After Winter Break

The classroom smells like pencil shavings, old radiators, and that weird disinfectant the janitors use after breaks, as if the school itself needed to sober up after the holidays.

I drop into my seat with a dramatic sigh of happiness.

"I missed this," I announce, kicking my backpack under the desk.

"You missed school?" Josh asks, scandalized, spinning halfway around in his chair. "Say that again slower so I can make sure I heard you correctly."

"I missed you idiots," I correct. "There's a difference."

Maya grins, already leaning halfway onto my desk. "I missed us too. And I missed gossip. And competition."

Henry perks up immediately. "Oh. Are we doing the gift thing?"

Josh's smile turns feral. "We're absolutely doing the gift thing."

This is tradition. First day back after any break, we compare presents like it's the Olympics and we're all emotionally invested in winning gold.

"I'll go first," Maya says, flipping her hair like she's on a talk show. "I got boots. Real boots. Leather. With heels. My mom says I'm 'too young' but my aunt disagrees."

Josh snorts. "Shoes don't count. That's not a gift, that's footwear."

"They absolutely count," I say. "Were they wrapped?"

"Yes."

"Then they count."

Henry raises his hand slightly, like we're in class. "Okay, I got books."

Josh groans. "Henry—"

"No, wait," Henry continues, unfazed. "Not boring books. A graphic novel series. And a journal. And—" he lowers his voice conspiratorially, "—a watch."

Maya gasps. "A watch?"

"An adult watch," Henry confirms proudly. "My dad said it's an 'investment.'"

I nod solemnly. "That's big. That's responsibility."

Josh waves us off. "Cute. All very cute. But none of you are ready."

He spins fully around in his chair now, facing us like a king about to make an announcement.

"I," he says dramatically, "got a TV."

Silence.

"A TV?" Maya repeats.

"In my room," Josh adds. "My own. No sharing. No parental supervision."

Henry looks like he might pass out. "That's... illegal."

I squint. "How big?"

Josh grins wider. "Big."

Maya groans, collapsing onto my desk. "You always win."

"I don't make the rules," Josh says smugly. "I just benefit from them."

I lean back in my chair. "Okay, okay, my turn. I got—" I pause, thinking. "—socks."

Josh cackles.

"Wait," I add quickly, "good socks. Like fluffy ones. And a hoodie. And—" I hesitate, smiling despite myself, "—concert tickets."

Maya squeals. "No way!"

"Way."

Henry's eyes widen. "For who?"

I name the band and Maya immediately grabs my arm. "I hate you. I love you. Take me with you."

Josh scoffs. "Still not a TV."

"Not everything is about screens," I shoot back.

Josh points at the classroom projector. "Liar."

We're still arguing when the bell rings, loud and aggressive, like it's offended by our joy. Everyone groans as the teacher walks in, but none of us stop smiling.

I glance around at them—Maya animatedly whispering something to Henry, Josh still riding the high of his victory—and I feel that familiar warmth settle in my chest.

Same seats. Same jokes. Same people.

I don't know why, but it feels like nothing bad could touch us here.

And that's when the classroom door opens again.

The room shifts—not loudly, not dramatically—but enough that I feel it before I see it. Chairs creak. Conversations dip.

New students.

I don't turn right away. I'm still mid-sentence, still laughing, still safe in the bubble of us.

But something in the air tightens.

Maya nudges me. "Hey."

"What?" I whisper.

She tilts her head toward the front of the room. "You might want to look."

I sigh, already annoyed. Probably another football kid or some painfully cool girl who'll pretend we don't exist.

I turn.

And there he is.

Standing by the teacher's desk. Dark jacket. Neutral expression. Hair annoyingly neat. Hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn't care at all.

The nerd.
The star-ceiling freak.
The pudding victim.

Our eyes meet.

He blinks.

I freeze.

Chapter — Ten Years Ago

Maddie

Mrs. Caldwell claps her hands together like she's summoning us.

"Alright, everyone, settle down. As you can see, we have a few new students joining us this term."

A few heads turn. Mine stays stubbornly forward—until she starts reading names.

"There are five of you, so listen carefully. Luke Parker..."

My spine locks.

"...Sophia Marino..."

Maya inhales sharply beside me.

"...Evan Ross, Claire Whitman, and Noah Blake."

Five kids step forward. Five unfamiliar faces.
And one very familiar one.

Luke Parker stands there with his hands in his pockets, posture annoyingly straight, expression neutral in that way that already irritates me deeply. He doesn't look nervous. He doesn't look excited. He looks like he belongs there—like he's always belonged there—and that alone feels offensive.

Sophia, at least, smiles. She waves a little, like a normal human being.

The rest blur together.

After the awkward applause, the new kids scatter into empty seats. Luke ends up three rows away from me. Too close. Way too close.

Maya leans in immediately.

"It's him, right?" she whispers. "Charlie fits the description perfectly."

"It's Luke," I mutter. "And yes. It's him."

Maya's eyes light up. "Oh my God. This is amazing."

"No, it's not."

"You literally told him you hoped you'd never see him again," she says, barely holding in her laughter. "And now you have to see him every day for at least a year."

I stare straight ahead. "Let's just hope it's only one year."

Maya grins wider. "Yeah. Of course. Just one year."

She doesn't sound convinced.

⸻

The Week From Hell

Monday — Science Class

I already didn't like Mondays. Luke made them worse.

We're dissecting a cow's heart. A cow's heart. Everyone is either gagging, whining, or pretending to be cool about it.

Except Luke.

Luke slices into the thing like he's buttering toast.

No hesitation. No flinching. No blinking.

I watch him for a solid thirty seconds, waiting for something—a reaction, a grimace, a sign of humanity.

Nothing.

"I seriously think he might be a serial killer," I whisper to Maya.

"Or a ghost," she whispers back.

"Or a serial-killer ghost."

Luke looks up, like he can feel me staring, and calmly wipes his gloves.

I look away immediately.

⸻

Wednesday — Lunch

We spot him at lunch, which is shocking enough on its own because apparently he has friends.

Real ones.

He sits with two guys and a girl, all laughing quietly. That's already suspicious.

But then I see his lunchbox.

Not a normal one.

A lunchbox with compartments.

The salad is separated from the beef. The beef is separated from the rice. Nothing touches. Nothing overlaps.

"What is that?" Josh asks, horrified.

"A crime," I say.

"He's a total freak," Maya adds, chewing dramatically.

Luke eats methodically. Bite by bite. No mixing. No chaos.

I feel itchy just watching him.

⸻

Thursday — Math Class (a.k.a. The Audacity)

Mr. Thompson writes an equation on the board and announces, smugly, "This is a senior-level problem. I don't expect anyone to solve it."

Challenge accepted, apparently.

Luke raises his hand.

The room goes quiet.

Five minutes later, the equation is solved. Perfectly. Every step written clean and precise.

Mr. Thompson stares at the board, then at Luke.

Then he sighs.

"Detention. For showing off."

And that's how Luke Parker ends up in detention.

Next to me.

⸻

Detention

I should probably explain why I'm here too.

A girl—Emily, I think—decided to announce that my blonde hair made me look "as dumb as Alice in Wonderland."

I disagreed.

With my fist.

Now I'm sitting in detention with my arms crossed, leg bouncing, while Luke Parker does extra homework like this is his idea of fun.

I glance sideways at him. He's calm. Focused. Completely unbothered.

I can't take it anymore.

"Do you ever stop?" I snap.

He looks up, genuinely confused. "Stop what?"

"Being... like this," I say, gesturing vaguely at him.

He blinks. "Productive?"

I groan and drop my head onto the desk.

This is going to be the longest year of my life.

I stare at him like he's just spoken an alien language.

"Seriously," I say, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. "Do you at least hope to have a girlfriend someday? Because—newsflash—that is absolutely not happening for you."

He doesn't even look up from his notebook.

"I don't think a girlfriend would be a productive thing to have right now," he says calmly. "I'm focused on getting a good scholarship."

That does it.

I twist toward him, full body. "You're literally fourteen."

He finally glances at me, offended in a very quiet, contained way. "First of all, I'm fifteen. Second, scholarships matter the moment you step into school."

I blink. "What do you mean, the moment? Like—kindergarten? Babies worrying about résumés now?"

"Yes," he says, completely serious.

I laugh. I can't help it. I actually laugh out loud.

"Oh my God," I say, wiping my eyes. "I knew you were crazy, but this is... next level. You're telling me a toddler should be thinking about discipline because—what—Harvard might be watching?"

He sighs. "Could you be quiet for once?"

I grin. "Is that another thing I can't do?"

He finally turns fully toward me. "Yes. Among others."

"Oh, do tell," I say sweetly.

"Well," he begins, counting off on his fingers, "you can't walk down corridors without causing a disaster, you can't carry desserts without destroying them, you're not polite, you don't pay attention in class, you don't take school seriously, and—yes—you can't be quiet."

I stare at him. Then I smile.

"Wow," I say. "That's a long list. Sounds like you're obsessed with me."

He lets out a short laugh. "Absolutely not. If anything, I feel the opposite."

"What, like an anti-crush?" I ask.

"Yes," he says flatly. "If that's even a thing."

I tilt my head. "You know everything I do. That usually means obsession."

"No," he says. "It means irritation."

I nod solemnly. "Ah. A very polite way of saying you hate me."

"I don't hate you," he corrects. "I just don't like you. We're complete opposites."

"Oh, you're wrong," I say confidently. "Everyone likes me. You're just... a freak."

"You punched someone today," he says calmly.

"She deserved it."

"You punched her because she insulted your friend."

"Yes," I say proudly. "And I'd do it again."

He shakes his head, almost amused. "Could never be me."

I scoff. "So what—you're perfect? You'd never freak out for someone? Never defend anyone? Never even say something mean?"

"No," he says. "That wouldn't be polite."

I stare at him, incredulous. "Where do you get this from? Your mom is normal. Why are you like this?"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"I've simply worked very hard to become the best version of myself," he continues. "And no, I wouldn't punch someone or insult them. That's unnecessary."

I smile. Slowly. Mischievously.

He notices immediately. "I don't like that face."

"Oh, I do," I say. "So what if you did? What if one day you actually snapped? Said something mean. Defended someone. Lost your precious politeness."

"That won't happen."

"What if it does?"

"It won't."

I lean closer. "Then let's bet."

He frowns. "I don't bet. It's a bad habit."

"Of course you don't," I mutter. "Fine. A friendly bet. Something we'd both hate."

He hesitates. "Go on."

"If I win," I say, "you do my homework. For a week."

He grimaces. "That's a terrible bet."

"Exactly."

"And if I win," he says slowly, "you take down every star on my ceiling and redo it. Completely. Antarctica sky. Accurate. Perfect."

My jaw drops. "That's torture."

"Yes," he says. "That's why it's appealing."

I glare at him. "Please never say 'appealing' again."

He almost smiles.

"Well," he says, "what if I did bet on it?"

And just like that, I realize two things:

One—Luke Parker is infuriating.

And two—I am absolutely going to make him lose.