Joey never really put effort into anything.
And after the rejection—
He stopped trying altogether.
It didn't happen all at once. His grades didn't crash overnight. They slipped. A missed assignment here. A half-finished worksheet there. Tests he used to barely pass now came back marked in red.
Eventually, someone noticed.
Joey was called in after class. Then again. He sat across from teachers who spoke carefully, like they didn't want to startle him. They told him his grades were dropping. That he needed support. That he'd be placed into extra weekend classes until things improved.
Weekend classes, which meant no more football until things changed. All Joey could do then was nod.
The classroom smelled faintly of marker ink and stale air. Saturday mornings always did. Joey dragged his feet down the aisle, shoulders low, backpack hanging from one strap like it might slip off if he stopped paying attention.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Most of the seats were already taken. Students sat scattered across the room, quiet, resigned, flipping through notebooks or staring at nothing in particular.
Joey scanned for an open desk.
Then he noticed her.
Layla sat one row ahead, near the window, legs stretched slightly beneath the desk, one foot tapping against the chair rung. She had her hair pulled back, loose strands already escaping, and a notebook open in front of her—neatly organized, margins marked.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
Her brows lifted just a little. "Huh," she said. "So you finally made it."
Joey blinked. "Made it…?"
Layla smirked faintly and twisted in her seat to face him properly. "Extra classes. I figured you'd be here sooner or later."
"Oh." He paused, then nodded once. "Yeah. I guess."
He didn't sound surprised. Or offended. Just… neutral.
Joey stepped past her and dropped into the desk behind, the chair scraping softly against the floor. He pulled out a notebook, then stopped, staring at the blank page like he'd forgotten what it was for.
Layla glanced back again. Noticed.
"You good?" she started. "I mean—"
The door opened.
The teacher walked in, arms full of papers, expression already tired. "Alright, everyone. Let's get started."
Layla stopped mid-sentence.
For a second, she hesitated, her mouth tightening into something unreadable. Then she turned back around in her seat, posture straightening as she flipped to a clean page.
Joey didn't.
He stared ahead, unfocused, the words on the board blurring together as the lesson began. The teacher spoke, wrote, erased, repeated. Concepts Joey half-recognized drifted past him like background noise. He copied what was on the board when he remembered to, stopped when his hand grew tired, started again out of habit rather than focus.
Eventually, worksheets were passed out.
"Complete these and turn them in before you leave."
Chairs scraped. Pens scratched. The room filled with the quiet urgency of students who wanted to be anywhere else.
Joey stared at the page.
Question one. He read it once. Then again. He skipped it.
Question two looked worse.
He flipped the page, then flipped it back, pencil hovering uselessly above the paper. Around him, answers were being written. Pages were filling. Bags zipped.
Students stood, laughing softly, stretching, already mentally free.
Joey glanced out the window.
Groups crossed the courtyard together, sunlight catching on their shoulders, voices light, unburdened. He watched them until they disappeared around the corner.
With a frustrated sigh, he leaned back in his chair and rested his head against the top rail, eyes drifting up to the ceiling tiles.
Maybe the answers were written up there.
"Staring at the ceiling doesn't give you answers."
Joey groaned softly and dragged a hand down his face. "I'm just thinking."
Layla stood beside his desk.
She leaned in slightly, peering at the worksheet. She tilted her head.
"Could've fooled me."
Before he could react, she picked up the paper.
"Hey—" Joey reached out instinctively.
Layla stepped just out of range, scanning the page.
"…Damn," she muttered.
She flipped it once, then again. "Were you awake during the lesson? You barely answered anything."
Joey looked away, jaw tightening.
Layla noticed.
She set the worksheet back down in front of him and pulled a nearby chair closer with her foot. It scraped softly as she sat, turning the chair sideways so she faced him.
"Alright," she said, tapping the paper with her pen. "This one? Literally on the board. I don't know how you managed to get it wrong, but here we are."
She pointed to another. "And this one—you skipped, but it's the same idea. Just phrased differently."
Joey watched her for a moment, then spoke. "I didn't ask for your help."
Layla raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, I didn't ask for an attitude."
He frowned.
She leaned back slightly, folding her arms. "Face it. You need a fresh set of brains And"—she gestured casually—"mines happens to be free right now."
Joey studied her expression.
"…Alright," he said after a moment. "Okay."
Layla smiled, small and satisfied. "Good."
She pulled the worksheet closer to the center of the desk.
"Because," she added, uncapping her pen, "we're starting all over again."
Joey sighed—but this time, he picked up his pencil.
********
They finished the worksheet long after the room should've been empty.
The sun had shifted by then, light slanting through the windows at a lower angle, warm and tired. The board was still covered in half-erased notes. The classroom hummed faintly with the building's evening quiet.
Layla leaned back against the teacher's desk, fishing two cans out of her bag.
She tossed one to Joey.
He caught it out of reflex.
For a moment, he just stared at the cold aluminum in his hand, watching condensation bead and trail down the side.
Layla popped hers open with a sharp pssh and took a long drink.
"…Man," she said, exhaling afterward. "I've got a whole new respect for teachers now."
Joey blinked. "Huh?"
She gestured vaguely at the desks, the papers, him. "That took all afternoon. And I only had to deal with one student."
Joey huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.
He glanced at the can again, then finally opened it. The sound felt louder than it should've been in the empty room.
"…Thanks," he said. The word came out softer than he intended. "For helping. You didn't have to stay."
Joey frowned slightly. "And.. sorry.I kinda… kept you here late."
She took another sip, glancing at him sideways. "Relax. It's fine."
They sat in silence for a moment, cans in hand, the day settling around them.
"…So," Joey said eventually. "Why are you in extra classes?"
Layla hummed in response.
Joey looked at her. "You clearly know what you were doing. You didn't struggle with any of that."
She smiled faintly, tapping the side of her can against her knee. "I take them voluntarily."
Joey blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah." She took another drink. "It's easier to revise here. Get stuff out of the way."
She glanced toward the window, where the track field was barely visible beyond the building. "That way, the rest of my time's free for things i enjoy doing."
Joey nodded slowly.
"Makes sense"
She lifted her can in mock approval.
Then she turned the question back on him.
"So," she said. "Why are you here?"
Joey hesitated. "Because….I am doing bad academically?"
She tilted her head. "Yeah. I've seen that first hand.." Her eyes narrowed just a little. "But like, there is obviously a catalyst. You were consistently average."
She made a small dropping motion with her hand.
Joey looked down at the floor.
"I just… couldn't keep up anymore, I guess," he said. "It was just a matter of time, like you said."
Layla watched him closely.
"…Or," she said slowly, "you decided nothing's worth trying because you got rejected."
Joey went still.
She leaned forward. "Look. I'm not saying it didn't hurt. But letting one moment—one thing that didn't go your way—decide everything else?" She shook her head. "That's a lame way to live."
Joey winced.
"It's not that," he said quietly.
"Then what is it?"
He tightened his grip on the can.
"I thought," he said slowly, "that if I tried—just once—it would amount to something."
He looked up.
"But she didn't even read it."
His voice dropped. "I actually tried. And it wasn't even… seen."
He swallowed.
"She couldn't even give it back herself."
The room went quiet.
Layla's expression softened, the edge in her frustration dulling.
"Oh," Layla said softly.
She didn't interrupt after that.
Instead, she leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly, eyes fixed on the floor as if she were lining her thoughts up carefully. For a moment, the room was quiet—just the distant hum of the building settling into evening.
Then she straightened, expression tightening, like she'd reached a conclusion she didn't particularly like.
"Honestly," she said, "that's stupid."
Joey glanced at her.
"You put effort into something she never even saw," Layla continued. "And from that, you decided the effort was pointless. That you failed.That trying in general isn't worth it." She tilted her head. "Is that what you're telling yourself?"
He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.
Layla shook her head immediately. "That doesn't make sense."
Joey frowned. "How doesn't it?"
"Because you're acting like the problem is effort," she said, leaning forward now, elbows resting on her knees. "When the problem is where you put it."
He went quiet.
"You worked hard on a letter," she went on. "But she didn't read it. That sucks, I get that. But instead of thinking, 'She never saw what I did,' you jumped straight to, 'Nothing I do matters.'"
She looked him dead in the eye. "Those aren't the same thing."
Joey swallowed.
"So stop wrapping your head over what she didn't see" Layla said slowly, "and maybe think of what she actually sees."
He hesitated. "What do you mean?"
She gestured vaguely around them. "What does Anita actually see every day?"
Joey opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I… don't know. People?"
"Exactly," Layla said. "She sees you showing up to class and keeping your head down. She sees you barely talking. Sitting on the bench. Drifting through everything like you're already checked out."
The words hit hard.
"You're upset because she didn't see your effort on that letter," Layla continued, her voice firm but steady. "But the truth is—she doesn't really see you either."
Joey looked away, jaw tightening.
"So yeah," she said, not unkind but not softening it either, "even if that letter was written by Shakespeare himself, it wouldn't change that. She might like the words. That doesn't mean she'd suddenly like the guy behind them."
Joey let out a slow breath. "So I'm just… what. Nobody's type?"
Layla didn't flinch. "Right now?" She shrugged lightly. "No. Not really."
The honesty landed heavy.
"You're average," she added. "And now? Below average." She met his eyes again. "And a nice letter doesn't fix that. Because attraction isn't about one good moment—it's about what someone consistently sees."
Joey said nothing.
Layla leaned back slightly. "That's why giving up makes no sense. You're upset that your effort wasn't noticed… so put your effort where it can be noticed."
Joey exhaled slowly through his nose.
"…Okay," he said after a moment. "but…. where?"
Layla tilted her head and then sighs. "God you're really…."
She thought for a second. "Anita likes sports. Football, especially. The whole school does. It's loud. It's public." She tapped the side of her can. "You can't ignore that."
Joey scoffed quietly. "I'm not even in the club anymore."
"That's temporary."
"And even when I was," he added, "I was a benchwarmer."
Layla waved that off. "Then become a starter"
"Its not–"
She cut him off. "I'm not saying become some sports god overnight. I'm saying try. Put effort somewhere people can't just overlook it. Somewhere results show."
Joey stared at the floor, mind turning.
"And before you ask," she added, "I'll help you with the weekend classes. Not because I'm your tutor or your savior." She stood, grabbing her bag. "But because I dragged myself into this when I handed you that letter back."
He glanced up. "So this is guilt?"
"Responsibility," she corrected. "Big difference."
She finished her drink and crushed the can lightly in her hand. "But don't get it twisted. I can't raise your grades for you. I can't make you try."
She slung her bag over her shoulder. "All I did was give you a direction. What you do with it is your problem."
Layla headed for the door, then paused.
"And stop the sappy crap," she added over her shoulder. "You don't get to complain about effort not mattering when you barely have the heart."
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Joey stayed where he was, the empty can resting loosely in his hand.
Her words replayed—not as commands, not as comfort, but as something irritatingly logical.
You put effort where it was easiest to be ignored.
He stared at the floor for a long moment.
"…Maybe," he muttered, "I'll try."
Not confident.
Not resolved.
Just—maybe.
And for the first time in a while, that felt like something.