Friday, 1:42 p.m.
Location: Saint Gabriel's Prep — Third Floor Stairwell (death by cardio)
I realized I had a math exam sixty‑one seconds after the bell.
Not the bell for my class. An actual church bell from the chapel courtyard tolling the half hour while my phone lit up with a calendar alert I definitely set and definitely ignored because I was busy staging a lunchtime jealousy opera at the pizzeria.
Me: a genius. Also me: an idiot.
I tore up the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, marinara on my sleeve, flour in my hair. Alpha boys thundered down the opposite direction like buffalo; I ricocheted off two of them and an ancient trophy case that rattled like it had PTSD.
Somewhere below, Sister Agnes hissed "No running!" which, respectfully, was not going to happen.
Izzy usually drags me into Mr. Hall's class with a "go, go, go" and a very unsubtle shove.
Izzy wasn't here.
(Because… feelings. Because last night. Because I said I liked Liam and then the world cracked down the middle.)
So it was just me and my terrible cardio.
I skidded into Room 204, hair escaping my braid, hoodie halfway zipped over my uniform shirt like a crime.
Every head turned.
Mr. Hall looked up from his desk like a disappointed jazz saxophonist who had to teach triangles to fund his art. "Ms. Ricci."
"Present," I wheezed.
He checked the clock. "You are twenty‑two minutes late."
"In my defense," I said, bracing my hands on my knees, "I forgot."
Polite laughter rustled around the room.
He didn't smile.
"Sit," he said. "Forty‑eight minutes remaining."
I slid into my seat.
My chair squeaked like it wanted to be a snitch. Liam sat a row over, pen already moving, green eyes flicking to me from under his lashes. He didn't smirk. That almost worried me more.
No Izzy in her usual spot.
The empty desk radiated absence. Noah was two rows back chewing a pencil like it offended him.
Mr. Hall laid the exam on my desk with a sigh that could wilt flowers. "No talking. Calculators allowed. Show your work. Try not to reinvent Euclid."
Cool, cool, love that for me.
I flipped the first page. My brain skidded, then grabbed traction.
Trigonometry. Proofs.
A nasty little optimization problem wearing lipstick.
I wrote my name (Sophia Ricci, don't say the other thing) and the world narrowed to graphite and scratch paper.
Numbers are loyal.
They don't gossip, they don't leak, they don't livestream your front lawn at midnight. They show up, and if you're good to them, they're good to you.
Page one: angle chase.
Page two: congruent triangles.
My wrist steadied. The helium balloon panic in my chest lost altitude.
Halfway down page three, my pen stuttered.
Word problem:
A delivery route in the Big City must minimize distance given these coordinates…
I snorted. Of course.
Minimize risk, minimize heat, minimize exposure.
The Ricci way, now with coordinate planes.
I set up the system, drew a fast sketch, penciled the greedy-choice approach, erased it (no, bad, locally optimal, globally dumb—relatable), and recalculated with a better path.
My timer brain split itself into three neat piles: (1) math, (2) tonight at 7—Frankie and Her, public meeting at the pizzeria, (3) FBI, wire, vents, Wi‑Fi sweep.
Focus, Beta.
A pencil point tapped my desk. I looked up.
Liam had slid an extra mechanical pencil to the corner of my paper like it was a bandage. No cheating, no whispering, just… there.
An offering.
His mouth moved without sound. Breathe.
I rolled my eyes at him on principle and breathed anyway. In; out. The knot in my ribs loosened half a turn.
Mr. Hall prowled the rows the way big cats prowl zoo perimeters, stopping behind me just as I drew a final triangle. I pretended not to notice while every cell in my body noticed.
"Better," he murmured, almost to himself, and moved on.
Forty‑eight minutes collapsed into thirty‑four, then into twenty, then into the last five when your brain goes feral and tries to both double‑check everything and also write a memoir. I boxed my answers, scanned for sign mistakes, found one (greedy little minus sign, I see you), fixed it, and set my pencil down with thirty seconds to spare.
I didn't let myself look at Liam.
Or at Izzy's empty desk. Or at the clock.
I just stared at my name in the top-right corner like I could staple myself to normal life by will.
"Time," Mr. Hall said. "Pass them forward."
Papers rustled.
Mine stuck to a smear of flour on my sleeve; I peeled it free and slid it up the line. Mr. Hall gathered the stack like a priest gathering sins, squared the corners with a fast, neat tap, and set them aside.
"You may have five minutes," he said, "to pretend this class is a study hall. Quietly."
The room exhaled.
Noah's pencil snapped. He flailed to catch the piece and very nearly knocked his desk over. I did not smile. My mouth just… did that.
Liam leaned back like gravity liked him better than the rest of us. His gaze landed on me again. Not a smirk, not a dare. Something like… check‑in.
I looked away first.
Mr. Hall called my name. "Ms. Ricci."
I braced. "Yes?"
He studied me for two beats. "You appear to be making time for everything except remembering I exist."
"That is an unfortunate side effect of… everything," I said.
One corner of his mouth twitched. "You had a good head before you started living inside your phone."
"I'm running the family business, my Dad is out of Town," slipped out before I could catch it.
The class snorted. Mr. Hall blinked. "I won't ask."
"Thanks," I said.
He gestured at the flour constellation on my sleeve. "You smell like garlic."
"Brand synergy."
"Go wash it off," he said, but the edge was gentler. "And try; just try not to arrive twenty‑two minutes late to your future."
Ow. Okay. That one landed.
The bell released us into the hall like someone had kicked an anthill. I packed my calculator, slid the extra pencil back across the aisle without looking, and escaped into the corridor.
Saint Gabe's runs on scent and gossip.
Even scrubbed by the school's scent‑neutralizers, you can feel the Alpha weather shift when a rumor gusts down the hall.
Today's forecast: Ricci Live Hits Six Figures with a chance of Is Frankie Dating That Guy??! showers.
I kept my head down anyway.
I ducked into the girls' room.
Cold water. Paper towels. Marinara be gone. My hoodie looked like I'd moonlighted as a pizza ghost; I shoved the sleeves up and scrubbed the flour out of my hairline. At least my face didn't look like I'd killed a man with a helmet last night. Progress.
My phone buzzed three times in quick succession.
Frankie: Need a sweep checklist before 6.
My hands are shaking.
Vince: Meeting ran long. East side through 6:30. Do not let Frankie meet alone.
Unknown:We're meeting at 7. Don't bring your sister's lawyer.
I stared at the last one until my vision fuzzed. No profile picture. No name. Just a blank circle and confidence.
I typed: You'll meet her on our turf. With witnesses. That's the deal.
Three dots. Vanished.
Three dots again.
Fine. 7. No theatrics.
Lol okay.
The bathroom door creaked. Emma Dante swept in with two Omega satellites and sunglasses too big for her bone structure. She clocked me in the mirror and smiled like a knife.
"Cute live," she sang. "Loved the part where your sister pretended to be okay."
I didn't move. "Loved the part where you learned what a property line is."
Her friends snickered. Emma applied gloss. "By tonight, that clip will be old news. Audience retention, Sophia. You should watch a tutorial."
I dried my hands and faced her fully. "By tonight, I'll be trending again. You'll be in my comments trying to start fights with teenagers. Everyone has a hobby."
She leaned in a fraction, eyes bright. "Everyone has a secret."
"Yours is that you shoplift lip balm," I said.
Her mouth opened. Closed. "You can't prove that."
"I can; I won't." I stepped past her. "Break a nail, Emma."
Back in the hall, the noise swelled.
I aimed for my locker and smacked it open. A sticky note fluttered out: Breathe.
No signature, just the tiniest triangle doodled in the corner.
Liam. Of course.
I stuffed it behind my phone and pretended my pulse didn't do something humiliating.
"Hey." Noah materialized at my elbow like a golden retriever who learned teleportation. "How'd it go?"
"I didn't fail," I said. "I also didn't combust. Personal best."
He nodded solemnly. "Proud of you."
Then, softer: "Izzy cut my tent strings."
"Did you deserve it?"
"Absolutely."
We leaned on the lockers, heads almost bumping. For a second we were just… kids. School, lockers, tests, dumb crushes. Then reality clawed back in.
"Can you be at the pizzeria by six?" I asked. "We're sweeping vents and setting chairs. Frankie's meeting… someone."
Noah didn't ask. He never asks the wrong questions. "I'll be there."
The final bell vibrated the air.
Herd change. The hall moved us like a current toward the stairs and the front door and the next crisis. I didn't see Izzy. I didn't see Liam. I didn't see a future where any of this got easier.
But I saw my to‑do list.
6:00 p.m. — sweep vents, reset Wi‑Fi, shift camera angles.
6:30 p.m. — coach Frankie's posture, hair, cadence, exit strategy.
6:55 p.m. — door unlocked, witnesses placed, garlic knots prepped like ammo.
7:00 p.m. — let the past walk in and try to reach her.
7:01 p.m. — don't let it.
I stepped into the sun.
The Big City hummed like it was glad I'd remembered where I belonged. My phone buzzed one more time.
Liam: Nice work, princess. 84% you aced it.
Me: Your math is fake.
Liam: My math is better than yours.
Me: Go away.
Liam: 6:45. I'll loop the block. Don't sit with your back to the glass.
I should have told him no. I should have told him we don't need him. I should have told him a hundred things I didn't believe.
Me: Fine. One loop. Don't be seen.
A beat. Never am.
A Beta is supposed to be invisible. Today, I remembered how to be seen on purpose.
Time to weaponize it.