wears it like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He hands Mr. Pierce a slip of paper, his movements smooth, almost too deliberate.

“Class,” Mr. Pierce says, barely looking up, “meet Tyler Grayson. Transfer student. Find a seat, Mr. Grayson.”

Tyler Grayson. The name lodges in my brain, sharp and heavy. He scans the room, and for one awful second, his eyes lock on mine. The hum in my skin flares, a jolt that makes my breath hitch. I drop my gaze, cheeks burning, and fumble with my pencil. It rolls off the desk, clattering loud enough to draw snickers.

“Smooth, Harper,” Lila mutters from two rows up, her voice a knife disguised as a whisper. Her friends giggle, and I want to shrink into nothing.

Tyler doesn’t react. He just slides into the desk across from me, his presence like a magnet I can’t ignore. I risk a glance. He’s not looking at me now, but there’s something about him—something that feels… different. Like he’s carrying a secret bigger than a new kid’s nerves. I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. Too many fantasy novels.

Mr. Pierce dives into Macbeth, his voice a monotone drone about ambition and betrayal. I try to focus, scribbling notes, but my eyes keep drifting to Tyler. He’s not writing. He’s watching—not the board, but the room, like he’s mapping every exit, every face. It’s unsettling, and I can’t decide if it’s creepy or intriguing.

“Miss Harper,” Mr. Pierce snaps, yanking me back to reality. He’s at the front, arms crossed, his stare pinning me like a bug. “Care to explain Lady Macbeth’s influence in Act One?”

My stomach lurches. The hum turns to a roar, drowning out my thoughts. I know this—I’ve read the play twice—but my mouth’s dry, and Lila’s smirk isn’t helping. “She, um,” I start, voice barely audible, “she pushes Macbeth to… to act.”

“Act how?” Mr. Pierce presses, his tone sharp. The class shifts, waiting for me to crash and burn.

I’m floundering, the words slipping away, when Tyler’s voice cuts through, calm and sure. “Lady Macbeth drives the plot by manipulating Macbeth’s ambition. She pushes him to kill Duncan, setting everything in motion. She’s the spark for his downfall.”

The room quiets. Mr. Pierce blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Well said, Mr. Grayson. Miss Harper, perhaps you’ll prepare better next time.”

I should feel relieved, but all I get is a hot mix of gratitude and humiliation. Tyler doesn’t look my way, but I catch a flicker of something—amusement?—in his expression. Why did he do that? He doesn’t know me. I sink lower in my seat, the hum buzzing louder, like it’s mocking me too.

The bell rings, and I’m up in a flash, stuffing my notebook into my backpack. I need out—away from Lila’s laughs, Mr. Pierce’s glare, and whatever Tyler Grayson’s deal is. Maya catches me in the hall, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Okay, Viv, spill,” she says, nudging me. “What was that in there? New guy swooping in like your personal knight?”

“He was just answering,” I mutter, though my heart’s still racing. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? He’s gorgeous and smart. I’m telling you, there’s a story there.” Maya grins, but I’m too rattled to play along.

The day drags on, Lila’s taunts lingering like a bruise. By last period, I’m counting minutes until I can escape to my room, where the world makes sense. But as I grab my books from my locker, I spot Lila and her crew by the exit, their eyes glinting with trouble.

“Going somewhere, Harper?” Lila calls, stepping closer. “Maybe try not tripping over your own feet this time.”

My fists clench, but I keep my head down, slipping past. The hum’s back, sharper now, like it’s daring me to snap. I ignore it, pushing through the double doors into the damp September air. The rain’s stopped, leaving puddles that reflect the fading light. I cut across the field toward home, the fastest route, even if the woods nearby always feel a little too dark.

I’m halfway across when that hum turns into something else—a prickle, like eyes on my back. I glance over my shoulder, but the field’s empty, just wet grass and the school’s silhouette. My pulse quickens. I’m imagining things, aren’t I? Too much stress, too little sleep.

Then I see him. Tyler Grayson, standing by the school’s side entrance, half-hidden in shadow. He’s not moving, just watching me, his green eyes catching the last of the daylight. The hum in my skin explodes, a wildfire I can’t explain. It’s not fear, not exactly, but it’s something—something that feels alive, awake, and entirely new.

“Vivian,” he says, his voice low, carrying across the distance like he’s right beside me. My name in his mouth feels wrong, too intimate, like he knows something I don’t.

I freeze, my breath shallow. He takes a step closer, and the air shifts, heavy with a scent I can’t place—earth, pine, and something wild. The hum’s a scream now, and my vision sharpens, the world too bright, too loud.

Then he says it, soft but clear: “You’re not what you think you are.”