My pulse spiked, the air choking in my throat.
“Thought I’d audit here today,” Mathieu said softly, not looking at Archie. Not looking at me. Just staring at the desk like he hadn’t detonated the first period of my Monday. “Maybe we can finish our conversation.”
My blood went cold.
Archie leaned in a fraction, his voice low enough that only I could hear it.
“You don’t have to talk to him.”
Mathieu finally lifted his eyes, meeting Archie’s in one hard, unblinking stare.
“Funny,” he said, his accent suddenly razor-sharp. “I was about to say the same thing.”
The tension snapped so tight I could feel it humming through my teeth.
Our teacher picked that exact moment to walk in, cheerful and oblivious. “Good morning, everyone!”
Not one person in that room was actually breathing.
And me?
I sat trapped between both boys, the air suffocating, the weight of the entire hallway’s rumors pressing in on my shoulders.
The day had officially started—and it was already a disaster.
Government didn’t get better.
If anything, it got tighter, smaller, hotter—like the air in the room had thickened purely out of spite. Mathieu didn’t look at me again, but he didn’t have to. Every inhale felt like I had to fight for space that neither boy wanted to cede.
Archie tracked Mathieu like he expected him to make a move.
Mathieu sat rigid, shoulders high, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. His knee bounced—a sharp, angry rhythm.
And me? I took notes on autopilot, my handwriting slipping into an anxious scrawl I barely recognized.
When the bell rang, my body sagged in relief.
That lasted approximately one breath.
Because both boys stood at the same time.
“Frankie—”
“Can we talk?—”
They said it over each other.
I didn’t even look at either of them. “I have to get to class.”
“Frankie,” Archie tried again, softer.
“Later,” I said, not trusting myself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I walked.
And for a miracle, neither of them followed.
Bubba sawme the second I stepped into the room.
