The Game

𝟏𝟑

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝑼𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝑵𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 

First period moved like the clock had beef with us — slow, petty ticks loud enough to drown out the whisper of pencils. The projector coughed itself through attendance slides while I sat back, chin on my palm, calm in my body in a way that felt new. I wasn't floating; I had weight. I'd put on my lazy-day outfit on purpose: white ribbed crop tank, bubble-gum pink cargos cinched easy on my hips, and Timbs that made my steps sound sure. My curls fell glossy down my back. I didn't do much else. I didn't need to.

My phone thrummed against my thigh. I slid it out under the desk, the universal move. Unknown number.

Hey, sweetheart. You were right — when I took your phone the other day, I stole your number. Needed it. Now I got it. — A

I bit my lip, smile trying to get free. Of course it was him — the specific chaos of August. I typed fast.

Not the initial. You want to be mysterious that bad? — Aliya

The dots bounced. He didn't make me wait.

If mysterious gets your attention, I'll be whatever you like. Tell me, sweetheart — you thinking about me, or I'm alone out here? — August

I snorted. Petty. Extra. Him. I renamed the contact because I'm dramatic in tiny, private ways: August with a red heart. I tucked him right under Dad and Neilah, like honesty.

You're supposed to be in English. Why are you texting me in homeroom? — Aliya

Sitting outside the principal's office. Bored out my mind. Say a prayer for me, sweetheart. — August

What did you do. And don't lie — you're terrible at it. — Aliya

A beat. When the screen lit again, the tone had shifted, softer at the edges.

I'm here with my mom. She wants teachers keeping an eye on me, making sure I don't push too hard. I know she's right. But it's a lot. I feel... watched. — August

I pictured the two of them in those heavy chairs outside the office that always smell like new carpet and disinfectant — both wanting the same thing and wanting it differently.

She does it because she loves you. Be easy on her. Let her breathe. You don't like being watched; she doesn't like worrying. Meet in the middle. — Aliya

I hear you, sweetheart. You always sound like good sense in my ear. Don't go missing on me today. I got used to your voice. — August

The word sweetheart slid under my skin like warmth. I turned the phone facedown and tried to focus on the handout. Then my gaze drifted — felt, not decided — and landed two rows over on the other problem in my life.

Chris sat half-turned in his seat like he'd been waiting for me to look. Navy cap low, gold square pendant flashing at his throat, rust-and-green flannel open over a white tee, light blue jeans slouching just right over black-and-white 1s. He smirked — the lazy kind, confident because it's earned — and something softer pushed at the corners of it, curious. His eyes dipped to the smile I hadn't controlled in time. He said nothing, but the look said it for him: What's got you happy, Aliya?