Chapter 1: Rumors, Hair Ties, and Broken Tests

On the day the results for our last practice test dropped, the whole school surged into the hallway to see who’d scored what. But I just stayed at my desk, tucked in the back under a buzzing, half-dead fluorescent light. The sound of sneakers squeaking on linoleum, shouts echoing off cinderblock walls, and the faint smell of cafeteria pizza drifted through the air. I barely noticed. I flipped my notebook open, tore off a scrap of paper, and started working through last night’s chemistry problem—the one Mrs. Gibson had scrawled across the board in neon green Expo marker.

Even the chaos outside didn’t faze me. Pencil tapping out a steady rhythm, I worked through the formulas, not looking up when a pack of juniors burst by, their laughter bouncing down the row of lockers. Posters for prom and the spring musical peeled from the walls. Someone lobbed a half-empty Gatorade at the trash, missing by a mile.

Soon, kids who’d checked the rankings started trickling back in. The air was heavy with tension—whispers, snickers, a couple of grins and some dead-eyed stares. You could spot who was riding high and who wanted to crawl under their desk. Backpacks hit the floor harder than necessary, and a few people just slumped in their seats like the world had ended.

Their looks said it all—mocking, pitying, a few just plain mean. I could feel the heat of their stares prickling at my neck, sharp as sunburn.

I caught the tail end of their whispers:

"Caleb Foster is last again."

"Six subjects, barely scraping over 600? Dude, I could throw my test in a shredder and still score higher."

"At least he looks chill about it. Makes me feel better about my own SAT anxiety."

Their voices mixed with the crinkle of chip bags and the click of mechanical pencils, but every jab landed. It was basically tradition—Caleb’s scores as comic relief before panic set in for everyone else.

I let it all roll off me. I focused on the chemistry problem, rain on a windbreaker. Eventually, they’d get bored.

When I didn’t react, they drifted off, settling back into their seats. One football player shot me a glare like he wanted me to snap, but when I didn’t, he just shrugged and started talking about Friday night’s game. Sometimes, being invisible wasn’t so bad.

Just as I was scribbling out the last part of the problem, my deskmate, Eric, suddenly stood up and pointed at my drawer. "Hey, what’s this?" His voice sliced through the noise. Eric was always up for trouble, especially when he was bored. He yanked my desk drawer open, metal scraping against the wood.

Before I could react, he pulled out a light blue hair tie. He dangled it from his finger like he’d just unearthed the Holy Grail. His smirk widened as he held it up, giving it a little twirl.

My breath caught. I reached for it, my hands shaking under the desk, knuckles white around my pencil. "Give it back. That’s mine." My voice came out sharp, more desperate than I meant.

Eric just grinned and, ignoring my hand, tossed the hair tie to Amanda at the next desk. She caught it and giggled.

And then it started: the hair tie made the rounds, a cruel game of keep-away. Each time I lunged, it zipped out of reach—someone else snatching it up, waving it like a trophy. My chest tightened and my face burned. I half-stood, heart pounding, but the more desperate I got, the more they laughed. My hands shook so bad I almost snapped my pencil. I wanted to shout, but the words stuck like gum in my throat.

Usually, I was the easiest target—bad grades, quiet, a safe punching bag. But this time, I couldn’t let it go. The more I reacted, the more they ramped up the game. "Careful, Caleb’s gonna cry!" someone yelled, setting off another round of laughter. Phones came out—Snapchat, Instagram, probably a dozen stories by lunch.

Eric scratched his head and went, "Didn’t Natalie Brooks lose a blue hair tie a while back? She posted about it in the group chat. Caleb, did you steal it because you have a crush on her?"

There was a hush. Then the whispers exploded, louder and meaner than before. Heads craned, eyes glinting, everyone hungry for a new rumor. Natalie Brooks was the queen bee—varsity cheer, student council, always the first to get her driver’s license and the last to leave any party. Her name alone made everyone sit up and listen.

Finally, I managed to grab the hair tie back from Tyler, nearly dropping my notebook in the process. My palms were slick with sweat as I clutched it, knuckles white. I didn’t bother to explain—it wasn’t Natalie’s, and I wasn’t about to give them more ammo. I wiped it off with my hoodie sleeve and stuffed it deep in my backpack, heart still racing.

I thought that was the end of it—until Natalie herself strolled up to our classroom before the first period after lunch.

The sun caught in her hair as she leaned against the doorway, every conversation dying instantly. She owned the room with one look. I buried my nose in my notes, pretending not to notice, hoping she’d just keep walking.

But no—she strutted straight to my desk, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She moved like she was on a runway, eyes locked on me.

She stood over me, arms crossed, chin up, perfume floating in the air. "I heard… you like me?" Her voice was sweet as frosting, but cold as ice. The whole class leaned in, hungry for drama.