Chapter 1: Desk Wars and Percy Jackson

When I was in middle school, my deskmate was this tiny girl—short, tan from soccer practice, always rocking scuffed-up sneakers and a tomboy edge.

She’d barrel into class with her hair a mess from running, grass stains streaked across her jeans, and never cared if her shoes were battered from playground battles. Even in the stiff white polo and navy khakis, she’d roll up her sleeves or knot her laces in double bows, somehow making the uniform look like it belonged on her and not the other way around. Sometimes she’d flash that crooked grin that made it easy to forget she was even a girl at all—or at least, that’s how I thought of her back then.

I didn’t really see her as a girl, and she didn’t treat me like a boy either.

We’d jab each other in the shoulder, argue over who was fastest, and nothing ever felt weird or tense—just two stubborn kids who happened to share a desk and a love of outdoing each other.

Back then, Percy Jackson was everywhere. You’d hear kids arguing over which Greek god was coolest, trading spoilers in the lunch line, shoving pizza crusts aside to make room for their books. The little campus shop by the gym jumped on the trend, stacking Percy Jackson books in the window for $14.99—a fortune for any of us with just five bucks a week in allowance.

The books would disappear in a flash. If you got there late, you just watched the lucky kids parade out, clutching those glossy covers like they’d scored the last ticket to a sold-out concert.

It was a whole event—the mad dash when the bell rang, sneakers screeching on the linoleum. The winners would high-five in the hallway, their new books hugged tight like they’d struck gold.

But I never had to fight the crowd—my deskmate was a day student.

That was my secret weapon. While everyone else elbowed for a spot, I just waited, knowing she’d come through for me.

She went home every day for lunch and after school. I asked her once, when we were grading quizzes at our desks, why she could always leave.

She just rolled her eyes. “Because I live right next to the school.”

She said it like it was obvious, slinging her backpack over one shoulder like she was already halfway out the door.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Living that close sounded magical—like she could step into sunlight while the rest of us gnawed on cold nuggets under flickering lights.

It wasn’t until years later I understood—she lived in the zip code everyone’s parents wanted. After a college admissions seminar, I remembered sitting in that overheated auditorium, the smell of burnt coffee lingering, as parents whispered about test scores and property taxes. Suddenly, I realized how much that address mattered, how hard our parents had fought just to get us into a decent school.

We called each other 'bro.' She’d snag Percy Jackson for me, and I’d let her copy my homework.

We had our own handshake—a ridiculous fist bump with finger snaps and a loud, echoing slap that always made the lunch monitors glare. Sometimes she’d nudge me and whisper, "Bro, you got the answers?" and I’d slide my notebook over, no questions asked. She’d pay me back with the latest book or a pack of Skittles from home.

She was slow with homework, always dragging her feet, while I zipped through assignments so I could lose myself in Camp Half-Blood after school.

Watching her chew on her pencil, I wondered if she’d ever finish, or if we’d both just get old in this stuffy classroom. Meanwhile, I’d already be flipping pages, disappearing into another world.

A sticky summer breeze crept in through the cracked window, mixing with the smell of dry-erase markers and cafeteria fries. The last streaks of sunset faded beyond the hill, city lights flickering on below us, while our classroom floated above it all—chaotic and cozy at the same time.

The old ceiling fan rattled overhead, barely stirring the thick, humid air. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor’s radio played classic rock. Her cheeks flushed as she scribbled, and I finished up, gazing out the window, wondering if I could just walk away from it all into the cool night.

Years later, those memories come back in a wave of midsummer heat—the suffocating air, the musty textbooks, the secret thrill of hiding a paperback under your homework. Her face, half-hidden behind a stack of worksheets and a book, stays with me like a sunburn that never quite fades.