Ten dollars for a kiss

POV: Vicky

The fluorescent lights in Susan’s office hum like a forgotten lullaby, blending with the soft clatter of her keyboard. The air smells like coffee—strong and slightly burnt, the way she likes it—and the faint floral scent of her perfume lingers in the space between us. I sit across from her, tracing the edge of my peanut butter sandwich, the crusts cut off the way Mom still insists on making them, as if I’m five instead of seventeen.

Susan taps her neon-pink nails against the desk, filling the silence with a rhythm that almost feels like company. Almost.

“You’re quiet today, Vicky,” she says, not looking up from her screen. The nickname hangs in the air, soft and hopeful. No one else calls me that anymore. Not since Lucy left.

I shrug, but my throat tightens.

Today.

As if there’s a version of me that isn’t quiet, that doesn’t count ceiling tiles just to have something to focus on other than the hollow ache in my chest. I flip open my sketchbook, pretending to be absorbed in a half-finished drawing of the old oak tree outside Lucy’s house. Its branches are skeletal now, just like this town.

Flashback:

Lucy’s hug at the bus stop had been so tight her glasses dug into my collarbone. “You’ll visit,” she said, her curls smelling like strawberry shampoo. It wasn’t a question—it was a command. I nodded, but we both knew the truth. The factory had bled the life out of this place long before it shut down. Now, it was taking her too.

Susan clears her throat, snapping me back to the present. “You know,” she says, leaning forward, green eyes glinting, “there’s a new kid starting next week. Benjamin Cole. Quarterback, apparently.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Very easy on the eyes.”*

I snort, but my cheeks flare hot. Quarterback. The word doesn’t belong to my world. It’s foreign, filled with sharp edges and confidence. Boys like that don’t see girls like me. Not unless they’re laughing.

Flashback:

Tyler McCall’s smirk in the hallway last year, his friends nudging each other behind him. “You’re kinda pretty for a nerd,” he’d said, voice dripping with something I thought was charm. And I’d believed him—for three dizzying days—until I overheard him brag about the “bet” to his buddies. My reflection in the bathroom mirror that night: auburn hair frizzing, blue eyes swollen, lips bitten raw. I looked like a joke. For Tyler, I was.

Susan’s voice is softer now. “You should talk to him. Sit by him in class.”

I shake my head, shutting my sketchbook with a snap. “Boys like that don’t talk to girls like me.”

Susan sighs, exasperated, then slams her stapler down so hard I jump. “Victoria Gray, listen to me. You are not invisible.”

But I am.

Although Susan is the closest thing I have to a friend, she’s not a student. And no matter how warm and well-meaning she is, eating lunch in the secretary’s office every day isn’t a life.

The bell rings, its shrillness cutting through our small, safe bubble. I slip into the hallway, shoulders hunched against the tide of laughter and voices. Girls cluster around their lockers, reapplying lip gloss, sharing inside jokes. Their eyes flick past me, through me. Victoria the Virgin. The Ghost.

Then I see it.

A flyer, taped haphazardly to the wall. The words jump out at me like a slap.

Kiss Booth! $1 for Charity!

My stomach lurches.

A memory rushes in, uninvited and sharp.

Flashback:

Last year. The same fundraiser. Tyler’s crumpled dollar bill in my hand. His breath too close, too sour, reeking of bad cafeteria pizza. The way he aimed for my lips—on purpose—then pulled away at the last second, laughing. “Oops,” he’d said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Guess no one wants to kiss a marshmallow.”

The laughter that followed had felt like knives, slicing deep.

I tear my gaze away from the flyer, my face burning.

Maybe Susan’s right. Maybe I am not invisible.

But moments like this? They remind me of the truth.

Some people see me. Just not in the way I want.

I wasn’t expecting a fairy tale.

But Susan’s words lingered, sticky and sweet like the cherry cough drops she always offered. “You could be friends. Or… more.”

Ridiculous. A quarterback wanting to be friends with me? The idea was laughable. But still, I let myself imagine it—just for a second.

I’d searched for him online all weekend. Benjamin Cole. Nothing. No Instagram, no TikTok dances, no cringey gym selfies captioned with Rise & Grind. Just… nothing. A blank slate. Which somehow made him more terrifying.

Now, standing in the doorway of Mr. Harlow’s half-empty classroom, my pulse kicks up a notch. The kids who stayed in this town are the ones who couldn’t leave and for my unluck, was the idiot ones. Tyler’s crew by the windows, snickering over some meme. Maddie and her art club girls huddled in the back, their fingertips stained with charcoal. And me, always me, drifting between worlds like a ghost no one claims.

Stick to the plan.

I drop my backpack onto the desk behind mine. Casual. Innocent. Natural.

I force myself to look busy, fingers fussing with my pencil case, flipping through pages of my notebook like I’m actually searching for something, when everyone sits down I think about my backpack, leaving the seat behind me strategically empty. My ears tune in to every creak of the door, every new set of footsteps. My stomach tightens.

And then—

The air shifts.

A hush rolls through the room, subtle but unmistakable.

I glance up.

Benjamin Cole walks in like a storm cloud—tall, broad-shouldered, with light brown hair that’s just messy enough to look effortless.

God, he was handsome.

Dry mouth hot.

His hazel eyes sweep across the room, unreadable, assessing.

And then, for a heartbeat, they land on me.

My breath catches.

Mr. Harlow clears his throat. “Sit wherever, Mr. Cole.”

Ben nods, barely acknowledging him, and steps forward.

Tyler elbows his friend, smirking. “QB privilege incoming.”

But Ben doesn’t react. No cocky grin, no easy swagger. Just quiet confidence, like he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. His gaze flicks to the empty desk behind me.

And then—he sits.

My fingers curl into my notebook. It worked. It actually worked.

Slowly, I turn in my seat.

Up close, he’s more. More intense, more real. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow, faint but striking. His jaw is sharp, his shoulders broad under his dark hoodie. And his scent—pine and something sharp, like ink and winter air—drifts toward me, dangerously distracting.

Say something, Vicky. Anything.

“Hi,” I blurt. My voice comes out too bright, too eager. I clear my throat. “I’m Vicky. Victoria Gray. But you can call me Vicky.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close.

“Benjamin Cole,” he says, voice low and rough, like he doesn’t use it much. “But you can call me Ben.”

Before I can reply, Tyler leans back in his chair, his grin as lazy as it is cruel.

“Careful, Cole. She’ll tutor you to death.”

Heat floods my face, the familiar sting of embarrassment crawling up my spine.

But Ben doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay on me, steady and unreadable.

“Good,” he says, his voice even, quiet but firm. “I could use the help.”

Tyler scoffs, but I barely hear him. My heart is pounding too loudly.

Mr. Harlow starts droning about polynomials, but I can’t focus. Not when the scratch of Ben’s pen is the only sound behind me. Not when, a few minutes later, he leans forward to ask for a pencil—his sleeve brushing against my shoulder.

His scent lingers.

He smells good. Maybe too good.

I exhale, staring blankly at my notes.

I’m in trouble.