Freshman Year #3
A collective groan ripples through the classroom.
Mrs. Chen holds up a hand. "This project is called Pen Pals, but we won’t be assigning the pen pals in the traditional sense, i.e, writing letters—we are in the twenty-first century after all.
Instead of pens and paper, we will use cell phones.
This project, at its core, is designed to foster genuine communication and understanding between students who might never otherwise interact.
In a moment, our student aid will be distributing phones, basic models with limited functionality.
Each phone has been assigned exactly one other number.
That person will be your secret pen pal for the next four years. "
Four years. The words echo in my head, and I want to laugh at how ridiculous that is.
Four years of texting some random person.
Four years of playing this stupid guessing game.
I'm not the only one who thinks this is bullshit.
The entire room erupts in groans and complaints, and someone yells, "Are you kidding me right now?
" The girl to my right drops her head on her desk with a dramatic thud.
Mrs. Chen doesn't even blink. She just walks around to the front of her desk and crosses her ankles like she's got all day. Like she's enjoying this. The room slowly goes quiet, and I swear she's trying not to smirk.
"If everyone is finished..." She raises an eyebrow before continuing.
"The rules are non-negotiable," she continues, her voice taking on a stern edge.
"No exchanging names. No physical descriptions.
No clues about your identity whatsoever.
The person on the other end must remain completely anonymous until graduation.
Any violation of these rules will result in a failing grade for this project, and you'll be assigned fifty hours of community service to make up for it. "
Four years. Through all of high school. I glance around the room, suddenly aware of how many people this could be when the door opens again, and a student aid pushes in a cart stacked with small boxes. Each one has a name label on top.
"When you receive your phone," Mrs. Chen says, "it will already be charged and activated.
You may text your pen pal whenever you wish.
The only rule besides anonymity: be authentic.
This project is about genuine human connection, not performance.
Now, when I call your name, come collect your phone. "
She starts reading from her roster, and one by one, students shuffle to the front. My heart's beating faster than it should. Somewhere in this room or maybe in another class, there's someone who's going to be assigned to me. Someone I'll talk to for the next four years without knowing who they are.
The yellow flyer still sits on my desk, Asha's name printed next to mine.
"Trigger Hale," Mrs. Chen calls.
I stand, weaving through the desks. As I return to my seat, the bright-yellow flyer staring back at me, I can't help but wonder: What are the chances?
The bell rings, and the class is over in what feels like seconds after my mind was left reeling over unlikely probabilities.
I’m out of my chair quick, so I reach her before she gets a chance to stand.
Returning the flyer, I slide it across her desk.
"I don't like to lose," I say in answer to the question she asked before class started.
It's not the answer she wants to hear, and that's why I gave it.
A no would have earned me a ‘Good,’ most likely followed with a hair flip as she sauntered off with dramatic flair, but an open-ended response keeps those stormy eyes on me a little bit longer.
Her eyes narrow on mine, my response clearly grating on her nerves but earning me the response I'd hoped for all the same as she stands, uncaring of the little amount of space I’ve given her to do so.
Toe to toe, I can smell the mint of her gum when she says, "Look, this is what's going to happen.
You're not going to run against me. You're not so much as going to come up with one single idea for a campaign strategy.
Instead, you're going to act as the place holder you are.
Smile for the faculty, attend the meetings, but offer zero suggestions, and when you must campaign—because the staff will be watching—it's my name you tell students to cast their votes for. "
I bite my lip to refrain from smiling, fighting the urge to lean closer, to close the dangerous distance between us. I liked it when Asha Fairfield was nice to me, but I think I like it more when she's mean. There's fire in her when she's angry, and it's intoxicating.
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you owe me," she states without reservation.
I pause, our gaze imperceptibly locked as I consider her response.
What is she insinuating I owe her for? If anything, she evened the score when she dumped a milkshake down my chest, which has me questioning if she's not referring to something else, an admission that would give me a firm answer to the question that’s been driving me crazy. Does she remember?
I cross my arms and allow a deceiving grin to pull at my mouth, giving her the impression I'm unbothered when that couldn't be further from the truth.
She's all I've thought about since the second I laid eyes on her yesterday, but even before then, she was every other thought.
The way she moves, the tilt of her head when she's thinking, the dangerous curve of her smile… it's all burned into my memory.
"I don't know, after the strawberry milkshake, I'd say we're pretty even," I tactfully challenge, noting how her lips press together and her fists clench at her sides. “Unless there’s something else?” I say, unable to hold back my probe.
"Why are you here, Hale?"
And there it is. The confirmation I was looking for. She remembers. She could have used any other combination of words, but she chose those specific ones.
"Ridgewood has an excellent reputation," I say, curiously watching her wheels spin in hopes of figuring out what's changed.
"So do fifty other schools that aren't mine. Try again."
"And if I said you?" She hears a taunt. I can see it in the way she rolls her lips, but it's a question all the same. One I want a real answer for.
"Don't you think you've ruined my life enough?"
Ruined her life? I try hard to keep my face impassive, even though inside I'm scrambling to put the pieces together. I feel like I'm missing something big. How did I ruin her life?
"Whatever." She slaps her desk, frustrated with my delayed response. "Have it your way. You can play games all you want, but you better believe I don't lose. You'll regret—"
My hand covers hers and steals her words.
The moment our skin touches, it's like getting shocked, but in a good way. Her breath catches, confirming she feels it too. Her head might make me the enemy, but the rest of her isn’t sold on that label.
Her hand is smaller than I expected, softer, but she doesn't pull away immediately.
Her words might sound like pure hate, but the way she's staying…
that says something totally different. For a second, we're just frozen, just like we were in the parking lot, and I can't tell if I want to fight her or kiss her.
"Regret implies a mistake. This wasn't a mistake,” I finally say, knowing any second this moment will disappear, and I’m not ready to show my cards—not now that I have to figure out how I ruined her life.
For now, I have to let her hate me a little longer.
She tries to pull her hand away, but I'm faster, grasping it tightly and holding her in place.
Her pulse hammers against my thumb, betraying the effect I have on her despite the ice in her glare.
"If I ruined your life, you corrupted mine.
Make no mistake, you're no ice queen. You're trouble, sweetheart. "
This time, when she tries to yank her hand away, I let her, but not before running my thumb across her knuckles. Her breath catches subtly. She rolls her glossy pink lips before saying, "You know what they say about trouble…it never sleeps."
"Oh, I'm counting on it." Her practiced, icy glare stays fixed on mine. "I like trouble. It follows me like a shadow."
I doubt she caught the double meaning in my words, but I felt her pulse racing.
Her mind is swimming, too busy plotting her revenge and all the ways she'd kill me if she could to notice the way she unconsciously leans toward me even as she tries to pull away.
But I've waited this long to see her again.
I can wait a little longer to see what happens next.