If I die right now... Joel clutched the locker’s cold metal edges, knuckles fused in place. Sam's face burned behind his eyelids: flawless mahogany skin, gold-flecked eyes, that throat-swallow moment when their gazes locked. Looked right at me, said he spotted a unicorn. Joel’s breath hitched. I'm a unicorn? He saw me. Really saw me. The realization wasn’t hope—it was freefall. Love, sharp as shattered glass, lodged in his ribs like shrapnel. Move wrong and it’ll slice your insides to shreds.
The hallway emptied like water swirling down a drain—lockers slamming, footsteps fading. Even Ricky vanished, swallowed by the tide-shift of first period. Silence bloomed, thick and heavy. Joel turned from his open locker. His shoulder blades rested on the cool metal of the locker stenciled with 'Thompson,' and slid down the metal door until his butt hit tile. Alone. Finally. He pressed trembling palms against his eyelids. Unicorn. Sam called me that. A rare creature. Seen. Wanted.
He traced the raised veins on his wrist, pale as moonlight. For years, he’d been glass—invisible, brittle, waiting to shatter. Now? Something hummed beneath his skin. Electric. Dangerous. Sam’s gold-flecked gaze had stripped him raw, leaving not shame, but… recognition. Joel’s lips curved, unbidden. A laugh escaped—a startled puff of air. He felt it. The shift. Like armor dissolving under sunlight. In the span of a few heartbeats, by just a gaze and a word, he had metamorphosed: from Albino Freak to Unicorn, from Unseen to Seen. And it terrified him more than any bully ever had. He pressed his forehead against his knees, breathing in the scent of floor wax and his own sweat. He saw me. He really saw me. The thought wasn’t soft. It was a blade twisting, sweet and sharp.
Joel pressed his spine harder against the locker, relishing the sting. The silence was velvet. Heavy. Alive. He stretched his short legs across the hallway tile—two denim, pale pink, exclamations topped with bright pink, glittery points against institutional gray tiles. Unicorn. Sam's voice echoed inside his skull, low and resonant as distant thunder. Spotted a unicorn. It wasn’t pity. I’ve seen pity. Wasn’t mockery. It was… discovery. A collector finding something rare and valuable. A treasure. Joel traced the faint blue rivers under his wrist-skin. He looked right at me. Not through me. He raised his chin to the ceiling, breathing deep. My whole life I've been glass—transparent, fragile, easily ignored and easily broken. Never valued. But today, Sam called me a unicorn. Unicorns are valued. Rare and beautiful. Magical. Sam’s gaze had etched him opaque. Solid. Real. He closed his eyes, replaying the gold flecks in Sam’s irises, the slight hitch in his own breath when Sam paused. He lingered. The realization fizzed through him like shaken soda. Dangerous. Delicious.
Now what? What do I do? I've never been 'seen' before. I've never been a unicorn before.
The gym door creaked open. Coach Thompson emerged alone, whistling softly while wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. His whistle died mid-note when he spotted Joel: crumpled against locker 215, legs splayed like broken compass needles, Mr. Elliott's borrowed satchel spilling economics notes onto the tiles.
Coach’s heavy footsteps echoed—thump-thump-thump—across the hollow silence. He crouched, smelling of pine tar and old gym socks. "Kid? You okay there?" His voice rasped like gravel under tires.
Joel lifted his head. The harsh fluorescent light caught his pale lashes, turning them prismatic. A slow, radiant smile unfolded across his face—wide and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Perfect," he breathed, the word tasting like spun sugar.
Coach blinked. "Perfect? You look like you just wrestled a grizzly bear in a U-Haul van. C'mon, get off the dirty floor." He offered a calloused hand. Joel grasped it, letting Coach haul him upright. The world tilted, then settled. "You'll have to enlighten me on your version of 'perfect'... so I can avoid it."
Joel brushed imaginary dust from his pale pink jeans. He cranked his neck back so his eyes could meet Coach's gaze, his radiant smile beaming. "He saw me. Sam. Called me a unicorn." The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded, recited like undisputed facts from the Roman era: “I’m not glass anymore. I’m something rare.”
Coach Thompson froze mid-handwipe. His whistle dangled limp around his neck. "Sam? My Sam? Sam Hughes? My team captain?" His voice dropped to gravel. "Called you a unicorn?"
"Yeah." Joel's intoxicated voice and smile were full of pride. Unbridled. "A unicorn. Unicorns are treasured. Valuable, you know." Not a question. "Hughes? So, that's his last name?"
"Yeah, Hughes. Uhm, listen, Joel… Unicorns belong in fairy tales and Vegas slot machines. Not Oakland Prep." He scanned the hallway before placing a large hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Coach leaned down to Joel’s eyelevel, lowering his voice. "I really don't want to burst your blissful bubble. Believe me. And I know you think he's easy on the eyes, but... Sam's on a path paved with gold sneakers and NBA trophies. Not... uhm. You’re..." He trailed off, gesturing at Joel’s pink glittery shoes. "...uh, well, I'm not really sure about you just yet. I'll get back to you on that." Coach's tone took on a heavy somberness. "But I'm pretty certain your future doesn't have anything to do with Sam Hughes. Or basketball." He said, gently squeezing Joel’s shoulder. "Sorry, Joel."
His words hit Joel like a gut punch, knocking the wind out of him. His chin fell. His eyes went out of focus. "I thought you were an ally," he breathed.
An awkward silence hung between them for a long moment.
Coach softly patted Joel’s shoulder. His voice low and sad. "Go to class, Joel. Economics waits for no unicorn."
The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. He didn’t cry. The pain was too great. He was numb. Feeling everything and nothing at the same time.
Coach disappeared into his office. The lock clicked loud in the emptiness. One final stab in Joel's heart. The hallway felt even colder. Lonely. He picked up his borrowed satchel, now a burden not a shield. The economics book inside suddenly a useless, heavy brick. With slumped shoulders, he turned toward the math wing. He’d made it barely half way to the end of the hall when the lights flickered before plunging the hallway into darkness. Joel stopped. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Strategy. Down one ally. Who gives a fuck about strategy?
Unicorns don't belong here.