Chapter 4: The Seat That Changed Everything
I didn't think one seat could cause so much damage.
Apparently, I underestimated how much territory mattered at Crestmore. Every desk, hallway corner, and cafeteria bench belonged to someone. And mine—the one beside Jace Anderson—had become prime real estate for envy, gossip, and subtle sabotage.
By Tuesday, the whispers weren't even whispers anymore.
"She's probably just using him to climb the ladder."
"Did you see them yesterday? He picked up her drawings like they were golden."
"Wonder what she did to get that seat."
I kept walking.
The air outside was cooler than it had been the day before. I clutched my sketchpad tighter to my chest as I crossed the courtyard. A group of upperclassmen stood around the fountain, laughing too loudly. Someone whistled as I passed. I didn't look back.
When I reached my locker, Nina was already there, looking pale.
"They keyed your locker," she said.
I blinked. "What?"
She stepped aside.
At first, I didn't register what I was seeing. Then the words snapped into focus, scratched crudely into the paint like a slap to the face:
CHARITY CASE
I exhaled through my nose and ran a hand over the letters. They were shallow, but deep enough to be seen. Deep enough to stay.
"I'll get the janitor," Nina offered. "Maybe he can cover it."
"No," I said quickly. "Leave it."
She stared at me. "You sure?"
"If I clean it off, they'll just do it again."
There was something sharp rising in me. Something I hadn't felt in a while. I didn't want to cry. I didn't even want to hide.
I wanted to outlast them.
Sixth period was gym. I hated gym.
Crestmore's sports complex was massive—like a university stadium stuffed inside a high school. The gym floor gleamed, the bleachers stretched to the ceiling, and the walls were plastered with banners from decades of victories. Most of them had Anderson written somewhere in the fine print.
I changed quietly and stayed in the back row of the warm-up line, praying the coach wouldn't single me out.
Halfway through drills, the basketball team entered through the side door. Jace was at the front, followed by three guys with identical swagger. The girls immediately stopped pretending to focus.
One of them elbowed her friend. "There he is."
"He looks pissed."
And he did. His jaw was tight, shoulders squared like he'd been holding something in for hours. One of the coaches was talking to him near the far wall. Loud enough for me to hear.
"You missed the press shoot again, Anderson."
Jace shrugged.
"We had sponsors. Interviews. Your face sells this school."
"I had class."
"You're not just an athlete. You're a brand."
I watched Jace turn away without answering. He walked straight past the coach, across the court, and right through the girls' drill zone. Some of them practically melted in his wake.
He didn't look at them.
He looked at me.
Our eyes met for half a second before he turned toward the locker room, his expression unreadable.
But something about the way he walked—like the whole gym annoyed him—made my heart do a strange little flip.
After gym, I took the courtyard path again. It was usually less crowded, but today students were gathering for the annual club showcase. Booths lined the stone walkway, with banners for everything from the Chess Club to the Theater Guild. Someone from the art club had set up a wall where people could add their own sketches.
Nina tugged my sleeve. "Draw something."
"No way."
"Come on," she said. "Just one. No names. No one has to know it's you."
I glanced around. Most people were too busy crowding around the Robotics demo or watching the cheerleaders perform on the steps.
I picked up a marker.
I drew a hand—long fingers, elegant wrist, gently holding a paper airplane. It wasn't flashy. Just quiet. Deliberate.
Nina stared at it. "That's him, isn't it?"
I capped the pen. "Maybe."
She smiled, and we kept walking.
But we didn't make it far.
Mia stood at the intersection between the gym and the courtyard, flanked by her friends like bodyguards. Her expression darkened the second she saw me.
"Well, if it isn't Crestmore's newest attention leech," she said.
Nina stiffened beside me. "Ignore her."
I tried.
But Mia wasn't here to be ignored.
"You should be careful," she added, stepping into our path. "Clinging to someone like Jace? Not a great survival plan. He gets bored. Fast."
I didn't flinch. "Thanks for the advice."
Her smirk twitched.
Then, out of nowhere, she reached for my sketchpad.
I moved faster than I thought I could. My fingers locked around hers.
"Don't."
Mia looked genuinely surprised. Her hand twitched in mine. I didn't let go.
And then—
"Is there a problem here?"
Jace.
He stood a few feet away, arms folded, expression calm but cold. The kind of cold that made people shut up.
Mia yanked her hand back.
"No problem," she said sweetly. "We were just chatting."
Jace didn't even blink. "You chat with your hands now?"
She flushed.
Without another word, he turned to me. "Come on."
And just like that, I followed him again.
We ended up in the upper courtyard, where hardly anyone went after hours. It was quieter, windier, the noise of the school fading behind us.
He leaned against the railing, arms crossed. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
I looked at him. "Why do you keep helping me?"
He didn't answer right away. The wind picked up, tugging at his hoodie. He looked out over the field below, where younger students were starting practice.
"I don't know," he said finally. "You don't try."
"Try what?"
"To impress me. To pretend."
I hesitated. "Maybe because I gave up on impressing anyone a long time ago."
"That's not a bad thing."
"It feels like it."
He didn't argue.
I leaned against the railing next to him. We didn't speak for a while. It was that same silence again—the kind that felt thick, but not uncomfortable. Just full.
"Why basketball?" I asked.
He looked at me like no one had ever asked him that before.
"I don't know," he said. "It makes sense. The court's the only place where things aren't fake."
"Even the cheering?"
"Especially the cheering. At least it's honest."
I nodded slowly. "Do you ever get tired of it? Being worshipped?"
His jaw tightened. "Every day."
That surprised me.
"But they don't see that," he added. "They don't want to."
I thought of the sketch I drew earlier. The hand holding the paper plane. A quiet gesture no one noticed.
Except maybe him.
"I don't worship you," I said quietly.
"I know."
And for a second, I thought he might say something else. But he didn't.
Instead, he turned and started walking back toward the main building.
Just before he disappeared down the stairs, he looked back at me.
"I saw your drawing."
I blinked. "Which one?"
"The one on the art wall."
I flushed. "It's not signed."
He shrugged. "Didn't have to be."
That night, when I got home, I found a note in my sketchpad.
No envelope. No name. Just a folded square of paper tucked between the pages.
You're not invisible.
– J
I read it three times.
Then I smiled.
Because for the first time in a long while, I actually believed it.