Kevin Emilio Boyce stepped off the overcrowded public bus and stared up at the iron gates of St. Augustine Academy like they were the entrance to another planet.
The campus looked unreal: emerald lawns that probably cost more to maintain than his family's entire apartment block, glass buildings that caught the morning sun like knives, and a long line of luxury cars idling in the drop-off circle — Mercedes, Range Rovers, even a matte-black Lamborghini that looked like it belonged in a movie.
He adjusted the strap of his worn backpack and tugged at the collar of his second-hand uniform. The blazer was a size too big, the tie already crooked. His oversized goggles — the only ones his parents could afford — kept sliding down his nose. He pushed them back up, feeling the familiar sting of acne across his cheeks and the metal of his braces catching the light.
Nineteen. Repeating senior year after everything fell apart at his old school. Tall, awkward, one eye black, the other a strange stormy gray. Ugly, he thought, not for the first time. Just ugly.
His mother's voice echoed in his head from breakfast that morning:
"Listen to me, Kevin. This school is a chance we never thought we'd get. Your uncle is paying every term. Your father builds shelves by day, waits tables by night, and we're still barely breathing. So you go there, keep your head down, and you pass. You pass everything. That way your uncle sees it's worth sending you to college too."
His father had nodded from the doorway, arms crossed. "That place is full of rich kids, mijo. Kids who've never worried about a bill. Don't get distracted. Don't try to be them. Just study."
Kevin had swallowed and said, "I understand."
He did understand.
More than they knew.
He kept his eyes on the pavement as he walked toward the senior building. Head down. Invisible. Safe.
Until he couldn't.
A group of girls swept past on the pathway — laughter bright, careless, expensive. And in the middle was her.
She was short — couldn't have been more than five-foot-two — but she moved like gravity bent for her. Coffee-brown skin that seemed to absorb and reflect the sunlight at the same time. Long, curly black hair bouncing with every step. Dimples carved deep when she smiled at something one of her friends said. Wide hips, soft curves, small waist — impossible to ignore even at fifteen.
Her voice drifted back — low, raspy, almost hoarse in a way that was unexpectedly beautiful. Not squeaky or childish. It was the kind of voice that lingered.
Kevin hadn't realized he was staring until her eyes flicked toward him.
Deep black. Sharp. Irritated.
She looked away immediately, turning back to her friends as if he were a smudge on the path.
But the damage was done.
Throughout the day he caught glimpses of her. In the hallway. At the water fountain. Once, passing his classroom door. Each time he found himself watching — not boldly, he wasn't stupid — but quietly. Admiring the way she moved, the way she laughed with that smoky voice, the way her dimples carved into her cheeks.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Near the end of the day, as students spilled toward the parking lot, Kevin lingered by the steps, pretending to check his schedule. Alice strode past with two friends, designer bag swinging from her shoulder. She was heading toward a sleek black Mercedes — chauffeur already holding the door.
Just before she ducked inside, she glanced back.
Their eyes locked again.
This time there was no mistaking the message in her stare: Stop looking at me.
It wasn't spoken aloud, but it didn't need to be. The warning was cold and clear. She held his gaze for one long, humiliating second, then slid into the car without a word. The Mercedes purred away, leaving Kevin standing alone on the steps.
He exhaled slowly, heart thudding against his ribs.
He knew he should listen to his parents. Keep his head down. Focus on school.
But as the sun dipped low and he boarded the bus home, one thought circled in his mind, stubborn and dangerous:
He wanted to see her again tomorrow.
And deep down — in a place he didn't dare name yet — he already knew:
He would never stop.