Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 31

They always talk louder when they think you’re not listening.

> “It’s because of Betty.”
“They fought because of her? She’s not even that pretty.”
“One time, I saw James kiss Betty behind the gym.”
“Matt is better.”
“James is a sore loser.”
“He’s bad news. As always…”

Their voices overlap like static. Truth? Lies? It doesn’t matter. When a girl becomes a story, no one cares if she asked to be written.

I sit across from Mrs. Veloso in the Guidance Office, hands cold, fingertips brushing the skin of my wrist out of habit searching for the butterfly bracelet that isn’t there. Only scabs now. Past wounds that still ask for attention.

Across from me, Dad sits stiff in the tiny plastic chair, legs too long for it, face far too worried. The way he looks at me, it stings. Like he’s trying to solve a math problem and I’ve just become the part of the equation that doesn’t make sense.

Mrs. Veloso folds her hands neatly, like bad news deserves good posture.

“I called you here today, Mr. Finn,” she starts, her voice like someone stepping gently on glass, “because of some… incident that indirectly involves your daughter.”

Indirectly. That word floats like smoke.

I see it. The drop in my father’s expression. Not anger. Worse, disappointment. The subtle kind. The kind that doesn’t shout, just silently backs away.

“During the last Sportsfest,” she continues, “our two star students… well, let’s just say there was a test of strength. And after further investigation, it seems that Betty here...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She lets implication do the damage.

“It seems you may be… the root of it.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or disappear.

I am not the root. I am not some vine that crawled in between two boys and made them lose themselves. They had their reasons, and I am not one of them. I am just the name they shouted in the middle.

Dad stays silent, taking it all in like water through cloth. He doesn’t speak, just nods too slowly.

“Betty,” Mrs. Veloso says, careful now, as if I’m made of glass, “you are a good student. Perhaps… our decision to pair you with him for tutoring wasn’t the best idea afterall.”

I stiffen. “No,” I say, maybe too quickly. “James is trying. He’s improving. Please don’t take this away from him…” I sound like I’m begging for a life raft.

She sighs, deeply.

“Which is more reason for you to stop.”
“That boy…he is problematic. He’s not good for you.”

Each sentence hits like a verdict.

“You got him wrong,” I whisper, eyes burning. “He’s not a bad person.”

“Maybe. But this school has a responsibility to protect the well-being of our students. I think it would be best for you to maintain... distance from him.”
She turns to my father.
“Mr. Mikhail, I hope you’ll consider this. It’s for your daughter’s own good.”

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“Betts… what was that about?”

Dad’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was low, careful, like he was afraid of breaking something already on the edge of shattering. Maybe he knew. Maybe he saw it in my eyes.

We sat at the dinner table, the one that used to mean something. Laughter that felt more like a memory than a sound now. The rice on my plate had gone cold, untouched. My tea steamed between us, the only thing still warm.