The walk to the staff room felt like a slow, synchronized march to the gallows. While the rest of the school was dreaming of the weekend and freedom, Luna had to face Mr. Subtract-the-Joy. He was formerly known as Mr. Sterling, but the new nickname stuck because the man literally looked like he'd never seen a smile in his life—and if he did see one, he'd probably try to find the square root of it and then deduct marks for "excessive cheerfulness."
"If I don't come back in ten minutes, tell my family in India I loved them," Luna whispered, clutching her 7/10 love letter like a riot shield. "Tell them I died for the cause of romantic literature and vanilla-scented stationery."
"Just don't mention the perfume again, Luna," Angela advised, adjusting her glasses with the kind of South African precision usually reserved for diamond cutting. "He might try to grade your choice of fragrance next. He'll probably give you a 4/10 for 'olfactory distraction' and 'lack of aromatic margins.'"
While Luna was busy being lectured on the structural integrity of a heart-shaped note, the rest of us had a much more high-stakes mission: preparing for the End of Term Secret Social. It wasn't exactly a "club"—mostly because the Matron's Grump Patrol was currently at Level 9, which meant she was sniffing the air for the scent of joy like a bloodhound. However, the abandoned music room was currently being transformed into the hottest spot in Busia Trust Secondary. By "hottest," I mean it smelled like old cello cases and hidden snacks, but to us, it was the Met Gala.
"Hadiya, look!" Olivia (Xixi) suddenly grabbed my arm with the grip strength of a professional wrestler, pointing toward the end of the hallway.
There he was. The Model. He was leaning against a locker, looking like he'd just stepped off a high-fashion runway in Manila instead of a dusty school corridor in Uganda. He wasn't even doing anything—literally just existing—yet he made a standard-issue school uniform look like a custom-tailored suit.
"Go talk to him, Xixi! This is your moment!" I urged, giving her a gentle shove.
"I can't!" she hissed, trying to merge her body with my shadow. "What if I trip? What if my brain short-circuits and I start speaking English, Tagalog, and a language I haven't even learned yet? I'll just stay here and observe... from a safe, tactical distance of fifty feet. Maybe eighty."
Suddenly, the air temperature in the hallway dropped by at least fifteen degrees. I didn't need to look at a thermometer to know who was approaching. Mr. Ice Cube walked past us. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, looking as unbothered as a polar bear in the middle of a blizzard.
He didn't say anything. He didn't even blink. He moved with the silent, terrifying grace of a glacier. But as he passed, a small, perfectly folded piece of paper fluttered out of his notebook like a stray snowflake and landed directly at my feet.
My heart didn't just beat; it did a full Olympic somersault. I picked it up with trembling fingers. It wasn't a love letter. It was a list of complex physics formulas written in the neatest, coldest, most intimidating handwriting I'd ever seen. But at the very bottom, in tiny, precise letters, it said:
'Music room. 9 PM. Bring a jacket.'
"Did... did the human refrigerator just invite you to the social?" Angela asked, her jaw dropping so low I thought it might hit the floor. "And did he just imply you'd be cold? Is that a romantic gesture or a weather report?"
"Maybe he's just warning me that the school's ventilation is broken again," I whispered, my brain currently experiencing a massive system error.
By the time 9 PM rolled around, the music room was glowing with hidden fairy lights that we'd taped to the ceiling with sheer desperation and a lot of chewing gum. The "Bloom Buddies" were ready.
We had successfully sneaked past the Matron using our most advanced tactic yet: The Chicken Bribe. We had sacrificed a piece of precious canteen chicken to her favorite cat, a fat ginger tabby who was now too busy eating to alert the authorities.
We were currently trying to look 'cool' while standing next to a dusty drum set. Luna had finally escaped the staff room—apparently, she had to write 'I will use proper margins' fifty times in her best handwriting. She was currently staring at The Flash, who was trying to dance. I say "trying," but he mostly just looked like he was vibrating at 200 beats per minute while standing perfectly still.
"Okay, girls," I said, looking at my squad—the girl from India, the girl from South Africa, the girl from the Philippines, and me. "Operation: Midnight Orchid is officially a go. Rule number one: do not trip. Rule number two: do not mention Math. Rule number three: try not to embarrass—"
"Too late," Angela interrupted, pointing a thumb behind me.
I turned around, and my soul nearly left my body. Mr. Ice Cube was standing right there. He was holding two cups of lukewarm, bright-pink school punch. He handed one to me without even a hint of a smile.
"It's 15% sugar," he said. His voice was deep, calm, and utterly freezing, like a cello played inside a walk-in freezer. "You'll need the energy if you're going to keep staring at me all night. It's a very high-calorie activity."
I nearly choked on my first sip of punch. My face felt like it was currently on fire, which was ironic considering I was standing next to a human iceberg.
"I—I wasn't staring," I lied, which was the biggest lie told in the history of Busia.
"Your pupils say otherwise," he countered, his eyes flickering with the tiniest, most dangerous spark of amusement. "Drink your sugar, Hadiya. The 'Flash' is about to try a breakdance move, and you'll need the strength to look away."
Behind him, I could see the Bloom Buddies staring at us with wide eyes. Olivia was hiding behind a cello, Luna was frozen with a biscuit halfway to her mouth, and Angela was nodding approvingly like a proud coach.
The Bloom Buddies were definitely in trouble. But as I looked into the "Human Refrigerator's" eyes, I realized I didn't mind the cold at all.