Chapter 1: Triggered
The first day of senior year at Nāhiku High School hit like a rainbow shave ice melting in the Maui sun—sweet, chaotic, and a little sticky with anticipation. The morning trade winds carried the intoxicating blend of hibiscus and red dirt across campus, mingling with spam musubi from the cafeteria and ocean salt from beyond the parking lot. Even the air itself seemed to pulse with possibility, thick with humidity and the electric kind that convinced seventeen-year-olds they could conquer the world.
I stood at my locker, methodically organizing my Environmental Science binder with the precision of someone who was absolutely not procrastinating facing the day ahead. New notebooks: check. Pens that worked: check. The emotional fortitude to survive another year of high school—and more importantly, another year of pretending Michael Luigi Pereira didn’t exist: jury was still out on that one. Nine more months, I told myself, arranging my supplies with unnecessary care. Nine months, and then I never have to see his stupid, perfect face again. College applications are in. Graduation is achievable. I can do this.
The symphony of flip-flops slapping against concrete filled the hallway, punctuated by overlapping conversations in English, Hawaiian, and Pidgin that created the linguistic tapestry of island life. Someone’s ukulele drifted from the music room like an auditory lei, while Mrs. Chen was already yelling at freshmen to keep their voices down with the weary authority of someone who’d been teaching teenagers since before they were born.
“Eh, Kūp!” My best friend Manu bounded over, practically vibrating with caffeinated energy and the brand of enthusiasm that came from two Monster drinks and the first day of senior year. “You ready for senior year or what? We’re finally the big shots!”
I raised an eyebrow at Manu’s enthusiasm, grateful for the distraction from my spiral of dread. “It’s literally 7:30 AM. How are you this awake?”
“Pure determination, brah.” Manu grinned, bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive surfer waiting for the perfect wave. “Plus, think about it—after this year, we’re free! College, real life, no more having to deal with certain people who shall remain nameless but rhyme with ‘Bichael Bluigi.’”
I was about to appreciate Manu’s creative wordplay when I noticed a freshman girl standing in the middle of the walkway, looking absolutely panicked. She held a color-coded schedule that fluttered in the trade winds like a surrender flag, while students flowed around her like water around a rock, completely ignoring her distress.
Without thinking, I closed my locker and walked over.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle. The girl looked like she might cry.
“I can’t find the biology lab,” she said, her voice tight with barely controlled panic. “I’ve been looking for twenty minutes and I’m already late and—”
“Building C, second floor, room 204,” I interrupted, pointing toward the newer science building. “Take the stairs by the library, not the main ones. They’re faster.”
Her whole posture sagged with relief. “Really? Thank you so much!”“Don’t worry about being late on the first day,” I added as she started to hurry off. “Mrs. Tanaka expects it.”
The girl practically bounced as she headed toward Building C, no longer looking like she might dissolve into tears. I walked back to where Manu was waiting, a satisfied warmth settling in my chest until a smooth voice interrupted from behind us—a voice that still had the power to make my jaw clench and my shoulders tense like I was preparing for battle.
“Hey there.”
The voice hit me like a rogue wave, sending my carefully constructed morning zen crashing against emotional rocks that were still razor-sharp after four years of careful cultivation. I turned slowly, already knowing what I’d see but hoping against hope that maybe, maybe, the universe would give me one more day of peace.Of course, I thought with bitter clarity. Of course he has to look like that on the first day of school.
Michael Luigi Pereira stood there like he’d stepped out of some teen magazine spread titled “Effortlessly Perfect Island Boy.” His dark hair caught the morning light streaming through the hallway windows, still slightly damp from what was an early morning surf session because of course he was the type to greet the dawn with athletic perfection. His smile was the kind that made underclassmen walk into doorframes and teachers forget what they were saying mid-sentence.
“What, Michael Luigi?” I rolled my eyes
I called him ‘Michael Luigi’—every time, both names, formal and distant—since the May Day school program when we were eight. Not ‘Michael,’ never ‘Mikey.’ That was deliberate. Using both names was my way of drawing the line, building a wall out of syllables and formality.
“Always a pleasure, Wong-Kahale,” Michael Luigi said with his trademark easy confidence. “Love what you’ve done with your personality over the summer. Really working that ‘I stepped on a sea urchin’ vibe.”
“Only with you.” I muttered under my breath, loud enough for Michael Luigi to hear but quiet enough to maintain plausible deniability.
Manu looked between us like he was watching a tennis match played with passive-aggressive hand grenades. “Okay, well, this is... fun? I’m gonna go find my homeroom before you two start throwing textbooks. Or worse, start having feelings.”
“We’re not having feelings,” I said quickly, too quickly.
As Manu escaped with the wisdom of someone who’d been mediating our cold war for years, I focused intently on checking my schedule, hoping Michael Luigi would take the hint and disappear into the morning chaos. Instead, I heard the telltale sound of another locker opening—because of course his locker was right there.
The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sounds of the hallway coming alive around us. I could feel Michael Luigi’s presence like heat radiating from a fire, could smell his expensive shampoo that cost more than my entire morning routine.
“So,” he said conversationally, apparently immune to my obvious desire to end this interaction. “I heard Mrs. Nakamura is doing something different with the senior capstone project this year.”
“Mmm,” I replied, which wasn’t really a response but was the best I could manage.“Word is it’s some kind of partner thing. Community-based research or something.”
Now I did look at him, suspicion creeping in like the tide. “Partner thing?”Please no, I thought with growing dread. Please don’t let this be going where I think it’s going.
Michael Luigi shrugged, but the gesture seemed forced. “That’s what I heard. Probably random assignment though, right? What are the odds we’d end up—”
The warning bell rang, cutting him off and sending students scurrying toward their homerooms like startled fish.
“Gotta go,” I said quickly, already backing away from Michael Luigi’s gravitational pull. “Don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah, see you in Environmental Science,” he called after me.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Environmental Science was my first period. Michael Luigi was in my Environmental Science class. On the first day of senior year.Of course he is, I thought with the despair that came from realizing the universe had a personal vendetta against my happiness. Of course Michael Luigi is... Of course.
Environmental Science turned out to be held in one of the newer classrooms, with big windows overlooking the school’s native plant garden and the distant blue of the ocean beyond. Mrs. Nakamura, a compact woman with silver-streaked hair and the kind of enthusiastic energy that suggested she genuinely loved both teenagers and environmental science, was writing on the whiteboard when I slipped in. Her handwriting was neat and precise, outlining what looked like the most ambitious senior capstone project in the history of Nāhiku High School. The words “Community Partnership,” “Field Research,” and “Cultural Integration” stood out in her careful script.
This doesn’t look good, I thought, scanning the board for clues about what fresh hell awaited us.
I chose a seat in the middle row with a good view of the board and easy access to the door—strategic positioning that had served me well through four years of high school survival. Students were settling in around me, their conversations creating a mix of English, Hawaiian, and Pidgin that felt like home.
Michael Luigi Pereira entered and scanned the room for a seat. Despite having other options, he settled into the desk directly behind me. I felt my shoulders tense as his presence registered like a weight against my back.
This is a conspiracy, I thought desperately. The universe is actively working against my mental health.
Mrs. Nakamura was still preparing for class, organizing papers and adding notes to the board, when I heard Michael Luigi patting his pockets behind me. The sound was followed by an audible groan of frustration.
“Shoots, I left my pencil case in my locker,” he muttered.
Then he tapped me on my shoulder. “Hey, do you have a pencil I could borrow?”Of course. Of course Michael Luigi can’t keep track of basic supplies. I felt irritation bubble up in my chest. Some people can’t be prepared for anything.I reached into my backpack and pulled out my pencil case. Taking out one basic yellow #2 pencil, I then grabbed a black Sharpie and wrote “MICHAEL LUIGI” in big block letters along the side of the pencil.
“Here,” I said, handing it over harshly. “This is yours. I don’t want it back from you. Don’t return it to me. don’t forget your pencils again. It’s irritating.”My tone was helpful but hostile, designed to make Michael Luigi feel bad about needing help in the first place. He accepted the pencil quietly, surprise flickering across his features as he read his name on the side.
I turned away, satisfied with making my point, as Mrs. Nakamura called the class to attention.
“Good morning, seniors!” she announced with the enthusiasm of teachers who were genuinely excited about their subject matter. “Welcome to what I like to call your academic swan song. This year, we’re doing something special.”She turned to face the class, her eyes bright with excitement that made students either very hopeful or very worried.
“Your senior capstone project will be a year-long, community-based research initiative focusing on the ecology and culture of Maui. You’ll be working in pairs to create a comprehensive presentation that examines how our environment and our heritage are interconnected.”
My stomach dropped somewhere around my ankles. Partner project. Of course it was a partner project. Because the universe apparently had a sense of humor and a grudge against my mental health.
No, I thought desperately. No, no, no. Anything but a partner project.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Nakamura continued with a knowing smile. “You want to pick your own partners. You want to work with your friends, with people you know you’ll get along with. But part of learning is working with different people, expanding your perspectives, being challenged by viewpoints that aren’t your own.”
The room erupted in groans and whispered protests. Mrs. Nakamura pulled out a clipboard with what appeared to be a carefully prepared list. She read through several other assignments first, the tension in the room building with each pairing.
Then came the bomb.
“Kūpaʻa Wong-Kahale and Michael Luigi Pereira.”
The words hit me like a rogue wave, salt water filling my lungs and stealing my breath. Time seemed to slow, the classroom sounds fading to a dull roar as the reality of what Mrs. Nakamura had announced sank in like stones thrown into deep water.
This isn’t happening, I told myself, even as my heart started beating faster. This is a nightmare. I’m going to wake up in my bed and laugh about this terrible dream.Behind me, I heard Michael Luigi’s chair creak as he shifted—surprise? Relief? I couldn’t tell without turning around, and I absolutely was not going to turn around.
The rest of the assignments faded into white noise. I stared straight ahead at the whiteboard, at Mrs. Nakamura’s neat handwriting, at anything except the reality of what had happened.
Nine months, I thought with bitter clarity. Nine months of Michael Luigi.As Mrs. Nakamura continued explaining project requirements, the bell rang and students began filing out. I remained frozen in my seat—maybe if I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge what had happened, the universe would take pity on me.
“So,” came Michael Luigi’s voice from directly behind me, soft and careful and entirely too close. “Partners, yeah?”
The word hung in the air between us, loaded with years of history and all the things we’d never said to each other. I slowly turned around to find Michael Luigi standing there with an expression that was part hopeful, part resigned.
Up close, Michael Luigi looked different than he had in the hallway. Less perfect, somehow. More human. There were faint circles under his eyes, and his hair was slightly messed up where he’d been running his fingers through it. For a moment, he looked less like the golden boy of Nāhiku High and more like a regular seventeen-year-old who wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice coming out rougher than I’d intended. “Partners.”
“Look, I know we’re not exactly...” Michael Luigi started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, we don’t really get along.”
There was sincerity in his voice that cut through my carefully constructed defenses.
“But maybe this could be a chance to, you know, start fresh?” he continued. “We used to be friends, you know. A long time ago.”
The memory hit me like a physical blow—standing in the wings of the elementary school auditorium, costume pooling around my feet, ankle throbbing, watching Michael Luigi take my place at center stage. Watching him perform the ʻoli that was supposed to be mine. Hearing the applause that should have been for me.
“That was a long time ago,” I said, my voice bitter. “People change.”
Michael Luigi’s expression grew wistful. “Maybe some things don’t have to stay changed forever.”
The bell rang again—warning bell for next period. Mrs. Nakamura was distributing reading packets with titles like “The Friendship That Changed Everything.”The universe is hitting me with obvious metaphors, I thought with dark humor.I was out of my seat immediately, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. Michael Luigi followed me toward the door.
“Kūpaʻa, wait up!” he called as I headed into the hallway.
I paused without turning around. “What?”
“Should we maybe exchange numbers? For the project? We could meet later this week to talk about it.”
“Find me when you want to work, Michael Luigi,” I said over my shoulder. “Until then, I’ll be doing the research we’re going to need to not fail this thing.”
I walked away before he could respond, my heart beating faster than it should have been for such a simple conversation. Behind me, Michael Luigi stood in the empty classroom doorway, watching my purposeful stride carry me down the hallway until I disappeared around the corner.
It was going to be an interesting year indeed.
