Chapter 1: The Backup Plan

My childhood friend, Lila Sanchez, is pregnant. She came to me, sobbing, hoping I’d be her plan B—like I’d swoop in and fix everything, just like always.

Her mascara had run in streaks down her cheeks, and she was twisting the sleeve of her hoodie so hard it looked like she was trying to wring all the hope out of that fabric. Her eyes—big, brown, and desperate—locked on me, like I was the last life raft in a sinking ship. The air between us felt so heavy, stuffed full with years of friendship and all the things we never dared to say.

I couldn’t help it—my heart just melted, seeing her face all streaked with tears. I almost said yes. Almost.

My breath caught. For a second, I’d felt that old urge... the one where I’d throw myself in front of a train if it meant protecting her. The words "I'll help you" hovered right there, about to spill out, but then—

But then, out of nowhere, my mind started lighting up with invisible comments—like a whole peanut gallery in my head, tossing out opinions:

It was like my brain had turned into a live feed—like scrolling through a never-ending thread, each doubt and warning popping up in bold. Pat the backup guy, don’t admit it.

She wants you to take the fall—not just help her and that broke transfer kid raise their baby, but to make sure you get thrown under the bus for good.

Ahhh, the classic scene is here.

As soon as the backup guy admits it, our leading man can swoop in, pretending to be the backup, and reveal himself as the secret rich heir who’s been lost out there.

He’ll inherit billions and live it up with old-money privilege.

Go, main character!

The voices in my head were relentless, all sarcasm and fake applause. I could practically hear the laugh track. I dropped my eyes. So, this is it—I’m just the backup character.

The sting hit hard. That cold, hollow ache settled in. Right in my chest. Like, wow, I really am just the guy in the wings, always standing by, never the star.

It’s senior year at Maple Heights High. Less than two months until the SATs. The pressure? It’s brutal. Sometimes I wonder, does anyone even breathe around here?

Every morning, my alarm explodes at 6:30, and I’m already behind. The hallways reek of burnt coffee and nerves. College brochures are stacked on every kitchen table in town, and nobody talks about anything but scores, scholarships, and the next big thing.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Watkins, is all business, every single day. He says it every day. Like we need the reminder: “This is the final sprint, folks. Don’t slack off.”

His voice booms through the stale classroom air, clipboard in hand, eyes like laser beams on the finish line. The way he says it, you’d think the SATs were the Super Bowl and we were all quarterbacks about to choke on the final play.

Every day is a blur of practice tests and mock exams. It’s like there’s no room left in my brain for anything else.

My desk is a graveyard of graphite smudges and half-erased answers. Even lunch is just another vocab drill. Sometimes, honestly, I forget what sunlight feels like.

Lately, the girl who grew up next door—Lila Sanchez—has been different. Off.

She’s quieter in the mornings, almost jumpy. Sometimes I catch her staring into space, chewing her lip, phone clutched like it’s a lifeline. She’s gotten really close to the new transfer kid from the rough side of town. They’re practically glued together, and everyone’s talking.

Carter Evans—his story is Maple Heights legend by now. His family rolled in last fall, barely scraping by. He’s got that moody loner vibe, always in the same old jacket, hair in his eyes. The way he and Lila lean into each other? You don’t need to be a genius to see there’s more going on.

In the chaos of all this test prep, my classmates’ eyes keep drifting—sometimes on purpose, sometimes not—toward Lila and Carter Evans.

It’s like they’re the main characters in a soap opera, and the rest of us are just extras milling around in the background. Whispers ripple through the halls. Even the teachers act like they don’t see it when those two slip out after last bell.

A couple friends—people who’ve known me forever—actually asked, “Alex, you and Lila grew up together. We always figured she’d end up with you.”

It stings every time, like a paper cut that never heals. I force a laugh, try to play it cool, but it never gets easier.

I roll my eyes, put on my best deadpan: “Seriously, don’t start rumors. And don’t talk about girls behind their backs.”

I try to sound older than I feel. Like I’m above the drama. My voice comes out steady, but inside? Not so much.

My friends just crack up, calling me old-fashioned and boring. The teasing’s all in good fun, nothing mean about it.

They nudge me, crack jokes about me being everyone’s dad. Sometimes, I almost wish I could just let loose and laugh with them. But I can’t. Not really. Their teasing is harmless, but it hits a spot I don’t like to admit is there.