I was on my ninth pen. Snap. Crack. Toss.
Each one I pulled from my bag ended the same way—broken in two, ink bleeding onto my fingers like my anger had spilled into the world. Crumpled paper carpeted the floor. The gym looked like a war zone, but who cared? Isn't that what janitors were hired for anyway?
"The guts! The audacity! How dare he?" I shouted, throwing my bag across the room.
Fred. Freaking. McClain.
The new boy who had waltzed into my kingdom and thought he could push me—me, Zikora Kora—down like I was nobody. I wanted him to pay. Expulsion? Too easy. I wanted him to suffer.
I sank down, my head resting against my knees, rage pounding in my ears.
Then came the knock.
"Zikora! Zikora! Open the door!"
Voices outside. Curious students, maybe Ann, maybe Bernard. I didn't care. I grabbed my bag off the floor and swung open the door without looking at anyone. Their questions bounced off me like pebbles on glass. No answer. No eye contact. I marched straight to class, my heels biting the marble floor in sharp clicks.
The room was empty. School hours were over. Twenty percent of the student body lingered around campus, the rest had gone home. I dropped heavily into my chair, checked my watch, and texted my driver not to bother. I needed silence.
My head dropped onto the desk. My lashes clumped together with tears I refused to admit were there. Somewhere between exhaustion and despair, I drifted off—until I felt it.
A hand. Warm. Gentle. Brushing the back of my neck.
I froze. Without lifting my head, I peeked under my lashes. Sneakers. Black Nike. Neon trim.
"Zikora," a voice said softly.
Fred.
I stiffened. "Get off me and don't touch me!" My voice cracked against the wood of the desk.
"I'm really sorry, Zikora," he said.
I bolted upright, glaring at him through damp lashes. "Fred, leave me alone!"
"I—Fred McClain—am really sorry for—"
"Enough!" My shout sliced through the empty room. "Leave. Me. Alone."
But my tears betrayed me. Why was I so emotional in front of him of all people? Why did his apology scrape at something raw inside me?
"Crybaby," he muttered, softer this time, not cruel. "Stop it, okay? I'm sorry." His hand reached toward my cheek.
I slapped it away. Grabbed my bag. Started for the door.
Then he pulled me back. Strong. Firm. Pinning me against the wall with a look that could burn through steel.
"Listen, girl. I'm sorry, alright? You want me to go to California? Fine. I'll go. Happy now?" His green eyes bored into mine.
"I'll spit on you if you don't let me go," I hissed.
He smirked, lips twitching like I amused him. "So disgusting. I wonder why you're still here instead of running home. I heard you were crying your eyes out. True?"
"Let me go!"
"No."
"Let me go!"
"No."
"I'll kick you, and you know exactly where."
He didn't even flinch. "Don't care."
I raised my knee, ready to make good on my promise. He released me instantly, stepping back with a sharp eye-roll.
"Do you forgive me?" he asked.
I exhaled sharply, my pride wrestling with my exhaustion. "…Yeah."
"Good. So when exactly are we flying to California?"
"Next tomorrow."
"I'm only doing this so you'll forgive me," he said flatly.
I stuck out my hand. "Friends?"
He hesitated, then shook. "Friends."
For a heartbeat, something unspoken hung in the air between us. I shoved it aside.
"Fine. I'm heading back."
"Or…" he tilted his head, "we go shopping. What do you think?"
I arched a brow. "Shopping?"
He grinned, boyish despite himself. "Why not? Unless your brother's going to break my jaw when he finds out?"
"You think Zimba's a street fighter?" I scoffed.
"Surprisingly, you've got zero sense of humor," he muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing." He tugged at his shirt. "Let me change first."
Before I could protest, he pulled his shirt over his head.
I froze.
Turn away, Zikora. Don't look. Do. Not. Look.
But my traitor eyes betrayed me. His chest—toned, strong, skin warm under the classroom light—caught me off guard. Why was my heart skipping like this? I've seen abs before. Magazines, Instagram, even in real life. So why did his feel different?
"Never seen a guy like me?" His grin was maddening.
I scoffed, folding my arms. "Please. Those aren't abs. That's fat. You need a gym membership."
"Jealous 'cause Bernard doesn't have these?" he teased, pointing at his chest.
I laughed sharply. "You're an old man with a beer belly."
"You're not getting away with that." He lunged before I could dodge, catching me with terrifying ease. My arm twisted behind my back, pinned once again to the wall.
"Will you still say bad words to me?"
"That hurts! Let me go!"
He leaned close, breath brushing my ear. "Say please."
"Please," I spat.
"Good girl." He released me with a laugh.
I stormed out, cheeks flaming, waiting outside while he changed into new clothes. My Maryjane tapped impatient rhythms against the tiled floor.
"You can come in now," he finally called.
When I stepped back in, I froze again.
Oversized Dior hoodie. Baggy jeans. White sneakers. Sunglasses. The boy looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a teen fashion magazine.
I swallowed, hard.
"Don't worry," he said, catching me staring. "It's all free. You can drool."
"You're not worth my drool," I snapped. But the corner of my lips betrayed me with a twitch of a smile.
"Let's go."
We walked out together, the silence heavy with something unspoken. At the lot, he slid into the driver's seat of his Honda Odyssey. The engine purred, and soon the gates of Marina Academia disappeared behind us as we sped toward Lindajux Mall.
And for the first time all day, I wasn't angry. Not exactly.