Sixth-period Computer Science should've been my sanctuary, my version of a holy temple. It's the one place where lines of code make more sense than people, where Mr. Phelps treats me like a functioning organism instead of a walking accident, and where the only drama is usually Toby arguing with me over whether JavaScript is a real language or just a cry for help.
But today, even my safe space wasn't safe. Not after what went down at lunch.
I drop into my usual seat beside Luca, ignoring the snickers and half-hidden phones. Great. I'm trending again, Saint Avara High's favorite form of torture: viral humiliation.
The room hums under flickering fluorescent lights, bathing everything in that faint green tint that makes everyone look one bad day away from a zombie outbreak. Honestly, some of them might already be infected.
The computer lab smells like disinfectant, overheated plastic, and the ghosts of expired energy drinks. Nothing screams "academic excellence" like Mountain Dew residue and crushed ambition.
"Bro, you've still got marinara in your hair," Toby mutters, not looking up from his double monitor setup, fifteen browser tabs, three IDEs, and a playlist titled Grinding 'til the Afterlife. Because of course.
Tony's idea of productivity is having more windows open than an electronics store.
"Yeah? Well, you've got permanent Cheeto residue on your soul," I shoot back, scraping at my hoodie strings. "At least my stains are recent. Yours are part of your evolutionary history."
That's when I see them.
Two rows ahead.
Sera Valdez and Lena Ortiz.
They're both looking back. Not glancing, full-on staring.
Perfect. Just what I needed: the peanut gallery featuring the school's social royalty.
Sera's hair spills down her back in these perfect dark waves, catching the light like it's been Photoshopped. She's wearing Jaxon Merritt's letterman jacke, Saint Avara blue and gold, way too big for her. It swallows her whole, sleeves hanging past her hands, but somehow she makes oversized look celestial. The kind of girl who could make detention look like a runway show.
The collar of her shirt slides off one shoulder, not by accident. It's a calculated imbalance, soft and reckless at once. She crosses her legs, leans back, twists a strand of hair around her finger, like she's got no idea she's creating a slow-motion daydream I'll never wake up from.
Sera Valdez doesn't just walk into rooms, she reprograms gravity.
And yeah, she's with Jaxon Merritt, the human cheat code. But in my head?
In my head, she looks at me.
Not him.
Of course, that's fantasy. Out here in the real world, she probably doesn't even remember my name.
Then there's Lena.
If Sera's the sun, Lena's the eclipse, quiet, sharp, unreadable. She's got this intellectual aura that says she's already three semesters ahead of everyone else. Wire-frame glasses, messy bun that probably took twenty minutes to "accidentally" perfect, an oversized gray sweater that makes her look harmless until she opens her mouth and casually ends you with a calculus proof.
She's got a fortress of textbooks around her, and she looks untouchable. Probably because she is.
They whisper to each other, glance back again, and suddenly I can feel my face heating up. Apparently, my body thinks humiliation is an Olympic sport.
"Toby," I hiss, "stop typing and act normal. They're looking this way."
Toby finally lifts his head, follows my gaze, and shrugs. "Dude, they're probably laughing about lunch. You made the highlight reel."
"Thanks, man. Love the support."
"I'm just being factual," he says, eyes back on the code. "Look, I get why you're into Sera, you've got a type: unreachable and socially radioactive. But don't let it kill your GPA."
"I just don't get it," I mutter. "What's she even doing with Jaxon? The guy's an ego with abs."
Toby snorts. "Come on. He's the full package, quarterback, rich parents, perfect smile, 3.8 GPA, drives a Tesla, has a dog named Bentley. He's what happens when the universe gets bored and designs a prototype for 'too good to exist.'"
He pauses, then shrugs. "If I were a girl, I'd probably go for him too. Objectively speaking."
"Tragic," I say, leaning back. "Even if you were a girl, you'd still have your tragic hairline and Minecraft complexion. So the only thing changing is the audience."
He flips me off without looking up.
But my brain's already running a new process, mouth operating faster than logic, which, given my track record, can only end in disaster.
"Can I ask you something theoretical?"
Toby sighs. "This is going to be weird, isn't it? Go ahead."
"Do you think Jaxon's... compensating?"
He blinks. "Compensating how?"
"You know. Physically."
Toby freezes, fingers hovering mid-air over his keyboard. "What the hell, Aiden."
"Think about it!" I say, animated now, like I'm pitching a thesis. "It's cosmic balance. For every guy who's too perfect, there's got to be some flaw. Good versus bad, rich versus broke, alpha versus background NPC. Maybe the universe evened the scales."
"Right," Toby says dryly. "And maybe you should even your brainwaves before Mr. Phelps hears this."
I grin, shrugging. "Just a theory. Science should investigate."