Fog crept in from the coast, thick enough to blur the red roofs of New Oak High into gray shapes. My sneakers scraped wet stone as I crossed the courtyard. Salt hung in the air. September meant school again. Rankings. Posters about "global excellence."
I kept moving.
In my pocket, my fingers worked a Rubik's cube.
Click. Clack.
I'd solved it so many times I didn't need to look. It helped when my thoughts started looping.
The school had reshuffled everything over the break. Two new elite sections. ES1 and ES2. Top students pulled out of regular classes and dropped into advanced tracks. The halls buzzed with it. "International lists." "College scouts." "PR move."
I'd spent years skating just above average to stay invisible. Landing in ES1 anyway felt wrong. Like stepping into a trap I hadn't seen.
The classroom smelled like cleaning solution. Polished desks. High windows fogged over. Ms. Song stood at the front, eyes sharp.
She let the silence stretch.
"Welcome to the elite section," she said. "Monthly rankings will be posted. Fall behind, and you're reassigned. No exceptions."
A guy in the front row laughed under his breath. "Finally."
I took the seat farthest from the board.
Then I saw her.
Hanni Pham. Second to last row. Head bent over her notebook, sketching instead of listening. A huge sunflower with thick petals and a face-like center.
My cube stopped turning.
We used to trade riddles under an acacia tree in the old neighborhood. She'd draw patterns in the dirt. I'd try to break them. Then the city rezoned everything. Her family moved across the bay. We said we'd keep in touch.
We didn't.
Roll call snapped the room back together.
Our eyes met. Her leaf-shaped pen slipped and clattered to the floor. She reached for it too fast. A scrap of paper slid out and skidded near my shoe.
The same sunflower.
I froze.
I could've picked it up. Said her name. Closed the distance.
I didn't.
She hesitated, hand hovering, then grabbed the paper herself. Folded it tight and tucked it away. Her cheeks flushed. She didn't look at me again.
Click. Clack.
Why her? Why now?
The shuffle was supposed to pull in students who chased attention. So how did I end up here?
Ending up in the same elite section felt too neat. Like someone had decided before we did.
The morning blurred. Calculus. Poetry. Ms. Song's warnings echoed under everything. In poetry, Hanni answered a question about rhythm. Her voice was steady until it wasn't. It cracked halfway through. She paused, then finished anyway.
I didn't look at her.
At lunch, the fog thinned. Weak sun. I stopped at my locker in the east wing. Dented metal surrounded by polished marble.
I spun the dial.
Inside, on top of my books, sat a folded note.
Not mine.
The paper was thick. Clean. Black print:
"Petals Around the Rose. Room 722."
At the bottom, neat handwriting.
Minji.
Minji Kim—still listed as sophomore like me and Hanni, even though she's a year ahead—ran with the student council crowd, always two moves ahead.
Why slip this into my locker?
"Petals Around the Rose."
A riddle? A test?
If I ignored it, I'd think about it all day. If I went, I'd get pulled in.
The hallway was empty now. I could hear faint laughs from the cafeteria. Room 722 was upstairs in the old humanities wing—dusty, forgotten.
I should've left it there.
I didn't.
---
The final bell emptied the halls fast. I headed for the stairs instead of the exit.
I turned a corner and almost ran into Hanni.
She stopped short, fingers clenched around a familiar piece of paper.
"Eiji?" Her voice sounded careful, like she wasn't sure I'd stay solid.
She glanced toward 722, then back at me, shadows under her eyes hinting at rough nights.
My gut tightened. Hanni, of all people? We hadn't talked since before the rezoning, promises that faded with distance.
Seeing her here with the same note felt too neat.
"You got one too," I said, not asking.
She nodded.
We were caught in the same pull.