Chapter 1 | Hiding In Plain Sight
The muffled thuds of fists hitting flesh echoed louder than they should have in the tiled bathroom. The crowd huddled in tight around the action, the sour mix of body spray and sweat hanging in the air. Two upperclassmen were going at it—one tall and wiry, the other stocky with a buzz cut. Their fists swung wildly, hitting arms, ribs, and sometimes missing entirely to smack the cold wall behind them.
They were silent, dead silent, except for the occasional grunt or sharp exhale when a punch connected. The crowd wasn't much better—everyone held their breath, as if a single shout might summon a teacher and end the whole thing. The sound of shoes scuffing against the slick tile floor was the only constant, a frantic dance of aggression and adrenaline.
I stood on the edge of the group, shoulders hunched, trying to look like I wasn't there. My heart pounded so loud in my chest I was convinced someone would hear it. The thought hit me like a gut punch: What if someone suddenly yelled, "Alright, for the next fight, we need two freshmen!"
In my mind, it played out too vividly. Heads would turn toward me, a smirk would form on some upperclassman's face, and they'd point.
"Ahhh, you! What's your name?"
"Jayden," I'd stammer, voice cracking.
"Jayden's going next! Don't lose—I've got money on you!"
Thankfully, that humiliation never came. But the betting was real. Juniors and seniors toss crumpled bills at one another, their voices hushed but sharp. "I got ten on buzz cut." "Nah, skinny's got the reach—fifteen on him." The younger kids—freshmen like me and even a few sophomores—stood back, wide-eyed and silent. No one wanted to step forward. No one wanted to be noticed.
That's when it hit me: this heavy, gut-twisting feeling I didn't understand back then. FOMO. The fear of missing out. It wasn't just that I wasn't placing bets or cheering. It was deeper than that. I felt like a background character, like an extra in someone else's life. Everyone else seemed to have a role, a purpose, something that made them matter. And there I was, stuck on the sidelines, wondering if I'd ever even have a speaking role.
Suddenly, a tiny voice slipped out of me: "Five on Buzzcut," I murmured, barely above a whisper. I stood there, waiting, hoping for a reaction—but nothing. Nobody turned. Nobody even flinched. It was as if the words had evaporated before they reached anyone's ears.
I tried again, my voice cracking slightly. "Uh... ten on Buzzcut," I said, a little louder this time. Still, no one acknowledged me. I was sure I'd actually spoken this time—my mouth had moved and everything.
The realization hit me like a slap. I was being ignored. Completely. The same way I had been so many times before, like I was invisible, just blending into the background. That familiar frustration started bubbling up inside me—the anger of feeling unheard, unseen.
No. Not this time.
"Thirty-five on Buzzcut!" I yelled, louder than I intended, my voice cutting through the tense silence of the bathroom.
Every head snapped in my direction. The crowd stared at me, wide-eyed and horrified, like I'd just broken some ancient, unspoken rule. "Shhh!" came the sharp collective hiss, rippling through the group like a wave. The force of it nearly knocked the confidence right out of me.
Before I could process what I'd done, a senior threw his arm around my shoulders. His grip was heavy, and his voice was low, laced with condescension. "Shut the fuck up," he muttered, snatching the $35 from my hand like it was a privilege for him to take it. He looked me over, smirking. "Bold bet. You must know one of these guys."
"Nah, I just love betting," I said, forcing a weak grin. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Inside, I was scrambling to hide the stench of being a clueless underclassman. In reality, I hadn't even meant to bet thirty-five bucks. It had just...happened.
The fight ended as abruptly as my confidence had arrived. The wiry guy launched a sharp right hook that landed perfectly on Buzzcut's nose. The crack echoed in the bathroom as blood burst from his face, splattering onto the tile floor.
And that was it.
Two things hit me at once. First, this wasn't a battle to the death like I'd imagined. Apparently, the rule was simple: the first guy to bleed loses. And second, I had just lost thirty-five dollars on a guy whose nose couldn't even hold up for five minutes.
You could see the relief on the underclassmen’s faces as the upperclassmen began putting their uniforms back on. It was as if they’d escaped a near-death experience. Except for me, the only thing escaping was my chance of getting that cool-guy card from the upperclassmen, which I’d just realized I desperately wanted.
The bell rang, and it felt like the chaotic world we’d just been in dissolved right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, I was back in the hallway.
“Oh shit,” I muttered. That was the five-minute warning bell—I only had five minutes left to get to class.
Before I could move, an arm landed across my shoulder.
“Ay, man,” a voice said, “you’re too young to be developing a gambling addiction.”
I froze. My whole body locked up. Oh shit. I’m paralyzed. What do I do? An upperclassman is grabbing my shoulder! Does he know me? Could my embarrassingly insufficient middle school stories have somehow made their way through the vents into the high school hallways?
He gave me a casual smile, totally unfazed. “Aaron,” he said. “I don’t know if you know me, but I’m a senior. I play goalie on the lacrosse team.”
Goalie. My brain tripped over the word. Ahhhhhh. Ew. A goalie? Of all the upperclassmen who could acknowledge me for the first time in this new world, it had to be a goalie.
Drake’s words popped into my head: “Started from the bottom.” Yup. And apparently, that’s exactly where I was.
Still, I nodded like it was no big deal. “Oh, cool,” I said, trying to act like I hadn’t just been critically analyzing his status in the high school hierarchy.
As I look up, walking down this open hallway, I see Harmony—one of the most beautiful freshmen in the entire school.
The sunlight hits her as she walks past the stone columns, casting her in and out of light like a scene from a movie. It makes her look like she’s walking a red carpet for some leading role, with the paparazzi capturing all her best angles. Except, in this reality, the paparazzi is God, and He’s making her look like a true goddess.
We had a moment once—a brief, fleeting connection on the last day of eighth grade. The substitute teacher had turned off the lights and put on some random movie. Harmony pulled out her dad’s ancient iPod, a relic from another era, and handed me one of the old, weird headphones.
We shared the earbuds, leaning close to listen to oldies together. Those headphones were probably full of earwax from the early 2000s, but I didn’t care. The glow of the iPod screen lit up her face, and for a little while, it was just us.
I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything.
