LAURA
The second I step into the hallway, I spot them — Giselle and Mallory. My "best friends." Yeah, right.
Two blonde, walking clichés straight out of a teen movie: boys drool, girls stare, and the rest of us collectively roll our eyes.
They're the perfect bullies: popular, bored, and about as sharp as wet crayons.
I've tried everything to stay off their radar, but they always find me. Lately, I've even considered letting my little sister Sofia teach me Taekwondo.
But let's be honest — at this rate, I won't build up the courage to slap someone until senior year… of college.
"Lauraaa," Mallory sings as she sashays toward me, her voice dipped in fake sweetness. "Did you write yourlove letter?"
And there it is — the first nightmare of the day.
Giselle stands beside her with that signature poker face she thinks makes her mysterious. To everyone else, she's a gorgeous, confident goddess.
To me, she's just… well, still gorgeous, but also a total nightmare.
I duck my head and try to slip past them, but Giselle blocks me, looping a piece of my hair around her finger like I'm a prop in her one-woman show.
"I'm sure he'll love it," she says. "Frankenstein isn't picky."
Of course she means James. My only real friend at this school and their favorite punching bag after me.
Freshman year was worse, they were physical then. Hair-yanking, shoving, all the classics.
At some point, I just stopped reacting. I guess that's what surviving feels like here: go numb, keep walking.
Everyone else either laughs along or avoids looking. My other friends ditched me long ago. And honestly? I don't blame them. Being Giselle's target is basically a full-time job.
But as soon as they spot Jae heading down the hall, I'm instantly forgotten. Thank God.
Jae transferred at the start of senior year and climbed the social ladder like it was built for him. He's Korean,well, Korean American, and unfairly good-looking in that effortless way that makes people stare.
There's this quiet confidence about him that almost feels like arrogance, and maybe that's why I can't decide whether I'm impressed or annoyed.
Girls practically swoon when he walks by. Even Sofia would lose her mind, she's K-pop obsessed, and he looks like her dream lead singer brought to life.
And Giselle? Yeah… even queen bee herself couldn't resist. The only problem? Jae doesn't fall for her act. At all. He literally stood her up, and she's still convinced he'll come running eventually.
Spoiler: he won't.
While they're busy gawking at him, I slip away like the escape artist I've become. Thank goodness Peter isn't here to hear their stupid comments today.
Peter Jenkins. Childhood friend. Former bestie. Now… we barely nod at each other. It's fine. Totally fine. I have James.
James, the "Frankenstein" they won't shut up about. Tall, skinny, a little awkward in the cutest way. We met when I saved his lunch from becoming a cafeteria disaster, and he's stuck with me since.
He tried to convert me into a gamer, didn't work, but we still hang out, mostly talking about school and my film obsessions.
He's one of the few people who can actually make me laugh on days that suck. Which is… most days.
AP Bio is next, my safe zone. No Giselle. No Mallory. Just actual learning and the growing panic of needing scholarships. After my parents died in a car crash when I was twelve, it's been me, Jason, and Sofia.
Grandma swooped in and saved us, even though Dad had lost his job and the insurance had already lapsed. No savings, no nest egg, just bills.
So yeah, scholarships aren't optional. They're survival. Grandma keeps telling me college will open doors, but I don't even know what I want to do yet. One crisis at a time, please.
***
After class, I head to meet James like always.
"Where is he?" I mumble, pulling out my phone.
Me:
Where r u?
The school's Valentine's box is propped up nearby, a sparkly, embarrassing reminder that our school takes cheesy traditions way too seriously. Love letters in a box? Seriously?
It's like someone binged too many rom-com K-dramas and thought...
Yeah, let's force the entire school to participate.
"Morning, Laura," James says, tapping my shoulder before appearing on the opposite side of me like some magician. He's grinning, of course. He always is.
"Finally," I sigh. "I texted you."
"I know. Mrs. Roberts and I had important things to discuss." He says it like he's eighty and not seventeen. Honestly, he knows more about ancient Greece than our actual textbook.
A girl nearby slips a pink envelope into the box, squealing with her friends. I watch her like someone watches a car crash, unable to look away.
"You writing one?" James asks.
"I'd rather burn in Hell," I say sweetly.
"Whoa. Harsh. It's barely eight."
I snort. He grins wider.
"What about Leeroy Jenkins?" he asks, his stupid nickname for Peter.
"How about never?" I shoot back.
"Why not?"
"James," I warn as we start walking, "you know why not."
"If you never try, you'll never know," he says. "What sense does it make to like someone and never tell them?"
I groan. Loudly. And maybe a little dramatically.
Because deep down, I know he's right.
And that's exactly why I hate it.
"It's called platonic, and it makes total sense to me."
"That's just stupid."
"You already know I'm stupid," I shoot back, "so you can get over it."
"You know," he says, nudging me, "I don't even like Leeroy—"
"Would you stop calling him that?" I snap, louder than intended.
"Nope. Not planning on it." He grins like the menace he is.
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out.
"I think he's a self-absorbed prick," James adds. "You deserve better. But hey, your life, your choice. I'm justsaying: if you tell him, either he likes you back and bam, you get a boyfriend. Or he doesn't, and you can finally move on."
"I don't want a boyfriend. And I definitely don't want a rejection."
"Then you'll stay in limbo," he says dramatically. "Not living, not dying. Just… floating."
"Wow. Very poetic. Can we stop talking about this?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Fine, fine." He lifts his hands in surrender. "Message received."
"Let's get food," I say, desperate to change the subject.
"Yes please. I'm starving. I had, like, one banana for breakfast."
"Gaming night later?"
"Nope. Parental crisis." His voice drops. "I just ran out of the house."
His parents have been at each other's throats for years, but they refuse to divorce because of "appearances."James lives in permanent emotional crossfire. And there's nothing I can do except listen.
After break, we split up for our next classes, and I'm alone again.
I take my usual seat in class, still thinking about Peter. What would I even say to him if I had the chance? I've never seriously considered telling him how I feel.
Would it really be so awful to just… say it?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a pen and start writing.
Not for the Valentine's box. Absolutely not. Just for me. Maybe writing it out will get the feelings out of my system.
The words come faster than I expect. I'm so absorbed that I almost miss the sudden silence.
A heavy, dangerous silence.
I look up.
Mr. Kendrick is staring at me. Everyone is staring at me. Fantastic.
The one time I regret sitting all the way in the back.
"Laura?" he says, and I'm guessing it's not the first time he tried.
"Yes?" My voice comes out higher than usual. Everyone is looking at me. Mallory's got this smug little grin,and Giselle just stares, waiting.
"Pouvez-vous répondre à la question, s'il vous plaît?"
I snap my eyes back to the book, flipping through pages I definitely haven't read. No clue where we are. When I look up again, he's arching an eyebrow at my notebook like it personally offended him.
"I presume," he says, "the essay you're writing with such dedication is not in French?"
I want to disappear. Literally vanish.
He looks away—straight to Giselle's raised hand.
"Yes, Giselle?" he says her name like music.
"L'imparfait shows an action already in progress. For example: Laura était en train de dormir."
Translation: Laura was busy sleeping.
The class snickers.
"Excellent," Mr. Kendrick says, practically glowing.
Of course. Giselle gets to be smart and humiliate me in the same breath. Her tutors definitely earn their pay.
When the bell rings, I grab the letter, tear it into tiny pieces, and drop it in the trash where it belongs.
I don't need to tell Peter anything. I'll just keep admiring him from a safe distance. Forever, probably. And I can live with that.
When I get home, chaos is already happening in the driveway.
Mr. Jenkins, Peter's dad, is yelling at my brother.
"Are you saying this is my fault, young man?" he booms. He's a big guy with a military look and a permanent scowl. Today, he looks seconds away from combusting.
"Sir, when you brought the car in, the wheel was fine," Jason says, calm as ever.
"If it was fine, I wouldn't have a flat now, would I?"
Jason runs his own garage. Legally, too, we got all the permits. He and his friend Joshua work crazy hours, but they make good money, and Jason actually loves it.
So why does he keep putting up with Mr. Jenkins?
Easy: Aubrey. His very lovely, very off-limits daughter. He denies it every time I tease him, but please. I'm not blind.
And, well… I'm clearly not the only one in this family with a Jenkins-related crush.
"Look, Mr. Jenkins," Jason says, "I'll fix it. Give me an hour."
"You better," Mr. Jenkins grumbles. "Or I'm never bringing my car back here again."
He always says that. He always comes back. And Jason always charges him way less than he should.
As Mr. Jenkins storms past me, he mutters, "Laura."
"Mr. Jenkins," I reply, though I doubt he even heard.
Jason gives me a look that says: Please don't ask.
I just sigh. "Is Grandma home?"
"Yeah."
"You need help here?"
"No, I'm good. I've gotta pick up parts in town anyway. How was school?"
"Great," I lie smoothly. "Totally fine."
He doesn't need my problems. He already carries enough.
Inside, I nearly collide with Sofia and her best friend Cesar racing through the house like caffeinated squirrels.They skid, crash into a small table, and—
SMASH.
The ugly Chinese pot Grandma loves explodes into a thousand pieces.
"You DIDN'T." Grandma appears like summoned by destruction. Her face goes full cartoon-anger.
"You pick up every piece," she scolds. "And no more roughhousing for… a week. No. A month!" She turns on Cesar. "And you, young man, home. Now."
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," he squeaks.
Sofia looks like she's about to cry. She knows that pot meant a lot to Grandma.
"Don't touch anything," I tell her gently. "You'll cut yourself. I'll get a broom."
I follow Grandma into the kitchen. The smell hits me instantly.
"You're making risotto," I say, the stress fading for a second.
"Your favorite," she says with a tired smile.
I hug her tight. "You shouldn't stress so much. Doctor said your blood pressure—"
"Yes, yes," she waves me off. "Those kids have a whole backyard, and they still run inside. Little monsters."
I grin. I love her. She's our whole world.
"I'll talk to Sofia," I say, heading back.
Sofia is sitting on the floor looking like she ruined Christmas.
"Here." I hand her the broom. "Why were you running inside?"
"I wanted to show Cesar something and then… it just happened," she whispers.
"You know how much Grandma loved that pot."
She nods miserably. She's almost eleven, usually sweet, but she's been acting out a lot lately. Losing our parents so young made everything harder on her. She wants answers we don't always have.
"Hey, it's okay," I say softly. "We'll fix it."
Her eyes drift to the magazine sticking out of my back pocket.
"Oh—James gave me this for you," I say.
Her eyes widen. "How did he even get this? It's not out here yet!"
"No idea," I whisper. "Probably traded a kidney."
She reaches for it, but I pull it back. "Promise you'll apologize to Grandma and be more careful? Doctor said we can't stress her."
"Okay," she says quickly.
I hand it over. She slips it into her pocket like treasure.
"Let's clean up," I say, smiling.
Later, I finally make it to my room and flop onto my bed.
My phone buzzes.
I assume it's James, but when I check…
My heart stops.
It's Peter.
He wants to meet me at school tomorrow.
My brain short-circuits. Is this real life? Am I dreaming? Or dying?
"What does Peter want with me?" The question loops on repeat.
After dinner, I hide in my room. I almost text James, but I stop myself. No need to make it a big deal.
Except… it feels like a big deal.
***
The next morning, I'm biking to school with a knot in my stomach so tight it feels like it's pulling me backward.
Every few seconds, I'm tempted to turn around and head home, but I force myself to keep pedaling. It's just Peter, my old friend Peter, not some mythical creature.
Even though we barely talk anymore, he's still him.
I lock my bike at the rack and hesitate. Deep breath. Today is going to be… something.
Inside, the hallways buzz with the usual morning chaos. I spot Giselle and Mallory near the lockers, and for once, they don't even look at me. They seem distracted. No comments. No snide remarks.
It's strange, but I'll take the peace.
By the time my first class ends, the nerves hit me all over again. My cheeks are warm, my hands shaky, and Ikeep trying to invent excuse after excuse to bail.
But if he really wanted to talk, he'll find me eventually. I can't hide forever.
"I can do this. I can do this," I whisper as I walk toward the quad.
At exactly 10 a.m., the place is packed. I spot Peter leaning against a bench with a couple of his friends. My heart rockets into overdrive. I walk toward him and stop a few steps away.
"Peter." My voice barely comes out.
"Peter," I try again, louder.
This time he turns, eyebrows pulled together like he's genuinely surprised to see me.
"Laura?"
"Hi," I say, trying to play it cool.
"Hey." He nods once, then turns back to Isaac, like our conversation was already over.
I wait a second. Nothing else.
"You wanted to talk to me?" I ask.
He glances at me again, puzzled. "I did?"
"I got your text yesterday. You said to meet you here."
"What text?" he asks, shaking his head. "I didn't text you."
My heart drops. Hard.
Before I can process it, a pair of familiar giggles float toward us. I turn around to see Giselle and Mallory walking over, smirking like they've been waiting for this moment.
Then more students drift in, forming an eager little circle around us. My chest tightens, and the air feels too thin. People stare like they're waiting for a show.
Giselle holds a sheet of paper, my letter, and steps right in front of me.
"Laura," she says with fake sweetness, "this is such a beautiful love letter. Were you too scared to send it?Don't worry. I'll help you share it."
My stomach twists. She dug it out of the trash. She read it.
Shit.