Fog crept in from the coast, so thick it felt alive, swallowing the red roofs of New Oak High and smearing everything gray. My sneakers scraped slick cobblestones in the courtyard. Salt stung the air, mixed with that fresh rain smell. September meant back to the grind at our so‑called global academy. Posters for the new elite tracks screamed about crushing world rankings. I wove through the crowd, invisible. That's how I liked it.
Puzzles were my shield from people. In my pocket, my fingers twisted the Rubik's cube. I'd done it since I was a kid—something to steady me when my head knotted up.
Click. Clack.
Most days I solved it without looking. Today, it dragged up flashes of old midnight signals blinking through fog. The sophomore shuffle had messed everything up. The school rolled out two new elite sections, yanking top kids out of regular classes and dropping them into advanced tracks. In the halls I kept hearing: "international list," "college scouts," "PR stunt." I'd always aimed a hair above average to dodge the spotlight, so landing in the first one knocked me sideways. Elite Section 1—ES1. They called it a step up. To me, it felt like a slick snare.
The ES1 room glowed under the fluorescents. Polished desks. High windows misted with fog. The teacher's eyes raked over us like suspects.
Ms. Song let the silence stretch. "Welcome to the elite," she said. "Monthly rankings go up for everyone to see. Drop below the curve and you're out—back to regular classes, perks gone. You know what's at stake."
Her words hung there. A guy up front smirked loud enough for the whole room. "Finally. VIP labs. College scouts. About time they cut the dead weight." His grin turned my stomach. I twisted the cube harder and slid into the back row to disappear.
Then I saw her. Hanni Pham. Second to last row. Dark hair spilling over her notebook. She sketched quick lines. Stars. A circled constellation. Cherry blossoms like fallen petals. My steps faltered. The cube went still.
We used to be puzzle partners in the old neighborhood. Riddles under the sycamore—sap sticking to our fingers, bark flaking like confetti. Then rezoning tore up the city. Her family's mess yanked her across the bay. New district. New school. The promises we made to stick together faded fast. Distance turned us into strangers. Seeing her now dug up an old puzzle I never solved.
Roll call snapped the moment. Our eyes met. Hers went wide, like she'd seen a ghost. Her pen slipped, clattering under the desk. When she lunged for it, a scrap fluttered out—those same circled stars we used to map on summer nights. It skidded to my shoe. I could've grabbed it, closed the gap. But no. She'd vanished once; people do that. Puzzles don't. She paused, hand hovering, glancing at me like words were lined up on her tongue. Nothing came. Color climbed her cheeks. She snagged the paper, folded the sky shut, and buried herself in her notebook. I sat. The cube whirred in my hand.
Click. Clack.
Why her? Why now? The shuffle dragged the top students into ES1 and ES2, but I'd kept my grades just high enough to skate under radar. Hanni too. She never chased the spotlight back when we traded riddles. So how did we both end up here? The school's ranking boost felt too neat, like they'd cherry‑picked us for more than grades.
The morning blurred into calculus. Even with the challenge, my focus slipped. Ms. Song's warning sat on my shoulders. Every mistake felt like a step toward getting exposed. In poetry next, Hanni spoke up about rhythm—strong start, then her voice cracked mid‑sentence, like secrets were weighing her down. It yanked me back to her wild laugh the day I found her jammed in that sycamore during hide‑and‑seek. The memory messed with my armor. I filled the margin with equations and twisted the cube under the desk. No one noticed. Perfect.
By lunch, the fog thinned under weak sun. I grabbed my bag and hit my locker in the east wing. Beat‑up metal door in all that shiny marble. I spun the dial and popped it open. Books shifted. On top sat a folded note. Not mine. I opened it. Crisp paper. Bold black type:
"Petals Around the Rose. Room 221B."
At the bottom, neat handwriting. Minji.
Minji Kim—another sophomore like me and Hanni—ran with the student council crowd, always two moves ahead. Why slip this into my locker?
"Petals Around the Rose."
A clue? A riddle? My fingers traced the words. The cube itched for action. This felt aimed right at me. Tied to the shuffle's pressure. Was the elite program lining us up for something worse? Paranoia flared. Skip it, and I'd obsess. Chase it, and I'd get tangled.
The hall went quiet. Faint laughter drifted from the cafeteria. Room 221B was upstairs in the old humanities wing—dusty and mostly ignored. I shoved the note into my pocket. It crackled against the cube. Outside, the fog thickened again, pushing at the windows like nosy hands. If I walked away, the day would drag: classes, homework, silence. Curiosity bit deeper than worry. The words stuck. Petals. Rose. 221B.
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When the final bell rang to end the day, I grabbed my bag and cut for the humanities wing, chasing whatever answers waited there. Halls emptied fast—buses, clubs, noise falling away.
As I rounded the corner, I almost ran into her. Hanni. She stopped short, fingers crushing the note, eyes wide.
"Jin?" Her voice was soft, unsure, like I might vanish if she blinked. She glanced toward 221B, then back at me, shadows under her eyes hinting at rough nights.
My gut tightened. Hanni, of all people? We hadn't talked since before the rezoning, promises that faded with distance. Seeing her here with the same note felt too neat, like fate had a twisted sense of humor—or someone's plan.
"You got one too," I said, not asking. We were caught in the same pull.