Chapter 12 #2
“Frankie,” he said, voice lower now, “I’m not going to apologize for stepping in when someone corners you.”
“It’s not about that.”
He waited, gaze pinning me with the same intensity that made my knees feel unreliable.
“Then what is it about?” he asked quietly.
Us.
Me.
Everything.
But I couldn’t unwrap any of that in the middle of the hallway with freshmen bumping past us and juniors whispering like they were auditioning for a gossip podcast.
So I just shook my head. “Not right now.”
Something raw flickered across his face, but he nodded.
We finished the last few feet to the classroom in silence, and the hush that fell over the hallway hit harder than the first. A familiar blue poster board outside the classroom read ELECTIONS MATTER, which was laughably optimistic given my current track record with choices.
Archie went through the doorway first like he always did—like he was clearing the path, crowding out the possibility of more whispers.
Inside, the classroom was only half full, but the air still changed when we walked in. Heads snapped up. Some students straightened. One girl elbowed her friend so hard I heard the impact.
My cheeks burned.
“Jesus,” I whispered under my breath.
Archie shot a glance at the room that made three people look away instantly.
We moved toward our usual seats at the back. My hands shook as I set my backpack down. I was halfway to pulling out my notebook when someone slid into the seat directly on my right.
Archie’s shoulders tensed like pulled wire.
I didn’t have to look to know it was Mathieu. He wasn’t even in this class, much less in that seat.
My pulse spiked, the air choking in my throat.
“Thought I’d audit here today,” Mathieu said softly, not looking at Archie. Not looking at me. Just staring at the desk like he hadn’t detonated the first period of my Monday. “Maybe we can finish our conversation.”
My blood went cold.
Archie leaned in a fraction, his voice low enough that only I could hear it.
“You don’t have to talk to him.”
Mathieu finally lifted his eyes, meeting Archie’s in one hard, unblinking stare.
“Funny,” he said, his accent suddenly razor-sharp. “I was about to say the same thing.”
The tension snapped so tight I could feel it humming through my teeth.
Our teacher picked that exact moment to walk in, cheerful and oblivious. “Good morning, everyone!”
Not one person in that room was actually breathing.
And me?
I sat trapped between both boys, the air suffocating, the weight of the entire hallway’s rumors pressing in on my shoulders.
The day had officially started—and it was already a disaster.
Government didn’t get better.
If anything, it got tighter, smaller, hotter—like the air in the room had thickened purely out of spite. Mathieu didn’t look at me again, but he didn’t have to. Every inhale felt like I had to fight for space that neither boy wanted to cede.
Archie tracked Mathieu like he expected him to make a move.
Mathieu sat rigid, shoulders high, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. His knee bounced—a sharp, angry rhythm.
And me? I took notes on autopilot, my handwriting slipping into an anxious scrawl I barely recognized.
When the bell rang, my body sagged in relief.
That lasted approximately one breath.
Because both boys stood at the same time.
“Frankie—”
“Can we talk—”
They said it over each other.
I didn’t even look at either of them. “I have to get to class.”
“Frankie,” Archie tried again, softer.
“Later,” I said, not trusting myself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I walked.
And for a miracle, neither of them followed.
Bubba saw me the second I stepped into the room.
He didn’t say anything at first—he just reached over, plucked my notebook out of my slack hands, and set it neatly on my desk like he’d done it a thousand times before. Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
“Frankie.” His voice was gravel-soft. Concern, guilt, and something subtly protective all wrapped together. “You good?”
The smile I tried for collapsed immediately. “No.”
He nodded, like he’d already known that. Like he’d been bracing for it. “You wanna sit by the window today?”
I nodded because words stuck in my throat.
We worked quietly, side by side. Bubba kept pretending to be absorbed in the derivative worksheet, but every time he caught me staring blindly at a problem, he nudged my arm with his elbow, real gentle, and whispered an answer under his breath.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t crowd.
He just stayed.
At one point, he murmured, “Archie texted me,” eyes fixed on his work. “Said it got weird.”
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.
He cracked the faintest smile. “You want me to talk to him?”
“No.” Maybe. God, I didn’t know.
Bubba nodded like he actually understood the answer under the non-answer. “Okay.”
Class ended too soon. He walked with me to the door, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he wanted to shield me from every pair of eyes in the hallway.
“Text me,” he said as I left. “If you need anything.”
I wanted to hug him. But I didn’t trust myself not to cry if I did.
If hell had regional campuses, third period French was one of them.
Mathieu sat in his usual seat—two rows ahead. Rachel sat beside me, her posture vibrating with pent-up fury she was barely keeping leashed.
She took one look at my face and went absolutely still.
“What happened?” she whispered in French, sharp as a knife.
“Nothing,” I whispered back.
“Bullshit.”
Madame swept in then, beginning class with her usual bright Bonjour, mes élèves, which meant I was trapped.
Mathieu didn’t turn around once. But I could feel him thinking. Feel the tension in the room bending around him like static.
During group work, Madame paired the three of us together like she enjoyed human suffering.
The second we sat in a little triangle of desks, Rachel leaned forward. “He made you cry.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“Your mascara says otherwise.”
“I didn’t wear mascara.”
“Exactly.”
I groaned and pressed both hands to my face.
Mathieu exhaled sharply. “Can we not do this here?”
Rachel shot him a look that could have sliced titanium. “Then when, exactly? After you corner her again?”
His jaw twitched. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” she snapped. “And you’re doing it again. Just with less furniture involved.”
“Rachel,” I hissed.
“No.” Her voice softened only when she looked back at me. “You’re shaking.”
I hadn’t realized I was.
Mathieu finally looked at me then—really looked. The defensive anger drained out of him all at once, replaced by something worse.
Regret.
“Frankie,” he said quietly in French, “je suis désolé.”
I’m sorry.
My throat tightened.
I didn’t answer.
Madame walked over a moment later and asked us to read our sentences aloud, which was the only reason the three of us didn’t explode into open conflict.
I survived the period by sheer willpower and the fact that Rachel kept a steadying hand on my knee under the table the entire time like she couldn’t bear for me to come apart.
When the bell rang, Rachel shot up.
“You’re walking with me,” she said.
I didn’t argue.
Mathieu stayed seated, staring at the desk like he’d broken something he didn’t know how to fix.
I didn’t look back as Rachel dragged me out.
Coop looked like he hadn’t slept in a year.
He sat slumped over his desk, hoodie pulled tight around his face, one leg bouncing uncontrollably under the table. When he saw me, his expression flickered—something like guilt, something like worry, something like hurt.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Hey.”
He shifted his books, making space for me automatically. The teacher started going over vocabulary, but Coop leaned in, real quiet.
“Archie told me,” he whispered.
“Oh god.”
“He didn’t say everything,” Coop added quickly. “Just that something blew up.”
I nodded.
“You okay?”
The question fractured something inside me.
“No,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Not even close.”
Coop’s entire expression softened. “Do you want—”
I shook my head.
His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out. Then he didn’t.
He just sat next to me, bouncing knee and all, giving me his quiet presence in that way Coop always had—subtle, steady, safe.
And the worst part?
It almost made me cry again.
I didn’t go to the cafeteria.
I didn’t go to the courtyard.
I didn’t go with Bubba or Archie or Coop or Jake or Rachel.
I went to the library.
I tucked myself between two tall shelves in the far corner and sat on the carpet like a runaway gremlin. I should’ve eaten something, but my stomach had shriveled into a tight knot.
I rested my forehead on my knees and tried to breathe.
Every inhale stung.
Every exhale felt like it deflated something fragile.
All morning, I had been the center of a tug-of-war no one else seemed willing to drop. And the worst part—the part that made my shame burn hot under my skin—was that none of it would’ve happened if I’d been stronger. Clearer. Less… me.
By the time fifth period started, I still hadn’t moved.
I didn’t go.
I just hid.
My phone buzzed a few times—Jake, Bubba, Rachel, Archie—but I ignored them all.
No one needed more of my mess.
I snuck into class just before the bell, hoping to disappear into the back corner.
Jake saw me immediately.
His posture snapped straight, eyes narrowing in a way that made my heart clench. He didn’t say a word—he just moved his backpack off the seat next to him so I’d sit there.
I did.
Because I didn’t have the strength to argue.
Mr. G’s arrival lacked the lightness of his usual presence, and the good humor that often lifted even the worst days. We were discussing the Enlightenment—and that was enough of a struggle to stay focused on—when Mr. G frowned.
“Frankie,” he said gently, “can you stay for a moment after class?”
Jake froze. I froze harder.
“Um,” I managed, “sure?”
Mr. G frowned, but then gestured to the chart on the wall that I hadn’t even noticed as he returned us to the subject at hand.
When the bell rang, Jake stayed seated, arms crossed.
“Jake,” Mr. G said but Jake just shook his head once before shooting me a look.
“You want me to go?” He didn’t want to leave me, nothing could have been clearer. Maybe I was being selfish as hell because I shook my head.
“Not really.”
“Cool,” he said with a firm nod, then looked at Mr. G again. “She wants me here.”
With a faint sigh, Mr. G pinched the bridge of his nose. “Frankie?”
“It’s fine,” I told him. Honestly, with the way my day had been going, what more could go wrong? “Just tell me what’s up.”
“You’ve been struggling the past few weeks. Not quite up to your usual standard in any area.”
That wasn’t even the gut punch it should have been. He wasn’t wrong. Not in the slightest. I hadn’t been focused. I’d called out of work a lot. I wasn’t even working on college applications. To be fair, he was being generous in his description.
Jake’s jaw flexed.
“It’s not a judgment. You’re a strong student—one of the strongest,” Mr. G continued, a soft kind of empathy in his eyes.
“But your scores haven’t reflected that, which we already discussed, but my concern is less about your grades than your focus.
Your mind isn’t on this work. I’m wondering if maybe switching out of AP for now might give you the space you need. ”
Something inside me cracked.
Switch out?
Quit?
Because I was falling apart publicly enough that even my teachers saw it?
Heat pricked behind my eyes.
“I—” My voice broke on the first word.
Jake’s chair slammed out of his desk so hard, it fell over as he stood.
“No,” he snapped. “She doesn’t need to switch out.”
“Jake,” I whispered, mortified.
“She’s fine,” he insisted. “She’s going through shit. That doesn’t mean she’s failing.”
Mr. G held up a hand, trying to stay patient. “Jake, this is a conversation between Frankie and me—”
“No,” Jake repeated, stepping in front of my desk like a human shield. “She’s trying. She’s working. Just because she had one bad day doesn’t mean she needs you to kick her out.”
Kicked out.
The word punched me in the sternum.
“Jake,” I choked out, tears spilling before I could stop them, “please. Stop.”
He turned instantly, the anger draining into panic when he saw my face.
“Oh. Shit—Frankie, I didn’t—”
But it was too late.
The tears came hard, fast, unstoppable.
Mortifying.
Mr. G stood, voice softening. “Frankie, hey—hey, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to have support.”
Jake looked like he wanted to throw himself into traffic.
I stood too quickly, vision blurring. “I just—I need a minute.”
Jake reached for me. “Frankie—”
I stepped back.
His face fell.
Mr. G swore under his breath and grabbed a box of tissues.
But I was already heading for the door—heart pounding, breath stinging, the whole awful day crashing down on me at once.
Not for the first time, I wanted to scream. None of this was fair. None of it.
How much worse could it get? What a stupid question, because the answer was “a lot worse, idiot.” Now I had a teacher suggesting I give up. Give up, drop a class, walk away.
I wasn’t just overwhelmed. I was wrecked. Ruined. Shaken apart so thoroughly I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to walk to the parking lot, let alone survive another day of this.
I hated my life so damn much.