Angela laughed softly, a warm, earthy sound that cut through the tension still clinging to the gym air. "You made them look terrible."
She paused, her tone dipping to a teasing whisper. "Don't let it go to your head though. You might just make me jealous."
Aiden's eyes met hers, the spark of camaraderie flickering beneath the banter.
"Maybe," he said, "but I don't plan on making friends. Not yet."
Angela's smile softened, the sharp edges melting away. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
As she turned to leave, a few of her teammates stepped up, casting curious glances Aiden's way, some friendly, others tinged with something more competitive. Angela's gaze shifted to them, and without a word, she subtly stepped back into the shadows, watching him from a distance.
The air hummed with unspoken challenges, and somewhere deep in Aiden, the entity whispered, they want a piece of you. Are you ready to give it?
Aiden slipped away from the lingering crowd, the buzz of the gym fading behind him as he headed toward the locker room. His breath was steady but still heavy, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer. The dull ache of muscles stretched across his arms and legs, a reminder that despite his cool demeanor, the game had taken its toll.
He found an empty corner in the locker room, the faint scent of rubber mats and old sneakers hanging in the air. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cracked tile floor.
Kneeling beside his bag, he pulled out a small, worn stick of deodorant, a simple luxury he'd packed without much thought. He twisted the cap off and rubbed it under his arms, the familiar scent sharp and clean, cutting through the musk of sweat and tension.
His fingers trembled slightly as he wiped his face with a damp paper towel, eyes catching his reflection in the scratched mirror.
There was a hardness there now, a flicker of something new. Not just a kid trying to survive school, but someone beginning to carve out a place, on his terms.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tucked the deodorant back into his bag. Time to move on.
The hall outside beckoned, the next class waiting, and with it, the rest of his day.
Aiden's next class after gym was literature, and it felt like stepping into another world, quiet, still, and smelling faintly of old paper. The small classroom was plastered wall to wall with book covers, some classics he recognized instantly, others obscure and forgotten. There was a faint musty tang in the air, the scent of bound pages that had soaked up decades of dust and sunlight, the kind of smell that clung to library stacks and secondhand bookstores.
Mr. Mason, a man in a tweed jacket that looked like it had survived more decades than Aiden, signed his schedule sheet with a slow, practiced hand before sliding a book list toward him. Aiden's eyes skimmed the titles, Kenneth Oppel, Walter Dean Myers, Shakespeare, a scattering of Renaissance works. I've read almost all of these, he thought, tucking the list into his bag. This class is going to be a snooze.
The low drone of Mr. Mason's voice filled the room as he eased into a lecture about narrative symbolism. Aiden let his gaze wander to the window, where sunlight dappled the desks with shifting leaf-shadows. His mind was already wandering to the next class.
American History was next, and while Aiden expected it to be dull, Mr. Warner quickly proved otherwise. The man strode into the room with a kind of infectious energy, bushy eyebrows, rolled-up sleeves, and a booming voice that seemed too big for the space. As he launched into the story of the Alamo, his hands slashed through the air, painting invisible battle lines, his voice swelling with the drama of each stand and retreat.
Aiden smirked. Bet he dresses up for this on weekends.
And just like that, an image bloomed in his mind: Mr. Warner in a full 1836 Texian militia uniform, navy wool coat with brass buttons, high leather boots, a powder horn slung across his chest. He could see him in some dusty Texas field at dawn, bellowing orders to a ragtag band of reenactors, his breath fogging in the cool morning air. Cannons would boom in the distance, smoke rolling low over the grass. Warner would crouch dramatically beside a wooden barricade, musket in hand, shouting, "Hold the line, men! For Texas!" before firing into the oncoming "Mexican" troops. Aiden could even picture the man refusing to break character during lunch, spooning chili from a tin pot while retelling war stories in full period slang.
Back in the real classroom, Warner was leaning over a map, tracing the defenders' positions with a stub of chalk. The energy in the room was alive, the students leaning forward without realizing it. History wasn't just dates and dead men, it was theater, and Mr. Warner played it to the hilt.
After that came Home Economics, a breeze compared to the rest. The room smelled faintly of vanilla and cinnamon, leftover from some earlier baking experiment. The teacher, clearly in the middle of some health food crusade, rattled on about whole grains and sugar substitutes, but Aiden barely listened. He'd been cooking since he was nine; there was nothing they could teach him here that he didn't already know. Easy A, he thought.
The last class before lunch was French. Miss Hoff, with her tired eyes and monotone delivery, might as well have been reading from a script.
Aiden's mind drifted again to Mrs. Palpanini, his old guardian, a chain-smoking French Italian immigrant who could slip between languages with the ease of someone changing channels.
She'd taught him more in the hallway between her apartment and his than most teachers did in a semester. "Seeking opportunity for a better lifestyle," she'd say, quoting her father, before handing him a plate of steaming pasta or a slice of crusty baguette.
The memory stung. She'd died last year of a heart attack, but her voice still lived somewhere in the back of his mind.
When the lunch bell finally rang, Aiden stepped into the cafeteria and instantly felt the shift. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, whispers buzzing like static. Great. The gym showdowns made me the center of attention. The smell of fried food and bleach mixed in the air, heavy and stale.
He moved through the crowd, ignoring the lingering stares, until Angela waved from a table near the middle of the room. Relief flickered, finally, a familiar face.
Angela caught his attention from near the middle of the room, waving him over with a smile that was warm enough to cut through the background noise. He weaved his way past clusters of tables until he reached her spot.
Sitting to Angela's right was a girl named Jessica. Her skin was ivory-smooth, her sea-blue eyes lit up with an almost mischievous spark as she leaned forward the moment he sat down. Thick brown waves framed her face and tumbled over her shoulders, catching the light with each small movement.
She was short and undeniably thick in a way that commanded attention, hips that curved generously, a chest that strained against the fitted white low-cut shirt she wore. Her black jeans hugged her in all the right places, and she had that easy, forward confidence of someone who already knew the effect she had on men.
On Angela's other side sat another girl named Lauren, the quiet contrast. She was short and lithe, her pale skin almost luminous under the fluorescent lights. Platinum blonde hair fell in soft layers around her face, her light eyebrows and lashes framing a pair of clear, calculating blue eyes.
A faded blue sweater hung loose over her frame, with a black-and-white flannel shirt tied casually at her waist. Her blue booty shorts left no doubt she had legs for days despite her smaller stature, though she carried herself like she didn't particularly care who noticed.
Across the table sat the boys from the gym, Ben, Tyler, and another guy, Mike, and two others, still wearing those same stares that made it perfectly clear they weren't happy about his presence.
He gave Jessica short answers, half-truths, a few harmless lies. She laughed at things he didn't intend to be funny, leaning forward in a way that made her low neckline impossible not to notice. Lauren didn't so much as shift in her seat, though Aiden could feel her watching him from the edge of his vision.
The boys muttered to one another between bites, their glances at Aiden sharp and uninviting. The air at the table was thick with unspoken tension.
The bell rang at the end of lunch,
Finally, he slid his tray aside and stood. "I should get going," he said simply. Jessica looked disappointed. Lauren's expression didn't change. The boys didn't even bother hiding their glares.
As Aiden walked away, he could feel all of them watching. Better this way, he thought.
"The less they know, the less you have to pretend."