Chapter 9 — Static （Nora）
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At six in the morning, I climbed the team bus on four hours of sleep and felt Beck watching from three rows back before I found him.
Cold glass waited at the window seat facing the aisle door, my always pick. I dropped my bag, slid in, and pressed my temple to the chill. Duffels thumped overhead.
“Morning. You saved me a death seat? I'm touched,” I said it hoarse and cleared my throat hard. Beck's mouth twitched at one corner. He shook his head once, slow, eyes stuck on mine through the fog and the heads between us.
“Three rows away and you're staring. Stop. No — don't stop.” I mouthed it half-hidden behind my cup so nobody else could read me. His ears went pink. He raised his cup another inch toward me and drank, and the look he gave me over the rim said he'd heard every syllable.
“I'm not staring. I'm counting windows. You're in one.” I read it off his lips, plain as print, and heat crawled up my throat fast. I ducked behind my hair and pretended to hunt for my phone, which was already hot in my hand.
“Smooth. Real smooth. You owe me a real latte for that.” I let him see me grin this time, wide and helpless. His thumbs moved over his phone, quick and sure. A second later my screen lit up, and my chest went tight in the good way before I even read a word.
His text said: “Thursday. Real one. Cinnamon. I remember.” I read it twice, fingers warming around the phone. Wrong latte, right guy. I typed back, deleted it, typed again.
“You're up early, tutor-girl. You sleep? Ever?” Cole Danner dropped into the seat across the aisle, all elbows and grin, #88 stretched across his chest, a wrinkled install sheet wagging from his fist. My pulse jumped at the sudden noise and then settled again.
The sheet was the same one from the doorway ask, soft at the folds, ink smudged. Cole flipped it twice and never held it out, never asked. Same paper, changed pressure. I looked away fast.
“Look at you, all bright-eyed at a 6 a.m. bus call like this is normal,” Cole said. “I swear you've got coffee in your veins instead of blood, tutor-girl.” He squinted at my cup like it owed him money. Rain hammered the roof so loud I half-read his lips.
“Lukewarm regret, mostly. You want a sip? No take-backs on germs, Danner,” I said. “It's oat and wrong and I love it anyway because somebody tried.” I held the cup out one inch, then pulled it straight back. Cole clutched his chest like I'd shot him.
“Hard pass, tutor-girl. I like my germs local and my coffee actually coffee,” Cole said. “Seriously though, did you sleep at all or did you just mainline review sheets all night?” He smoothed the wrinkled sheet over his knee and folded it again without looking.
“Don't. I'm fine. Just bus-brain.” I waved his worry off before he could shape it into words. Oat, no shot, no cinnamon, close enough to remind me who'd tried. Cole's grin softened into something almost careful.
“Bus-brain? It's six in the morning and raining sideways. That's just brain, tutor-girl,” Cole said. “Nobody's fine at this hour. Even Deon isn't fine and he's basically a golden retriever in cleats.” He stretched his legs into the aisle until somebody stomped his ankle for it.
“Says the guy who packed paper instead of socks for an away trip,” I said. “What's that sheet ever done to you? You've folded it into origami twice already.” I flicked two fingers at his fist. Cole clutched the paper to his chest like I'd drawn a weapon.
“Hey — hey. That sheet's — that's my whole life right there,” Cole said. “You laugh, but this wrinkled thing is gonna make me famous. Or employed. One of those.” He smoothed it flat again with his palm and folded it smaller. My chest ached watching his hands.
“Then quit folding it to death, hotshot. You'll wear the ink right off it,” I said. “Keep it flat for five minutes. I dare you. I double-dare you.” I kept my voice light so he'd hear the floor under it. Cole bumped my knee with his and left it there half a second.
“Five minutes? Quinn, that's basically forever. I don't know if I've got that in me,” Cole said. “I'll give you ninety seconds. That's my final offer. Take it or leave it.” He held up the crushed sheet in full surrender. I laughed into my lid and felt almost human.
Diesel thickened in the wet air and the wipers slapped once, twice. My stomach knotted tight and low, and the thought sat cold in my head and wouldn't move, midterm in two days. I pressed my palm flat to my belly and breathed through my nose.
I drew one blind line through the mist on the fogged glass. The bus sighed on its brakes. Gray dawn smeared past the lot lights still buzzing orange.
“Y'all breathe. We've done this ride before. Easy.” Deon Marsh slid in behind us, calm as Sunday, #7 bright on his sleeve, and clapped the seatback once. His voice rolled down the aisle toward the freshmen in back. Shoulders dropped all around me like he'd cut strings.
“Blitz pickup's just geometry, babies. You see the angle, you take the angle,” Deon said. “Don't overthink it. Your feet know more than your fear does. Trust your feet.” He leaned into the aisle, talking with his hands, easy and kind. A nervous laugh answered him from the back.
“Watch the backer's hips. Hips don't lie, I swear on my mama's gravy,” Deon said. “You miss one? So what. Next snap. That's the whole sermon right there.” The back of the bus laughed, looser this time. The knot in my gut loosened half a notch.
“There you go. Breathe. I got you back there, I promise,” Deon said. “Nobody's getting eaten alive on my watch. Not today. Not on this bus.” He settled into his seat and kicked his feet up. I caught Beck's eye in the window-glass reflection and looked away first, too fast.
“See that? That's leadership. Somebody pay that man extra,” Cole said, jerking his thumb toward Deon with a crooked grin. “Meanwhile I'm out here fighting for my life against a bus seat.” Deon chuckled low and shook his head without opening his eyes.
“You're fighting the seat and losing, baby boy. Sit still before you hurt yourself,” Deon said. “Tutor-girl, don't let him bother you. He's worse before coffee. Way worse.” I snorted into my cup. Cole pressed both hands to his heart like we'd wounded him.
My mind slipped to the locker hallway before load-out, ninety seconds flat. I'd stopped at Beck's locker to check a page number for review and riffled his black notebook fast. The edges hadn't nested right.
Pages don't misbehave. Grid pages, numbered one through ninety-six, square as soldiers. But this time the stack felt shuffled, edges off like a deck cut by strange hands. Cold walked up my arms.
“That's not right. Pages don't do that.” The whisper had barely left my mouth in the empty hallway, and I hear it still. I'd smoothed the cover square, lined it up exact, and stepped back fast. Ninety seconds, in and out. Nobody had seen a thing.
He wipes the film-room board clean every night, and I'd always read it as habit. Now the wiped board and the wrong-feeling pages sat side by side like two cold stones.
I said nothing on the bus. That was my story and the fogged glass didn't argue. My phone stayed dark in my palm.
My phone buzzed and I jumped, sloshing latte on my thumb. Beck again. I opened it low, under the seat edge. My heart knocked hard.
His text said: “You okay? You're quiet. Tell me at the stop.” I read it three times, throat thick. He'd felt the quiet from three rows back. I gripped the phone hard enough to ache.
“Everything good back there, tutor-girl? You're somewhere else entirely,” Cole said, nudging my shoe with his. I startled and nearly dropped the phone. His grin faded when he saw my face. He leaned closer, voice dropping under the engine hum.
“I'm here. Just tired. Four hours and a cold bus will do that,” I said. “Don't worry about me. Worry about your paper. It's looking rough.” I forced a grin I didn't feel. Cole studied me one beat too long, then nodded like he'd decided to buy it.
“Get some sleep then. I'll guard the latte with my life, I swear,” Cole said. “Nobody touches the lukewarm regret while I'm on duty. Not on my watch.” He straightened, shoulders squared, and crossed his eyes. A snort burst out of me, loud through my nose.
The laugh came out sideways, a snort I hated, loud in the engine hum. Beck's shoulders shook three rows back. Nobody named it. I buried my face in my cup.
“There she is. There's that laugh. Music to my ears, Quinn,” Cole said. “Don't hide it. It's my favorite alarm clock. Way better than my phone.” He beamed like he'd won a title. I kicked his shoe lightly and hid harder behind my hair.
“Shut up before I pour this latte on your precious sheet,” I said. “I mean it. I'll do it. Don't test me this early.” Cole gasped and shielded the paper with his whole body. Deon chuckled behind us without opening his eyes.
Miles blurred past in wet gray. Deon kept up lazy blitz talk. Cole dozed with the sheet tented over his face. I dozed and jerked awake.
The bus took the ramp turn too fast and physics made decisions for everybody. Cole slid sideways across the slick vinyl and his shoulder pressed mine, warm through two layers, brief as a blink. My breath caught. I grabbed the seatback hard.
Beck's eyes flicked there once, then away, jaw working. He tapped two fingers once on his left wrist and faced his window. He didn't stand or speak. The restraint hit harder than a scene would have.
“Sorry — sorry. Bus turns. I'm a hazard.” Cole righted himself with both hands up, sheepish grin firmly in place, ears burning red. The wrinkled sheet crackled in his fist where he'd crushed it catching himself. A laugh jumped straight out of me.
“A hazard with a paper shield. Real safe, Danner. Very reassuring,” I said. “Maybe buckle the sheet in next time. Give it its own seat.” I smoothed my sleeve where his shoulder had pressed. Three rows back, Beck faced his window. I faced mine.