The bell rings, and the class is over in what feels like seconds after my mind was left reeling over unlikely probabilities.
I’m out of my chair quick, so I reach her before she gets a chance to stand. Returning the flyer, I slide it across her desk. "I don't like to lose," I say in answer to the question she asked before class started. It's not the answer she wants to hear, and that's why I gave it. Anowould have earned me a‘Good,’ most likely followed with a hair flip as she sauntered off with dramatic flair,but an open-ended response keeps those stormy eyes on me a little bit longer.
Her eyes narrow on mine, my response clearly grating on her nerves but earning me the response I'd hoped for all the sameas she stands, uncaring of the little amount of space I’ve given her to do so. Toe to toe, I can smell the mint of her gum when she says, "Look, this is what's going to happen. You're not going to run against me. You're not so much as going to come up with one single idea for a campaign strategy. Instead, you're going to act as the place holder you are. Smile for the faculty, attend the meetings, but offer zero suggestions, and when you must campaign—because the staff will be watching—it's my name you tell students to cast their votes for."
I bite my lip to refrain from smiling, fighting the urge to lean closer, to close the dangerous distance between us. I liked it when Asha Fairfield was nice to me, but I think I like it more when she's mean. There's fire in her when she's angry, and it's intoxicating.
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you owe me," she states without reservation.
I pause, our gaze imperceptibly locked as I consider her response. What is she insinuating I owe her for? If anything, she evened the score when she dumped a milkshake down my chest, which has me questioning if she's not referring to something else, an admission that would give me a firm answer to the question that’s been driving me crazy. Does she remember?
I cross my arms and allow a deceiving grin to pull at my mouth, giving her the impression I'm unbothered when that couldn't be further from the truth. She's all I've thought about since the second I laid eyes on her yesterday, but even before then, she was every other thought. The way she moves, the tilt of her head when she's thinking, the dangerous curve of her smile…it's all burned into my memory.
"I don't know, after the strawberry milkshake, I'd say we're pretty even," I tactfully challenge, noting how her lips press together and her fists clench at her sides. “Unless there’s something else?” I say, unable to hold back my probe.
"Why are you here, Hale?"
And there it is. The confirmation I was looking for. She remembers. She could have used any other combination of words, but she chose those specific ones.
"Ridgewood has an excellent reputation," I say, curiously watching her wheels spin in hopes of figuring out what's changed.
"So do fifty other schools that aren't mine. Try again."
"And if I said you?" She hears a taunt. I can see it in the way she rolls her lips, but it's a question all the same. One I want a real answer for.
"Don't you think you've ruined my life enough?"
Ruined her life? I try hard to keep my face impassive, even though inside I'm scrambling to put the pieces together. I feel like I'm missing something big. How did I ruin her life?
"Whatever." She slaps her desk, frustrated with my delayed response. "Have it your way. You can play games all you want, but you better believe I don't lose. You'll regret?—"
My hand covers hers and steals her words. The moment our skin touches, it's like getting shocked, but in a good way. Her breath catches, confirming she feels it too. Her head might make me the enemy, but the rest of her isn’t sold on that label. Her hand is smaller than I expected, softer, but she doesn't pull away immediately. Her words might sound like pure hate, but the way she's staying…that says something totally different. For a second, we're just frozen, just like we were in the parking lot, and I can't tell if I want to fight her or kiss her.
"Regret implies a mistake. This wasn't a mistake,” I finally say, knowing any second this moment will disappear, and I’m not ready to show my cards—not now that I have to figure out how I ruined her life. For now, I have to let her hate me a little longer. She tries to pull her hand away, but I'm faster, grasping it tightly and holding her in place. Her pulse hammers againstmy thumb, betraying the effect I have on her despite the ice in her glare. "If I ruined your life, you corrupted mine. Make no mistake, you're no ice queen. You're trouble, sweetheart."
This time, when she tries to yank her hand away, I let her, but not before running my thumb across her knuckles. Her breath catches subtly. She rolls her glossy pink lips before saying, "You know what they say about trouble…it never sleeps."
"Oh, I'm counting on it." Her practiced, icy glare stays fixed on mine. "I like trouble. It follows me like a shadow."
I doubt she caught the double meaning in my words, but I felt her pulse racing. Her mind is swimming, too busy plotting her revenge and all the ways she'd kill me if she could to notice the way she unconsciously leans toward me even as she tries to pull away. But I've waited this long to see her again. I can wait a little longer to see what happens next.
SOPHOMORE YEAR
ASHA
Captive Audience: You're still coming to the game tonight, right?
I set down the gel filters in my hand as I crouch beside one of the spotlights in the dance hall, my lips rolling of their own accord when I see the message. I have no idea who the person on the other side of this message is, but I'm certain I like them even though I vowed I wouldn't. I roll my eyes and quickly reply.
Academic Hostage: It doesn't matter if I am. You know I follow the rules.
I slip my phone into my back pocket and get back to work. There’s less than a day left to get the dance hall ready for homecoming, and my to-do list feels endless. Still, I don’t mind the distraction. Every time my mystery friend texts, I can’t help but wonder who they are.
In years past, classes buried time capsules, produced documentaries, and spearheaded community projects that actually led to the construction of parks. But our class…we gotassigned secret pen pals like we're a bunch of summer campers homesick for our parents.
I was beyond livid. That night, I stormed back to my room, opened my laptop, and drafted what I was convinced would be a protest speech that would go down in the history books. This wasn't just about a disappointing senior project; this was about my future. I wanted these years to count. Needed them to count after being sent away, after missing everything I could never get back. I couldn’t stomach the thought of not building something substantial.
