The buzzing of his phone alarm dragged Jeremiah up from a dream he couldn't remember—something warm, something golden, something that slipped through his fingers like water the moment he opened his eyes. He groaned, fumbled for the phone on the floor, and silenced it with a thumb. 6:14 AM. The same crack in the ceiling stared back at him. The same gray light bled through the blinds.
But something felt different.
He lay there for a moment, blinking at the water stain above his bed that looked vaguely like a cloud, and tried to name it. His body was heavy with sleep, his mouth cotton-dry, but underneath the usual morning dread there was something else. A flutter. A small, stupid spark of... what? Hope? No, he told himself. Don't be ridiculous.
And then he remembered.
Dre's hand on his arm. The warmth of his fingers through the hoodie sleeve. "I'll see you around."
Jeremiah pressed his face into his pillow and groaned again, this time for a different reason. His cheeks were hot. His heart was doing that embarrassing thing where it forgot how to be calm. He was seventeen years old, for God's sake. He'd had crushes before—quick, secret things that he buried so deep even he could barely find them. But this was different. This was a boy with a red bandana and a lazy smile and a reputation that should have made Jeremiah run in the opposite direction.
He probably doesn't even remember, Jeremiah thought. He probably talks to everyone like that. It didn't mean anything.
He forced himself out of bed.
The apartment was cold this morning, the kind of cold that seeped up through the linoleum and settled in his bones. His mother's door was closed, which meant she was either home and sleeping or already gone and just hadn't opened it. He didn't check. He'd learned not to check. If she was home, she needed the rest. If she wasn't, well—that was just another morning.
He padded to the bathroom and turned the shower knob as far left as it would go. The water came out lukewarm at best, a thin spray that took a full minute to stop sputtering. He undressed quickly, not looking at the mirror—he never looked at the mirror—and stepped under the water.
The heat (such as it was) loosened the knots in his shoulders. He washed his hair with the same cheap shampoo he'd been using for years, the one that smelled like artificial coconut and left his curls soft but unpredictable. He scrubbed his body with a bar of soap that was down to a sliver, then stood there for an extra minute, just letting the water run over him. In the shower, he could pretend he was someone else. Someone who didn't stutter. Someone who walked through the hallways with his head up. Someone who could look a boy like Dre in the eyes and say something clever instead of just blushing and looking away.
But the water ran cold, and the pretending ended.
He toweled off, brushed his teeth until his gums tingled, and then—quickly, guiltily, the same ritual as always—reached for his mother's perfume. Vanilla Dream. He sprayed it once on his left wrist, once on his right, and then, because he was feeling brave, once on his neck. The scent bloomed warm and sweet in the steam-heavy bathroom. He told himself it was just because he had no cologne. He told himself it didn't mean anything.
He was lying.
Back in his room, he stood in front of the dresser with the missing drawer and tried to decide what to wear. His options were limited: three t-shirts (black, gray, a faded blue that had once been someone's uniform), two hoodies (the oversized black one and a thinner gray one with a broken zipper), and enough underwear and socks to last a week if he stretched it.
He pulled on a pair of boxers, then a black t-shirt that fit him a little too well—it hugged his narrow shoulders and thin arms in a way that made him feel exposed. He yanked the oversized black hoodie over it immediately, grateful for its bulk. The hoodie still smelled faintly of vanilla from yesterday, and underneath that, something else. Something clean. Something that might have been the ghost of Dre's cologne from when he'd stood too close in the hallway.
I'll wash it after today, Jeremiah told himself. One more day won't kill anyone.
White socks next, pulled up to his ankles, then his Chucks—the same scuffed pair, the same double-knotted laces. He sat on the edge of his bed to tie them, his small feet looking even smaller inside the bulky sneakers. His mother used to tease him about his feet when he was little. "You got baby feet, baby," she'd say, and he'd laugh and hide them under the blanket. That was before. Before his father went away. Before the money ran out. Before she started working herself into a ghost.
He stood, checked his reflection in the small mirror tacked to the back of his door, and immediately wished he hadn't. Same soft jaw. Same wide eyes. Same face that made the boys in the locker room sneer and call him names he tried not to remember. He pulled the hood up, letting the fleece shadow his features, and turned away.
The kitchen was a disaster.
Not in the dramatic sense—no overturned furniture or shattered glass. Just the quiet disaster of emptiness. Jeremiah opened the refrigerator and found a half-empty carton of almond milk (expired three days ago, but he'd use it if he had to), a single wilted celery stalk, and a jar of pickles swimming in cloudy brine. No lunch meat. No cheese. No leftovers except the Tupperware of brown something he'd already decided to throw away.
He opened the cabinet. Bread—the heel of a loaf, slightly stale but not moldy. Peanut butter—the last inch of it, scraped thin and gritty. No jelly. No banana. No nothing.
He stared at the peanut butter jar like it had personally offended him.
Peanut butter sandwich, he thought. Just peanut butter. Between two slices of dry bread.
It wasn't that he was a picky eater. He couldn't afford to be. But the thought of walking into school with nothing but a sad, sticky, single-ingredient sandwich made something in his chest sink. The other kids who stayed after lunch—they had real food. Chips and juice and leftovers in actual containers. And here he was, with his peanut butter on stale bread, trying to convince himself it was fine.
He was reaching for the bread when he saw it.
A twenty-dollar bill. And a five. And a list.
The money was folded under a salt shaker on the counter, held down so it wouldn't blow away in the nonexistent breeze. Next to it was a sheet of notebook paper torn from a spiral, covered in his mother's cramped, hurried handwriting. He recognized the slant of it immediately—she'd always written her letters small, pressing hard into the page so the words left grooves on the next sheet.
Jeremiah—
Got paid today. Can you be a sweetheart and pick these up after school? Save some for yourself too. Get something nice. Love you, baby. Sorry I wasn't there this morning. XOXO
The list was short but specific:
Bread (the good kind, not the cheap one)
Lunch meat (turkey, honey)
Cheese (sliced, yellow)
Eggs (one dozen)
Milk (2%, not skim—skim is nasty)
Something green (you pick)
Rice (you know the one)
Treat for you (don't argue)
Jeremiah read the list twice, then a third time, his eyes snagging on the last line. Treat for you (don't argue). His throat tightened. His mother had maybe four hours between shifts, and instead of sleeping, she'd sat at this counter and written him a list and left him money she probably needed for the light bill. And she'd told him to buy something nice. For himself.
He folded the list carefully, tucked it into his hoodie pocket with the money, and blinked a few times until his eyes stopped stinging.
Okay, he thought. Okay. I can do this.
He thought about the grocery store—the one on Western, the one with the flickering lights and the shopping carts that pulled to the left and the housewives who treated the aisles like a battlefield. Last time his mother had sent him, he'd nearly been run over by a woman with a cart full of soda and a phone pressed to her ear, shouting about someone named Brenda. She'd cut him off at the dairy section, glared at him like he'd personally wronged her, and snatched the last gallon of 2% right out from under his hand.
He still had nightmares about her eyes.
It'll be fine, he told himself. It's just groceries. How bad can it be?
He made a mental note to go late, after the rush, when the rabid housewives were home cooking dinner and the aisles were empty except for the old men buying lotto tickets. He could do that. He could survive.
He left the peanut butter on the counter—no sandwich today. He'd just... not eat. Or maybe he'd buy something at the store and eat it on the way home. Yeah. That could work.
He locked the apartment door (jiggling the key twice until it caught), pulled his hood over his head, and unlocked his bike from the railing. The morning air was cool and damp, smelling of exhaust and the faint sweetness of someone's laundry detergent drifting from an open window. He swung his leg over the seat and pushed off.
The ride to school was automatic now—left at the liquor store, right at the church, straight through the broken stoplight. But his mind wasn't on the route. It was on the list in his pocket. On the twenty-five dollars that felt like a fortune between his fingers. On the way Dre had said "I'll see you around" like it was a promise.
Maybe he'll talk to me again, Jeremiah thought, and then immediately told himself to stop being stupid.
He locked his bike at the rack (Marcus and his boys were nowhere in sight—thank God), and walked through the gates with his head down and his hands in his pockets. The morning bell hadn't rung yet, and the halls were crowded with bodies and noise and the smell of too many perfumes clashing. He slipped through the chaos like a shadow, found his locker, and swapped his math book for his English one.
First period was history with Mr. Okonkwo, a tall Nigerian man with a voice like gravel and a zero-tolerance policy for phones. Jeremiah slid into his seat—second row, near the window—and pulled out his notebook. The lesson was on Reconstruction, which Jeremiah had actually studied the night before, and for once he felt almost confident.
Mr. Okonkwo wrote "40 Acres and a Mule" on the whiteboard in aggressive capital letters and turned to face the class. "Someone tell me what this phrase means. And don't say 'free stuff.' I will end you."
A few hands went up. Jeremiah kept his down. He knew the answer—he'd read about Sherman's Special Field Order No. 15, about the promise of land to freed Black families, about how it was all taken back and given to the Confederates instead—but his throat closed up every time he thought about speaking. The room was too big. The silence after a stutter was too loud.
Mr. Okonkwo called on a girl in the front row, and she gave a decent answer, and the lesson moved on. Jeremiah took notes, his pen moving fast across the page, but his mind kept drifting. To the grocery list. To the money. To the way his mother had written "treat for you" in her cramped handwriting.
At the end of the period, Mr. Okonkwo stopped him at the door.
"Jeremiah." The teacher's voice was lower now, meant only for him. "You've been quiet lately. Everything okay at home?"
Jeremiah nodded, too quickly. "Y-yeah. I'm fine. Just... t-tired."
Mr. Okonkwo studied him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he nodded. "Alright. But you know where my office is if you need to talk. Or if you just need a quiet place to study."
"Th-thank you, Mr. Okonkwo."
He escaped into the hallway, his heart pounding like he'd done something wrong.
Second period was Spanish with Mrs. Garcia, a small woman with a big laugh and a collection of colorful scarves she wore no matter the weather. Jeremiah liked Spanish. The words felt different in his mouth—softer, less likely to get stuck. He could roll his R's without stuttering, could say "me llamo Jeremiah" without his voice cracking. Mrs. Garcia never rushed him. She just waited, patient, until the words came out.
Today they were learning past tense, and Jeremiah was partnered with a girl named Marisol who smelled like bubblegum and never said much. They worked through the worksheet in comfortable silence, and when Jeremiah stumbled over "comí" vs. "comía," Marisol just pointed at the correct one with her pencil and moved on. No judgment. No laughter. Just help.
If every class could be like this, he thought.
But then the bell rang, and it was time for third period.
Third period was the worst. Third period was gym.
Jeremiah had begged his counselor to put him in anything else—art, music, even a second math class—but the answer was always the same: "State requirements, Jeremiah. Everyone has to take it." So here he was, standing in the corner of the boys' locker room in his black t-shirt and sweatpants, trying to be as small as possible while the other guys changed into their gear.
The locker room smelled like sweat and Axe body spray and something sour that never quite washed away. Jeremiah kept his head down, didn't make eye contact, changed as fast as he could. He'd learned the hard way that lingering in the locker room was a mistake.
Today they were playing basketball. Of course they were playing basketball.
The gym was loud, the squeak of sneakers on wood mixing with shouts and whistles and the rhythmic bounce of balls. Coach Henderson, a white man with a permanent sunburn and a whistle permanently attached to his lips, split the class into teams by pointing. "You, you, you, you, and you."
Jeremiah ended up on a team with three guys he didn't know and Marcus.
Of course, he thought. Of course.
Marcus was already smirking, rolling the basketball between his palms like he was deciding how much damage to do. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off his arms, and when he looked at Jeremiah, his grin widened.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," Marcus said, loud enough for half the gym to hear. "I'll go easy on you."
A few guys laughed. Jeremiah felt his face go hot. He pulled the hood of his hoodie up—even though he wasn't supposed to wear it during gym—and took his position on the court.
The game was a disaster.
Jeremiah wasn't athletic. He was small, his hands were small, and every time the ball came near him, he panicked. He missed passes. He tripped over his own feet. Once, when he tried to dribble, the ball bounced off his knee and rolled out of bounds, and Marcus laughed so hard he had to put his hands on his knees.
"Yo, who put him on the court?" Marcus called out. "This ain't a charity game."
Jeremiah's eyes burned. He blinked fast, stared at the floor, and kept moving. Just keep moving. Just survive.
Coach Henderson blew his whistle. "Jeremiah! Get in the paint!"
The paint. The area under the basket. Where the big guys fought for rebounds and threw elbows and bodies collided. Jeremiah jogged over, his heart in his throat, and took his position.
The ball came his way. He reached for it—and Marcus's elbow caught him in the ribs.
Not hard enough to leave a bruise. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
"Oops," Marcus said, not sorry at all. "My bad."
Jeremiah stumbled, caught himself on the baseline, and stood there gasping while the play continued without him. Nobody stopped. Nobody noticed. Coach Henderson was watching the other end of the court, his back turned.
Just survive, Jeremiah told himself. Just get through this period. Then lunch. Then the library. Then the store. Then home.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—angry at himself for almost crying, angry at Marcus, angry at this whole stupid school—and kept playing.
By the time the whistle blew, Jeremiah's ribs ached and his pride was in tatters. He walked off the court without looking at anyone, headed straight for the locker room, and changed back into his clothes as fast as his trembling hands would allow. He didn't shower. He didn't want to be in here one second longer than necessary.
As he was leaving, Marcus appeared in the doorway, blocking his path.
"Where you going so fast, sweetheart?" Marcus leaned against the frame, arms crossed, still smirking. "Ain't you gonna say goodbye?"
Jeremiah stared at his sneakers. "L-leave me alone, Marcus."
"Make me."
There was a beat of silence. Jeremiah's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, small and frozen, until Marcus finally snorted and stepped aside.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Marcus pushed off the doorframe and walked away, laughing to himself.
Jeremiah stumbled out of the locker room, into the hallway, and didn't stop walking until he reached the library.
He found a table in the corner, behind a bookshelf, where no one could see him. Then he put his head down on his arms and breathed.
Two more classes, he thought. Then the store. Then home.
But all he could smell was vanilla, and all he could feel was the ghost of Dre's hand on his arm, and somewhere deep in his chest, the small, stupid spark refused to go out.