Part Seven

We’d barely cleared the courtyard before Malcolm nudged me with his elbow.

“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice. “What was that?”

“What was what?” I kept my eyes forward, adjusting my bag strap like it was suddenly too tight.

“That… weird energy with the girl and the dude leaning against the wall. You froze like somebody hit pause.”

I exhaled through my nose. “That’s Layla and Leon Simmons. Twins. She’s… fine. He’s…” I trailed off, searching for the right word.

“A problem?”

“Let’s just say Leon isn’t exactly my biggest fan.”

“Why?”

I gave a little shrug. “I wish I knew.”

Malcolm studied me for a second like he was trying to read the answer off my face. “And the girl?”

“She’s cool,” I said, maybe too quickly.

“Mhm.” His smirk said he didn’t believe me, but he let it go.

We pushed through the main hallway toward first period. I caught a flash of Leon still by the wall, head tilted slightly like he was watching—not just me, but us.

I looked away.

Chemistry wasn’t the worst way to start the day, but it came close.

Mr. Patel’s classroom smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and citrus cleaner, the kind that burned your nose if you breathed too deep. Posters of the periodic table and famous scientists lined the walls—some smiling, some looking like they regretted being photographed at all.

“Seats!” Mr. Patel barked, already pacing. “The elements will not wait for your tardiness.” “Welcome back, all new and old.”

Malcolm slid into the seat beside mine. Leon was a row behind us, leaning back in his chair with one arm draped casually across the backrest, sketchbook half-hidden under his desk. His pencil tapped an easy rhythm against the paper—calm, deliberate, like nothing in here was worth hurrying over.

Mr. Patel handed manila envelopes down each row. “Inside, your transcript from last year for our records board—sign and return.”

I opened mine. Rank: 1. My eyes flicked up—Leon had his open, too.

For a moment we just looked at each other.

Then he smiled—not wide, not friendly, but not cold either. “Guess I’m still chasing you,” he murmured.

I capped my pen and met his gaze. “You’ll have to run faster.”

Malcolm snorted under his breath, like he’d just gotten the inside joke to a conversation he hadn’t been part of. His paper was blank where the GPA should’ve been. Transfer student life. He slid it back in without comment.

Patel cleared his throat. “Now, before you drift off into whatever you think first period is for, who remembers the difference between an ionic bond and a covalent bond?”

A few hands went up. Mine included.

Patel pointed at me. “Aubrey.”

“Ionic bonds transfer electrons. Covalent bonds share them,” I said.

He nodded once, already scribbling a diagram. “Good. And if you forget that by next class, I’ll make you explain it while hopping on one foot.”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room.

After several rounds of Q and A the bell rang, and we funneled into the hallway toward our next class.

By mid-morning, we’d survived Patel’s review season—which felt more like boot camp preparation—and a round of get-to-know-you icebreakers in English that I absolutely did not participate in.

When the lunch bell rang, Malcolm slung his bag over one shoulder. “Gym’s open, right?”

“After lunch usually.”

“Good,” he said. “Might as well see if this place even has decent rims.”

We passed the gym on the way to the cafeteria. Inside, the varsity team was running drills, sneakers squealing on polished wood.

One player slowed, ball in hand. Tall, broad shoulders, and a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That court’s not for tourists, new kid,” he called, loud enough for the guys behind him to laugh.

Malcolm didn’t break stride. “Good thing I’m not here for a tour,” he said over his shoulder.

The guy—Trey Mitchell, I remembered—watched us go, still smirking like he was filing that moment away for later.

By the time we reached the cafeteria and got our food, the window tables were almost full. We found the only empty one facing the courtyard. I noticed Leon walking past outside, sketchbook still under his arm. He glanced in, not long enough to call it staring, but long enough to make me have questions.

After lunch, the courtyard started to thin out—kids peeling away toward class, others lingering under the shade like they had all the time in the world. We headed to the gym.

“I might shoot around for a bit.”

“You hoop every day?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Keeps me sane.”

The echo of bouncing basketballs filtered out as soon as we stepped inside. A couple of guys from the JV team were already running drills.

Malcolm grabbed a ball from the rack and started with a few easy layups, finding his rhythm. I sat on the bleachers, half-watching, half-scrolling my phone.

That’s when I caught movement in the doorway.

Leon.

He didn’t step inside—just slowed as he passed, eyes flicking from Malcolm to me. No smile this time. No nod. Just… watching for a second longer than necessary before continuing down the hall.

Malcolm sank a clean three-pointer and jogged back toward me. “Friend of yours?”

“Not even close,” I said.

But the truth was, Leon’s glance stayed with me longer than the shot Malcolm just made.

To be continued…