The study session with Isabella was supposed to start at 2 PM in the library, but I got there fifteen minutes early, still thinking about the phone call with my boys from last night. The situation with Malik and his crew had me stressed, but there wasn't much I could do from three thousand miles away except trust that Dre would handle it smart.
I found Isabella at a corner table on the second floor, already set up with textbooks, notebooks, and color-coded pens arranged like she was preparing for surgery. She looked up when I approached, and her face lit up with that smile that made my stomach do flips.
"You're early," she said, closing her laptop. "I like that."
"Couldn't sleep much last night. Figured I might as well be productive."
"Everything okay? You look... tense."
I sat down across from her, noticing how she'd chosen a spot where we could see the ocean through the tall windows. Even studying, Isabella thought about details like that.
"Just some stuff back home. Nothing I can control from here."
"Want to talk about it?"
I thought about explaining the whole situation - the gang politics, the threats, the fact that my boys might be in danger because of choices we'd made months ago. But Isabella came from a different world. How could I explain street dynamics to someone who probably never even seen a real argument?
"Nah, it's cool. Just family stuff."
Isabella studied my face with those intelligent eyes, like she was reading between the lines.
"You know, if you ever want to talk about the complicated parts of your life, I'm a good listener. I might not understand everything, but I don't judge."
"I appreciate that. For real."
She opened her World History textbook. "So, studying for Mr. Thompson's test on Wednesday?"
"Yeah. This whole unit on world wars is confusing as hell."
"It's not that bad once you understand the causes and effects. Here, let me show you a trick for remembering the timeline."
For the next hour, Isabella walked me through study techniques I'd never heard of. Color-coding information by themes, making connections between different events, creating visual maps of complex topics. Watching her work was like watching an artist - everything deliberate and organized.
"You're really good at this," I said as she drew a diagram showing how World War I led to World War II.
"I've had to be. My parents expect academic excellence. Anything less than an A is considered failure in my house."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"It is. But it also pushes me to be better than I thought I could be." She looked up from her notes. "What about you? What do your parents expect?"
I thought about my mom in the hospital, my dad in prison, my grandparents who'd rescued me from a life that was heading nowhere.
"My mom just wants me to be safe and happy. My grandparents want me to take advantage of opportunities they never had. My dad..." I paused. "My dad probably just wants me to not end up where he is."
"Where is he?"
"Prison. Been there for three years, got some years left."
Isabella's pen stopped moving. I watched her process this information, probably the first time she'd met someone whose father was incarcerated.
"I'm sorry. That must be really hard."
"It is what it is. He made choices, now he's dealing with consequences. I'm trying to make different choices."
"Is that why you came here? To make different choices?"
"Partly. But also because I'm good at football and this place can help me get better."
We went back to studying, but I could feel Isabella watching me differently now. Not judgmental, just... curious. Like she was trying to understand how someone could come from my background and end up here.
"Can I ask you something?" she said after we'd finished the World War II section.
"Sure."
"What's it like being the only student here from your... background?"
"My background?"
"You know what I mean. Most students here have never worried about money, never had family members in prison, never lived in neighborhoods where violence was a real concern."
I leaned back in my chair, thinking about how to answer honestly.
"Sometimes it's lonely. Like, when kids complain about having to fly commercial instead of private jet, I'm just grateful I got to fly at all. When they stress about which Ivy League school to choose, I'm just trying to make sure I get to choose college at all."
"But you're handling it well. Better than I expected when I first heard about you."
"What you mean when you first heard about me?"
Isabella looked slightly embarrassed. "When the administration announced they were bringing in a student from Chicago public schools, there were... assumptions. Some people expected you to be a charity case, or someone who couldn't handle the academic rigor."
"And what do you expect?"
"I expect you to surprise people. You already have."
The way she said it, looking directly at me with those intelligent eyes, made me realize Maya had been right. Isabella did see something in me that went beyond just the football player or the charity case.
"Isabella," I said, my heart starting to beat faster. "Can I... can I get your number?"
She raised an eyebrow, but there was a small smile playing at her lips. "Why?"
The question caught me off guard. Most girls back home would've just said yes or no.
"I don't know... I mean, I haven't really done this before," I said, feeling my face get hot. "But I'm interested in you. Like, beyond just studying together."
Isabella's carefully composed expression cracked, and I saw her cheeks flush pink. For a second, she looked less like the sophisticated, strategic girl I'd gotten to know and more like... just a seventeen-year-old.
"You are?" she asked softly.
"Yeah. Is that... is that cool?"
She was quiet for a moment, looking down at her perfectly organized notes. When she looked back up, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Are you sure? What if... what if I'm not who you think I am? What if everything you think you know about me is just an act?"
The vulnerability in her question caught me completely off guard. This was the first time I'd seen Isabella doubt herself, the first time she'd seemed uncertain about anything.
"Why would you think that?" I asked.
"Because I'm good at being what people expect me to be. Perfect student, star athlete, responsible daughter. But sometimes I don't know if any of it's real or if I'm just... performing."
I thought about what she was saying. Isabella always seemed so put-together, so in control of everything. But maybe that was just another kind of pressure - the pressure to be perfect all the time.
"I don't think you're performing," I said. "Not with me, anyway. When you were telling me about that study technique, or when you got excited talking about journalism, or when you met Maya and Tayanna - that felt real."
"You think so?"
"I know so. And even if you got some stuff figured out that I don't, even if you plan things more than I do, that don't mean you fake. That just means you different from me. Don't make it bad."
Isabella stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her processing what I'd said.
"You really want my number? Just to... see what happens?"
"Yeah. I mean, if you want to give it to me."
She smiled - a real smile this time, not the controlled one she usually wore.
"Okay," she said, reaching for my phone. "But I'm warning you - I overthink everything. I might drive you crazy."
"And I don't think about nothing enough. I might drive you crazy too."
She laughed as she typed her number into my phone. "We'll see."
My phone buzzed with a text from Cameron: Emergency team meeting at 4. Coach Rivera's office. Something big.
I showed Isabella the message.
"That doesn't sound good," she said.
"Nah, probably just season prep stuff. But I should probably head over there."
"Of course." Isabella started packing up her perfectly organized materials. "Text me later? If you want to."
"I want to."
As I gathered my books, Isabella reached across the table and touched my arm.
"Jakari? Whatever's going on back home that's stressing you out - don't let it derail what you're building here. You've worked too hard to get to this point."
"How you know something's going on back home?"
"Because I pay attention. And because I care about what happens to you."
The way she said it made me look at her more carefully. There was something in her expression that went beyond friendly concern.
"Go to your meeting," she said, standing up. "But think about what I said."
As I walked toward the athletic center, I couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened. Isabella had given me her number, but more than that, she'd let me see something real underneath all that perfection.
Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Isabella and I were different in ways that could actually work.