The cafeteria at St Augustine Academy was loud in every way—clattering trays, overlapping voices, the sharp squeak of sneakers on tile. It smelled like overcooked eggs, cheap gravy, and the faint tang of teenage drama. Students ruled their tables like small kingdoms: athletes in one corner, drama kids in another, the rich and beautiful dead center.
Kevin Emilio Boyce moved through it all like a shadow, tray balanced in both hands since his goggles were still shattered and taped together. Without clear vision, everything blurred at the edges, but he didn't need perfect sight to find a safe spot. He aimed for the empty table near the back wall—far from the popular chaos, close to the emergency exit. Quiet. Invisible.
He set his tray down with careful relief. Mashed potatoes, grayish gravy, a piece of dry chicken, and a carton of milk. Nothing special, but it was food. He could eat, breathe, disappear for thirty minutes.
Then Alice Tanaka walked in.
She entered the cafeteria the way she entered every room—like the lights had been waiting for her. Friends flanked her on both sides, laughing at something she'd said in that low, raspy voice. Her curls bounced under the fluorescent lights. Coffee-brown skin seemed to glow even in the ugly cafeteria glare. Dimples flashed and vanished as she scanned the room.
Her eyes landed on Kevin.
For a second, everything else faded. He felt it—the tightening in his chest, the way his mismatched eyes tried to focus through the cracked lenses just to see her clearly.
He looked down at his tray too late.
One of Alice's friends—the tall one with braids—leaned in and whispered something. Alice's lips curved into the smallest, sharpest smirk.
They changed direction. Headed straight for him.
Kevin's pulse hammered in his ears. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
Alice stopped right in front of him, arms loosely crossed.
"That's my seat," she said, voice calm and cold.
He blinked up at her blurred shape. "I… didn't see a name on it."
Wrong answer.
Her friends snickered. Alice didn't speak again. She simply reached out, hooked two fingers under the edge of his tray, and flipped it.
Everything went airborne for a slow, terrible second—then crashed to the floor.
Mashed potatoes splattered across the tiles like wet cement. Gravy pooled in dark streaks. The chicken skidded under a nearby table. Milk burst open, soaking his shoes and the cuffs of his pants.
Laughter exploded around them, immediate and vicious. Phones rose like periscopes. Someone whooped.
Kyle Reinhart leaned against a pillar twenty feet away, arms folded, grinning like he'd bought front-row tickets.
Kevin stared at the mess for a heartbeat. Then he sank to his knees—not dramatically, just automatically—to clean it up. His fingers shook as he gathered soggy napkins, chasing bits of food across the floor. The gravy was warm and sticky. It clung to his skin.
Alice crouched beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume again.
"You're pathetic," she said softly, so only he could hear. "You can't even eat without watching me like some lost puppy."
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
A tear slipped down his cheek, hot and unstoppable. He didn't wipe it away. Let it fall. Let her see.
For one brief second, the cafeteria noise dipped—just enough for Alice to notice the tear track cutting through the acne on his face. Her smirk faltered. Something flickered across her expression—surprise, maybe discomfort—but it vanished as quickly as it came.
The laughter swelled again, louder, crueler.
Vernon appeared at the edge of the scene, tray in hand, looking like he wanted to help but knowing it would only make things worse. William stood further back, watching quietly as always.
Kevin kept cleaning. Hands stained, uniform ruined, eyes stinging.
When the floor was as clean as he could manage with crumpled napkins, he stood slowly.
Alice was already walking away, rejoining her friends. Mid-stride, she started talking animatedly about the upcoming drama club performance—hands moving, voice rising with real excitement, eyes sparkling even from a distance.
Kevin watched her go.
The humiliation sat heavy in his stomach, heavier than hunger.
But something else stirred beneath it.
He saw the way she lit up talking about the stage. The passion in her gestures. The life in her.
And even through the tears and the mess and the laughter still echoing around him, a quiet, stubborn thought took root:
If she can command a room like that… so will I.
One day.
The bell rang. Students surged toward the exits, stepping around the leftover gravy streaks without a second glance.
Kevin didn't follow the crowd right away. He gathered his empty tray, dumped it, and headed—not to the bathroom to hide, not home to quit.
To the library.
He sat at a corner table, pulled out his soaked notebook, and carefully peeled apart the damp pages. Some notes were ruined. Ink had bled.
He opened to a fresh page.
And started rewriting everything—line by line, stroke by stroke. Methodical. Obsessive.
Each word he copied was a promise.
I will not stay weak.
I will not stay invisible.
I will rise.
And one day, Alice Tanaka will see me—not as the boy on the floor, but as so
meone who belongs in the same light she does.