The bell’s shrill scream sliced through Joel’s already frayed nerves. Homeroom? A thirty-minute purgatory—where his name was sure to me mispronounced. Where the likelihood of eyes drilling into his back, whispering, curious, hostile, bored, was absolute. Alien. Coin. Freak. The labels buzzed in his skull like trapped wasps—had immediately lost its appeal.
Fuck that shit. I just can't right now. His brain screamed for a reprieve from the anguish.
He took a deep breath, then lurched into the hallway chaos, clutching his ruined backpack to his small chest—a casualty of Webb’s shove, seams gaping like a wounded animal. The crowd surged around him, a river of denim and cheap cologne. Fluorescent lights, seeming brighter than ever, burned his eyes. He ducked his head, hood pulled low, and stabbed at his phone. The digital map glowed: a pulsing dot guiding him. Sanctuary? As close as I’m gonna find here. Strategy. Survive.
His footsteps echoed hollowly as he peeled away from the main current. The library wasn't a sanctuary; it was an Emergency Room, containing the life-saving medicine. Seclusion, peace and quiet. A balm for open wounds. Floor-to-ceiling oak double doors loomed ahead, heavy and silent. Joel pushed through, the sudden hush of reverence washed over him like a spiritual healing experience. He stopped. Standing frozen, silent as a church mouse while his eyes feasted. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the sunlight bathe the cavernous space—dust motes dancing in golden beams being filtered through the leaves of the giant oak tree standing sentinel just outside—that pooled on a sea of study tables and soft furniture arranged in squares and rounds with a coffee table in the center of each. A literal fortress of books. Solitude. Safety. Shelves stretched skyward—mahogany soldiers, guardians of worlds and keepers of centuries of knowledge, while offering the same, freely.
Joel breathed deep, the intoxicating air that carried his favorite scents, old paper, lemon oil, and something else… calm.
Before he could retreat further, a figure emerged from behind a leaning tower of returned books. Tall and gaunt, draped in a cardigan the color of young grass even in midsummer. Auburn hair, cropped, faded and shaggy like Joel's, framing black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on a thin nose. His eyes, not quite emerald, but still green, and startlingly sharp behind the lenses, locked onto Joel. Not scanning. Not assessing. Seeing.
“Misplaced homeroom?” The man’s kind face had a gentle voice to match; low and buttery, like a late-night DJ playing R&B soft love songs. No accusation. Simply… observation.
Joel froze. His eyes wide behind his tinted lenses. His backpack shield held tight to his chest, heavy and tattered. “Uh. Yeah. Got… turned around.” That was a thinly veiled lie, dry and brittle as old parchment.
The man didn’t blink. His gaze drifted—lingering on Joel’s wounded eyes, the tear tracks he hadn’t fully scrubbed away, the tremble in his small white hands, the defiant rhinestones on his pink hoodie peeking around the edges of the torn backpack.
"Mmm," he murmured, soft as turning pages. "Homeroom’s a noisy place. Overrated." He gestured vaguely towards the towering shelves. "Quiet’s better. Quieter." His grass-colored cardigan whispered as he moved, drifting toward a mahogany desk piled high with books. "Locker 217?"
Joel startled. "How—?"
"You’re a popular topic in the faculty lounge. For better or worse. And besides, I also have the assignment sheet." The man tapped a long finger against a stack of papers. "Faculty wing. Smart." His eyes flicked back to Joel—sharp, assessing. "Safer. For now." He paused, tilting his head. "You're Joel Tait."
It wasn’t a question. Joel nodded mutely.
"Books," The man stated simply, gesturing to the fortress around them. "Armor. Better than…" He trailed off, eyes darting toward Joel’s pink hoodie, then away. "...others." He shuffled behind the desk. "Need anything? Atlas of Atlantis? Guide to Grief?" His voice held no mockery—just dry, quiet certainty. "Or just… quiet?"
Joel swallowed. "Just quiet, please." he murmured.
The man nodded once. "Back corner. Near Mythology." He pointed—a slender finger slicing through dusty sunlight. "No one goes there. Too many whispers." He offered a ghost of a smile. "Ghosts like quiet too."
Joel fled deep into the stacks—past Greek tragedies, Russian epics, shelves thick with unread histories. The air grew cooler, quieter. Dust motes danced in shafts of filtered light. He found the corner the man promised—a fortress within a fortress. A cracked leather armchair slumped beside a narrow window overlooking the ancient oak tree. Sanctuary. He sank into the chair, backpack clutched like a shield, Lulu’s phantom warmth a memory against his leg.
Alien. Coin. Freak. The words still buzzed, but softer here—drowned by the quiet hum of forgotten worlds. He closed his eyes. Breathed. For a long moment, the panic receded like a tide. Calm. Finally.
Then—a soft rustle. Pages? Footsteps? Joel stiffened, his eyes darted in all directions, clutching his ruined backpack tighter.
The man emerged from between two towering shelves labeled MYTHOLOGY, carrying a worn leather satchel. Without preamble, he held it out. "Yours looks worse for wear," he murmured, eyes lingering on the ripped seams. "This one's seen a few battles. Kept me safe."
Joel stared. The satchel was old—rich, dark leather scarred by ink stains and time. It looked like armor. "I... can't," he stammered. "What if I ruin—"
"Ruin?" The man snorted softly. "It survived the Odyssey of '07. Two seniors, a stolen frog dissection, and a fire drill. Your Algebra textbook won't phase it." He nudged it closer. "Consider it... inter-library loan. A temporary shield. Just for today."
Joel took it. The leather was warm. Supple. It felt alive. Friendly. It smelled faintly of pipe smoke and peppermint. He slid his battered belongings inside—the weight settling differently. Lighter. Safer. "Thank you... uhm?" he whispered.
"Mr. Elliott. Head librarian." He winked, barely noticeable, accompanied by and equally faint smile, but Joel didn't miss it.
"Thank you, Mr. Elliott. I won't forget this." Joel's soft voice cracked with emotion.
"Think nothing of it, Mr. Tait," Mr. Elliott adjusted his grassy cardigan. "Ghosts prefer sturdy containers."
Second ally found. Strategy. Find more allies. Survive.
The borrowed satchel became a shield. Joel navigated Oakland Prep’s gauntlet back to his locker—head down, hood up, clutching Mr. Elliott’s leather like a talisman. Trev’s lumbering shadow loomed near lockers, but Joel ducked behind a cluster of cheerleaders, their sequins sparkling like distraction flares. Kellan Moss’s gossipy whisper trailed him (“…alien Coin, I swear…”), but faded as Joel slipped past, nearing the faculty wing.
The faculty wing air was thick with the tang of institutional cleaner and authority. Lockers lined the wall—217 wedged beside a, now familiar, dented steel door stenciled "THOMPSON." Joel fumbled the combination: Left to 02. Right past it to 23. Left to 11. His fingers still trembling. Come on. It’s a damn combination lock, not microelectronics.
On the third attempt, the lock clicked open. Sanctuary. Ugh, finally.
Inside: Just metal shelves and the faint scent of disinfectant. Joel’s calculus textbook—thick as a brick—sat waiting. He swapped it for his battered fantasy novel, fingers brushing the satchel’s scarred leather.
Then—a loud click of a door latch letting go. Movement. A shift in the light.
Across the hall, one door down, the door marked "ATHLETICS" swung wide. Joel’s eyes slid right. No movement, only voices. One distinct, familiar. Gruff. Safe. One deep, unknown. Smooth. Hypnotic.
The voices—blended oddly perfect, like salted caramel—vibrated in the hall.
The smooth voice—rich, warm, layered like honey over gravel—carried clearly. "...told him, Coach, if he wants that rebound, he’s gotta want it. Not just stand there looking pretty." Another laugh—deeper, masculine—followed. Coach Thompson’s familiar rumble replied, something about "hustle" and "heart."
Joel froze, only partially hidden, trying hard to 'act natural', so as to not draw attention, he peered around from behind the narrow locker door.
Out stepped a boy.
Standing in full, glorious, view. Bathed in harsh fluorescent light was… perfection.
All Joel saw was the tension in the boy’s jaw, the way his broad shoulders rolled slightly as he shifted his weight.
Tall, he stood nearly eye-to-eye with Coach—maybe 6'4", his shoulders broad enough to carry worlds. Skin the rich, deep brown of mahogany, smooth and flawless. He wore green and white Oakland Prep athletic pants. A matching basketball team hoodie, unzipped, hung loosely over a crisp, form-fitting white tee. His chiseled chest and abs clearly defined, sleeves pushed up to reveal powerful forearms corded with lean muscle. His posture was relaxed power, one hand casually shoved in his pants pocket, the other gesturing as he spoke to Coach Thompson.
But it was his face that stopped Joel’s breath.
Strong jawline, sharp cheekbones, a nose perfectly straight. Thick, dark eyebrows framing eyes that caught the light and held it—warm, intelligent, impossibly alive. They crinkled slightly at the corners as he laughed again, white teeth flashing against dark skin. His hair, close-cropped coils, topped the sharp, clean line of his fade, accentuating the elegant lines of his skull. Confidence radiated from him—not arrogance, but a deep, unshakeable certainty. Like he belonged everywhere. Like the world bent to meet him.
Seeing the boy with his impossible perfection was like staring directly at the sun. Blinding, overwhelming, and terrifyingly beautiful.
Laughing students at the end of the hall grabbed his attention for a heartbeat. The boy shifted his weight, his head turning slightly in Joel's direction. His gaze—intense, focused—swept down the hall taking note of a few students then back, low on the floor, settling on Joel's pink glittery shoes before traveling up to Joel’s hoodie, the rhinestone "SWIFTY", to his pale face… and paused.
Their eyes locked, for a long, life-altering, second.
Those impossible eyes swam in Joel’s, startled sapphires, fully visible over the rim of his tinted glasses that had slid down his button nose.
Time stopped.
The hallway noise—sneakers squeaking, loud students, locker doors banging, muffled into a dull roar. The buzzing labels vanished. Alien. Coin. Freak. The smell of teenage sweat and testosterone. Gone. All replaced by a sudden, electric silence that crackled in the stale air.
Joel’s heart hammered against his ribs like a wrecking ball. Run. Hide. Look away. But his muscles locked. Those eyes—warm sultry brown flecked with gold—held him pinned.
The boy didn’t look away. His lips parted slightly. His easy smile faded, replaced by an expression Joel couldn’t decipher—a flicker of intense curiosity mixed with something softer, almost startled. Coach Thompson kept talking, oblivious, but the boy's focus narrowed entirely on Joel's deep sapphire blue eyes. His gaze held Joel’s: a silent, electric current humming between them. Recognition? Curiosity? Something raw and unnamable. Then, quick as a flash, he masked it. Neutral. Unreadable. But Joel saw it. A crack in the perfect boy’s armor.
Joel felt seen—truly seen—not as a target, not as an anomaly, but as, simply... Joel. Raw. Exposed. Trembling.
"Sam?" Coach Thompson’s gravelly voice cut through the tension. "You listening, son?"
Sam blinked. A split second. Joel watched his throat work—a single, sharp swallow. Then, his mask slid back into place. That easy grin returned, lazy and brilliant. "Always, Coach. Uh… just spotted a unicorn." His gaze lingered on Joel—intense, curious—before snapping back to Thompson. "Where were we? Right. Rebounding like you mean it."
Coach stepped into the hall, touching Sam's arm, directing him to walk with him to the gym as they continued their conversation. He turned to follow, but not before one last glance back. A ghost of something—confusion? hunger?—in those dark eyes. Then he was gone, swallowed by the heavy doors guarding the court.
Joel turned into his locker, his head hung low, eyes closed, hands gripping the frame of the locker to steady himself. Oh... My... God... if I die right now, I’ll have lived. His heart still hammering against his ribs, hands trembling, legs wobbly.
Strategy forgotten. Survival rewritten.
Unnoticed in the athletics doorway, Ricky Bird watched. Clenched fists. Eyes narrowed. Skin hot. Flushed. Radiating jealousy.