The Game

𝟏𝟓

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒂𝒌𝒆

I was twenty minutes late before I even left the neighborhood.

The freeway turned into a red river — brake lights stacked like rubies to the horizon. My glasses kept sliding down my nose every time I checked the time, like the minutes were playing peekaboo on purpose. By the time the bottleneck spit me out, the second bell had rung and the hall monitors were already inside.

I'd dressed fast and cute — white strapless top, faded denim skirt with a frayed hem, gold anklets over simple sandals, hair in big glossy curls. I slung on my black backpack and slid my clear frames higher. Lip balm went in the front pocket. No time for anything extra.

I jogged across the lot, signed the late sheet with an apologetic smile, grabbed the pass, and booked it to Pre-Calc.

Heads turned when I pushed open Mrs. Álvarez's door. That special quiet dropped — not the learning kind, the watching kind.

"Late pass," I said, holding it up.

Mrs. Álvarez took it with a tight nod and motioned toward an empty desk mid–row. I turned to go and never reached it. A foot slid out — quick, deliberate — and clipped my ankle. I pitched forward, caught myself with both palms, and skidded just enough to scuff the skin.

Laughter cracked around the room like a match. Chairs squeaked from people leaning back to enjoy it.

Kareem grinned down, all teeth. "Don't frown, Aliya. Shame you weren't lucky enough to fall on to Chris' dick this time. However, the floor is a better look for you."

Kayoni and her friends cackled. Her bracelet chimed when she threw her wrist over her mouth like she was shocked by anything besides herself. Then she cut a glare toward Chris — the kind of look girls use to remind a boy where he belongs.

Chris didn't look up. He was glued to his phone, thumbs moving steady. For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something to his friend. Scroll, scroll. Nothing.

"Keep laughing," Ja'Colby said from the middle row, voice low and dangerous. His chair scraped as he half rose. "I'll fight everybody in here behind her — keep playing."

The chuckles died like the room had swallowed them.

"Go on and take a seat, Ms. Summers," Mrs. Álvarez said without looking up from the gradebook.

In the back, August lifted two fingers and tapped the desk beside him. "Saved you a spot," he said when I got there, voice pitched for me. "Don't worry about them."

"Thanks." I sat, adjusted my glasses, and tugged my top up a breath on principle.

"Also," he murmured, eyes never dropping below my face, "fix your top."

"I got it." I lifted it another inch. He gave me a small, satisfied nod.

I opened my notebook and fell straight into the work — factoring, solving, checking, running neat lines under answers. The front–row giggles thinned into pencil sounds. When the bell rang, I had the set finished and my breath where it belonged.

"Aliya," Mrs. Álvarez said over the shuffle, "can you stay a minute?"

"Sure."

Students poured out. I stepped up with my backpack strap over one shoulder and planted my hands on the edge of her desk.

"I wanted to check in about tutoring with Christian," she said, peering over her glasses. "How's it going so far?"

"Good," I said. "We've been meeting in the library after school. He's showing his work like you asked. He turned in the last problem set — you should have it."