"Yes, I know, but I won't take your time, trust me," Ms. Clara said softly, her voice carrying that deceptive sweetness that usually preceded a storm. She adjusted her glasses and tapped the podium. "Everyone with your notes and textbooks, over here. Now."
The classroom erupted into a scraping of chairs. A sea of students surged toward the front desk to submit their assignments. As the crowd filtered out, the room grew uncomfortably quiet. Only a handful of boys remained in their seats, looking bored or defiant. And then there was Cherry—the only girl left sitting.
"Cherry," Ms. Clara started, her voice dropping the sweetness for a sharp, stern edge. "I announced the requirements in the WhatsApp group chat. Didn't you get the notification?"
The silence in the room felt heavy. Ms. Clara genuinely sounded disappointed; Cherry was the star pupil, the one who never missed a beat.
"I can't afford the new edition, so I'm cool to have whatever leftovers you give me," a voice chuckled from the back. Cherry didn't turn around to see who it was. She didn't have to. She was used to the whispers.
Despite her cheap, thrifted clothing, Cherry carried herself with a sharp, intentional style that made the wealthy girls look like they were trying too hard. She wasn't a "nerd" in the stereotypical sense—she was just observant. Too observant for her own good.
"Let me have your notebook then," Ms. Clara demanded, reaching out a hand.
Immediately, the class erupted into boos and catcalls. "Why does she get a pass?" someone yelled.
"Everyone shut up!" Ms. Clara's voice cracked like a whip across the room. "Before I lash my anger out on all of you. Don't be the scapegoat today, because I promise you, you will regret ever stepping foot in this department if you keep this up."
"This isn't even your period, Ms. Clara," Green cut in, his voice low and rasping. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of practiced indifference.
"And why do we have to buy your book while Cherry doesn't?" Angela barked, her eyes narrowed with a bitterness she'd been nursing for months.
"I think I know why," another guy chimed in from the back, leaning forward with a smirk. "It's because she writes those little novels for 'entertainment.' Maybe she's trading stories for grades."
"The next Shakespeare!" someone hollered, and the room dissolved into mocking laughter.
Ms. Clara ignored them, her face a mask of iron as she snatched Cherry's notebook. "She is closer to a legend than any of you will ever be," Ms. Clara muttered, though her eyes stayed on the pages.
"She's not close to a legend, so stop making her look important," Angela spat, glaring at the back of Cherry's head.
Fuck, I always ignore this bitch, but she always finds a way to get under my skin, Cherry thought, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her pen. She searched for a comeback, something sharp enough to draw blood, but Ms. Clara leaned down, her perfume clouding Cherry's senses.
"I'm going to have a word with your dad..." she whispered into Cherry's ear.
Cherry swallowed hard. Her breath hitched. Her father was a topic she didn't want touched—especially not by the school administration.
"And yes," Ms. Clara announced loudly, turning back to the hostile crowd. "Cherry does write. In fact, she's reporting on the basketball team's PRO games this season. Who else among you can do that? If you think you have the skill, let me see a hand."
Silence. Ms. Clara bragged, flipping through Cherry's notebook with an air of triumph. No one moved. Cherry finally dared to look back, her eyes landing on Green. For a split second, their gazes locked—hot, heavy, and full of things they shouldn't be thinking about in a classroom.
She looked away instantly, her cheeks burning. She could still feel the phantom sensation of his hands, the memory of that night together playing like a forbidden film behind her eyelids. The way he moved, the way he didn't care about the rules—it made her want him even more, even if he was currently acting like he didn't know her name.
"Cherry, thanks for accepting the sports lead," Ms. Clara said, her tone final.
"Thank you, Ms. Clara," Cherry managed to mutter.
As Ms. Clara walked out, the rhythmic thud-thud of her pumps against the tile floor signaled the end of the interrogation. "Sixty percent of your grade is gone for those without the book," she tossed over her shoulder, her black pencil skirt disappearing around the corner.
The atmosphere at the courts was electric but tense. Sam was busy calibrating her camera lens while Cherry sat on the bleachers, a bag of snacks in her lap and a notebook ready.
The guys were warming up, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of basketballs echoing through the gym. Everyone's eyes were on Green. He was the star, the bet-maker, the one everyone expected to carry the season.
"I bet on Green to score at least thirty," one guy from Calculus whispered to his friend as they sat nearby.
"Easy money," the other replied. "The dude has mad skills."
Cherry tried to focus. Sam was recording the drills, and Cherry was supposed to be documenting stats, but her mind was elsewhere.
"Do you think Green said something about me?" Cherry asked, her voice trembling with a sudden spike of anxiety.
"About your fat ass?" Sam asked without looking up from the viewfinder.
Cherry jumped, nearly dropping her notebook. She looked over her shoulder, trying to see her own reflection in the gym's glass doors. "You're kidding, right? No way it's that noticeable."
Sam snickered, finally looking up. "I'm kidding, relax. But you're acting like a freak. You were right there when he and his friends looked at us when we walked in. I'm still wondering why you're so jittery."
"Maybe he likes you," Sam continued, "He never noticed you until now, so why aren't you excited that your dream is finally coming true?"
"That crush was when I was eleven, Sam," Cherry lied, her eyes wandering back to the court. "And look... since when does Green have a tattoo on his forearm? The principal is going to lose his mind."
The ink was dark and fresh against Green's skin. He was hitting every shot, but his energy was off. He wasn't playing with his usual flow; he was playing with a violent, jagged aggression.
"It looks good on him," Sam mused, snapping a flurry of photos. "NBA players are hot shit. Look at those abs."
"Sam, focus. I'm not sure which of us has the crush anymore," Cherry muttered. "Wait—something's wrong. Look at him and the coach."
On the sidelines, Green had stopped mid-drill. He kicked the ball with a sickening thump, sending it flying toward the far wall. He was shouting, his hands thrown up in the air in a gesture of pure frustration. Coach Benjamin was trying to speak quietly, trying to de-escalate, but Green wasn't having it.
He didn't care who was watching. He turned his back on the coach and started walking toward the exit, ripping his jersey off as he went.
The crowd went silent. The "Steph Curry" of the school was walking out before the tryouts even officially started.
"That boy is so arrogant," Cherry whispered, watching his retreating, bare back. "He thinks he's untouchable, and that's going to be his downfall."
As Green disappeared into the locker room tunnel, the energy in the gym evaporated. The scouts looked confused, the players looked defeated, and the fans started to pack up.
"Shit," Sam cursed, lowering her camera. "There goes our lead story. If he's benched, the whole season is dead."