Chapter 17

  The Beginning of the First Act (VI)

  Yvette shouldered through the heavy double doors of the Campus Center building, the midday sun striking her, bright and unyielding. It mirrored the heat still simmering in her chest. Without breaking stride, boots thudding against the concrete path, she moved quickly, as if she could somehow outpace the frustration and anger clawing at her. Paul matched her pace effortlessly, his massive frame a silent shadow beside her.

  "Should we really be surprised she's such a bitch?" Yvette spat, her voice low and edged. "Honestly, who the hell does she think she is? We were barely in there an hour and she's already playing general like we’re her toy soldiers—She didn't even ask to help either, she just assumed we needed it; like, fuck off!"

  Paul's brow furrowed, his deep voice rumbling out cautiously, like he was navigating a minefield. "Well, to be fair, she wasn't entirely wrong about the formation spacing. We for sure could've—"

  Yvette whipped her head toward him, her glare sharp, conveying her anger.

  "...Okay, yeah," he muttered quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "The way she came at us was overkill. Definitely the wrong move on her part."

  "Wrong?" Yvette echoed, crossing her arms tight over her chest, her nails digging into her biceps. "First chance we get, we're out. Gotta join a different group. I'm done looking at her smug ass face."

  Paul's eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing his features. "You wanna switch groups already? We haven't even—"

  Yvette shook her head, not even attempting to listen to what he had to say. Then, she turned her attention to a vibration against her thigh. She fished out her phone, the screen lighting up with a text from her mom—a delayed reply to the message she'd fired off in the hallway earlier, right before Felicity cornered her.

  The words stared back: Sure, what’s up?

  The sight of it yanked her out of the Malika spiral, replacing her sharp rage with something heavier, more insidious—a knot of unease that had been twisting in her gut since orientation. Suddenly, the group's petty drama felt trivial, like background noise to a deeper static.

  "I gotta call my mom," Yvette said, abruptly ending the conversation.

  "Aight, then. See you later, I guess?" Paul called after her as she veered off the path, his wave awkward and half-hearted.

  She marched on toward a secluded stone bench under a low-hanging tree. The leaves rustled faintly, as if stirred by some unseen ward, but she herself barely noticed. The stone of the bench was cold enough that it seeped through her jeans, a sharp reminder of the world pressing in while her thoughts spun out. She hit the call button, pressing the phone to her ear. It rang twice before her mom's voice carried through, warm but frayed at the edges.

  "Hey, baby, how you doing?"

  "Hey, Mom." Yvette's voice pitched up involuntarily, laced with an anxiety she couldn't quite mask. "I'm good."

  "Ah! Hey! Zach, put your brother down—don't hold him like that! Hey, listen!" The line erupted with the muffled chaos of her younger siblings—shouts, laughter, the thud of bodies wrestling. Yvette pulled the phone away slightly, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. If she were there, she'd be in the thick of it too. Bodyslamming them into the sofa until they all collapsed in a heap, breathless and laughing.

  "Sorry about that Evie," her mom sighed, voice returning with that familiar exhaustion. "Anyway, what's up? Campus treating you alright? Found your classes yet?"

  "It's fine. Still adjusting—classes start tomorrow, orientation's dragging on. A few more sessions today." Yvette dodged the breakout disaster; no point unloading that now. She chewed her lip, then dove in. "But... something's bugging me. Like, really bugging me. Jesse said something this morning during the assembly, and it's driving me nuts."

  "Oh? What happened?" Her mom's tone shifted, concern edging in, but there was a subtle wariness underneath, like she was bracing.

  Yvette exhaled, her free hand gesturing uselessly at the empty air. "He just... casually dropped that he's adopted. To all of us—me, Felicity, Ruben... Like it was no big deal, but I don’t remember him ever being adopted."

  The line went silent, thick and heavy, for a beat too long. Yvette's pulse ticked up in the quiet.

  "Adopted? He said that?" She asked carefully.

  "Yeah!" Yvette's frustration spilled out, her voice climbing. "I'm not crazy, right? I remember when Aunty Grace talked about having him, you know? She talked all about the pregnancy and labor… All of that stuff. I know I do."

  There was another long pause, this one was agonizing, stretching like a taut wire. Usually, her mom matched her energy—empathetic, quick to dive in. But this was different, guarded, like she was sifting through a minefield of words she couldn't afford to trip.

  “Mom? Hello?”

  "Uh, well—Evie..." Her voice softened, but there was a tightness underneath, a wall rising brick by brick. "I know you're acting this way because you care. I get that. But you might not have the full picture, okay? And I'm wondering now if Jesse even does."

  Yvette's brows knit together, a fresh wave of irritation crashing over her, laced with something sharper—dread, maybe. "What?"

  "Look, I can’t really get into this, especially just over the phone. But no, Jesse is not adopted. Grace was his mother… But—"

  "But? But what? What aren't you telling me, Mom?" Yvette probed, her words tumbling out faster, pushing harder against the resistance. Her leg bounced again, the bench's chill forgotten as heat flushed her face.

  Her mom's sigh was heavy, resigned, carrying the weight of years of unspoken details. "Look, whatever Jesse said today, he's not adopted. But you need to talk to him about this. I'm not spilling what I know over the phone, baby. I probably said too much already just confirming that."

  "Said too much of what?" Yvette's voice cracked with exasperation, her free hand clenching into a fist. "You answered my question, but why are you talking like this? Holy shit, woman—you suck at keeping secrets!"

  Her mom made a sharp noise over the line, half gasp, half scolding. "No! Yvette, you do not talk to me that way!"

  "You're making it really hard not to! Just be honest with me!" She protested, taking her free hand to her chest, as if protesting the injustice of the conversation.

  "You- Oh, dear God, you are your father’s child. You better not tell anyone I told you this!" The words came out in a hushed rush, and Yvette could hear her mom moving—footsteps retreating, a door clicking shut, sealing off the background noise. The line went quieter, intimate, like a confessional. "Yvette, I want you to understand this: I loved Grace. She was, and God knows, the best and closest friend I've ever had."

  "...Okay?" Yvette answered, voice softening, leaning forward instinctively.

  "Baby..." Her mom's voice dropped lower, laced with a sorrow that hit like a gut punch. "She made a big mistake. She was having an affair and for God knows how long, it kept going until finally... Jesse was brought into the picture."

  Yvette froze, the words landing like a stone in still water, rippling out in waves of disbelief. "What the fuck?" she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, staring blankly at the manicured lawn stretching before her.

  "Uh—does—" Yvette stammered, her mind scrambling violently for traction. "Does Alan know?"

  "Yes," her mom said, the resignation deepening into something ugly and tragic. "He- he knows. It all came out when you were both just infants. It's... it's honestly why Jesse spent so much time at our house.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her mother sighed softly, “Well, I don’t think this is the case anymore, especially since Grace passed away but… in the beginning, after Jesse was born, Alan wanted to put him up for adoption. He didn’t want him in the house—but... how could you ask a mother to give away her baby? That… that was never going to happen."

  Yvette just sat there. The ground seemed to drop out from beneath her.

  ‘Alan wanted to put him up for adoption.’ The words echoed in her head, violently recontextualizing memories she hadn't thought about in forever.

  Six years old. The doorbell rings at an odd hour—it has been for a while, sometimes early on a Saturday morning, or right in the middle of dinner. Aunty Grace standing on their front porch, her smile all bright and cheery as Yvette opened the door.

  She remembered Grace pushing a quiet, wide-eyed Jesse into the foyer, not even stepping inside herself. Yvette’s mom had always rushed to the door, her face tight with a panicked, protective urgency. ‘Go play, Evie. Take Jesse to the living room and show him your new toys.’

  They had sat on that carpet in the living room for hours, building clumsy, mismatched forts out of sofa cushions, laughing, playing, watching cartoons. Blissfully oblivious to the hushed, frantic conversations coming from the kitchen.

  Growing up, Yvette had always thought Jesse was just lucky. He got to come over all the time. He got to escape his quiet house and join her loud, chaotic one. They were inseparable.

  Now, the truth just took all those memories and compounded them with… something wrong. He wasn't lucky. He hadn't been dropping by for playdates.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  What was the truth? Was Grace hiding him or scared? Why did Alan… not want him? That thought—these thoughts, were way too much all of the sudden. The very idea of Jesse being unwanted by his own father who actually was not his father-

  Yvette squinted and held her forehead, cutting off her own train of thought. She winced at how complicated and frustrating this was.

  "Evie…?” A pause, “Yvette, are you there?"

  She didn’t register she was crying until the first tear broke over her cheek, dropping silently onto her jeans, leaving its mark.

  Everything she thought she knew was now unraveling, worse than just simply realizing that Jesse may have been adopted. No, now she is realizing her best friend is a product of an adulterous relationship and the truth at the center of it was disgusting. She couldn't help but reflect on it all. The weight of Jesse's entire life—the quiet apologies, the way he always tried to make himself small and agreeable—suddenly made a horrific, perfect kind of sense.

  ‘How long did he know?’ She thought to herself.

  ~~~~

  The automatic glass doors hissed apart, momentarily framing Paul Jones before he stepped through. He had to dip his chin a fraction just to clear the metal frame, his heavy shoes scuffing the polished floor as he made his way toward us.

  “Hey, Paul!” Ruben called out. He was still hugging the far side of a concrete pillar, his eyes darting toward the corridor.

  Felicity rolled her eyes, the wet, frayed aglet of her hoodie string clamped firmly between her teeth. “You just gonna live back there now? That chick is already inside the cafe,” she mumbled around the fabric, tugging at Ruben’s sleeve. He shrugged her off and shuffled around the pillar, though he stubbornly kept his shoulder brushing the concrete. I just shook my head and scoffed.

  Paul ambled over, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “Hey guys.”

  “Hey,” Felicity chirped back, finally letting go of her hoodie string. “How was your breakout?”

  Paul’s smile slipped a fraction. He rubbed the back of his neck, his broad shoulders rising in a heavy shrug. “I mean… It wasn't terrible, but Yvette was running hot last I saw her.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ruben asked, peering around the concrete just enough to show his face. “What set her off?”

  “Malika St. Claire,” Paul sighed, his brow furrowing as he looked down. “She sorta formed our group, and I guess with her doing that, she decided to take charge the second we got started.”

  I just listened, leaning my weight against the wall. My hands were shoved deep in my jacket pockets, my right thumb rhythmically flicking the cold flint wheel of my lighter.

  “It kinda went downhill from there," Paul continued. "We did little formation drills and had to come up with a basic composition based on our abilities and… I don’t think any of us are really good communicators, if you know what I mean?”

  "What happened?" Ruben asked, his paranoia momentarily eclipsed by morbid curiosity. “Did someone get punched?”

  “Nah, shoved,” Paul corrected, waving a massive hand to downplay the violence. “Malika was frustrated, then Yvette got mad. I tried to smooth things over, but then Malika started yelling at me for not listening. Then Yvette walked right over and shoved Malika. I kept them separated, but… I don’t know what’s gonna happen when classes kick off tomorrow.” Paul rubbed the top of his head, exhaling a long, exhausted sigh.

  “Wild,” Felicity said with a devious smirk, leaning her head back against the wall. “Am I seriously the only one here who had a good group on the first try?”

  “Evidently that’s a rarity, based on what my instructor told us upstairs,” I chimed in softly. Felicity just shrugged and smiled, clearly taking the statistical anomaly as a personal compliment.

  “Good for you! I wouldn’t wish this kind of crap on anybody, for real,” Paul chuckled, though the sound lacked its usual warmth.

  Felicity and Ruben exchanged a loaded look. I just scrunched up my nose, pressing my shoulders flat against the wall.

  “I was actually watching your class upstairs, Paul… It was quite a sight.”

  Paul blinked. His massive frame shifted as he looked down at me, genuine confusion pooling behind his lenses. “Wait. Watching?”

  “The Non-Combatants were running observation. We had live feeds of the floor, and our instructor had us write up an analysis on the group's dynamics.” I pulled my hands from my pockets and motioned at him with a knowing look. “For what it's worth, despite the power tripping, your group’s composition is not bad. You guys have potential once you actually get moving.”

  Paul exhaled, the tension visibly leaving his posture. “Yeah? You think so? Yvette was talking about dropping the group before we even hit the mats.”

  “Nah, just give it time. It’s the first day.” A dull, familiar throbbing ache started to build right behind my sinuses again—the lingering static of reading the Draft. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sniffled. “Where is she, anyway? We gonna keep waiting?”

  Paul quickly chimed in. “Said she had to call her mom. I’m sure she'll catch up here quick.”

  “I’ll text her,” Felicity said. She reached out, grabbed a fistful of Ruben’s shirt, and physically hauled him away from the safety of the pillar. “Come on. Food.”

  We followed them into the sprawling cavern of the cafeteria. The sheer volume of noise hit like a physical wall—hundreds, if not close to a thousand, voices bouncing off the sterile glass work and polished stone. Behind the massive serving counters, ovens and fryers hissed and popped. People shouted orders to cooks, and cooks shouted names, sliding trays across stainless steel under glaring heat lamps. It felt like I’d been suddenly dropped into the busiest kitchen on planet Earth. My headache was only going to get worse.

  I need a cigarette.

  As we wove through the crowded tables, the heavy air assaulted my senses. My stomach gave a hollow rumble at the sharp, savory scent of seared beef and melted American cheese. My eyes flickered to a nearby booth, watching as a student meticulously picked every single pickle off a stacked double cheeseburger. Right across from them, someone took a massive bite out of a thick slice of pizza, strings of grease-laden cheese and curled, crispy pepperoni stretching from the crust.

  “We’re all gonna get fat,” I muttered.

  Funnily enough, we somehow managed to find a long table with a cluster of empty chairs. Paul dropped his bag at the head of the table, and I took the seat next to him, with Felicity and Ruben sliding into the spots opposite ours.

  “Hey, Jesse, put my jacket on the seat next to you. For Yvette.”

  I nodded, taking her jacket and draping it carefully over the empty chair on my left.

  While the three of them split off to brave the meal lines, I decided to just stay put for a moment. I took the time to scan the chaotic perimeter for a coffee bar,or something else that contained an ungodly level of caffeine. I needed something strong , drowned in enough sugar to rot my teeth, before I could even think about dealing with anything else right now.

  ~~~~

  “What in God’s name is that?”

  I hadn't even fully set my tray down on the table before Ruben was interrogating me. He sat across from me, a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza dangling limply from his hand, his brow furrowed in deep, judgmental confusion.

  I slid into the seat next to Paul, carefully maneuvering my tray. It held a steaming, heavy bowl of chicken alfredo pasta swimming in a thick garlic cream sauce—it smelled incredible. Beside it stood an absolute monstrosity of a beverage. Biggest size they could give me. A massive, iced caramel frappuccino, the dome lid barely containing a towering mountain of whipped cream heavily drizzled with dark caramel syrup.

  “Chicken alfredo,” I said plainly, digging my fork into the pasta.

  “No, I can see that. The drink. What is that?” Ruben pressed, leaning forward and gesturing at the plastic cup with a greasy pizza crust. He glanced left and right at Felicity and Paul, fishing for backup, but neither of them seemed remotely bothered.

  Paul, in fact, was entirely preoccupied. He had managed to acquire both a foot-long Italian sub and a tightly packed turkey wrap, and was currently navigating his way through the sub, huge bite after huge bite.

  “Caramel Frappuccino, two extra shots of espresso,” I answered, wrapping my lips around the thick green straw and pulling a heavy dose of pure, liquid sugar and caffeine into my system. The cold sweetness hit the back of my throat, offering a small, momentary mercy against the dull, throbbing static still pulsing behind my eyes.

  Felicity rolled her eyes, dropping her own fork with a sharp clatter. “You gonna pick on what he’s drinking? What are you eating? Pizza? Again?”

  Ruben blinked, looking down at his paper plate as if he’d forgotten what was on it. He pulled his head back, immediately defensive. “What? It’s good! The crust is extra crispy today too.”

  “You’ve had pizza for three days straight, Ruben,” Felicity shot back, a wry, merciless smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I really don’t think you have the room to judge a man for drinking his dessert.”

  I exhaled a long breath and took another bite of the alfredo. It was creamy, warm, and super tasty. Exactly what I needed right now. But as I lifted my head, chewing my food, my eyes caught movement through the chaotic churn of the cafeteria crowd.

  A girl was weaving through the tables, holding a small, neat salad bowl and a bottle of sparkling water. Her posture was rigidly perfect, her chin held high, but the tight grip she had on her water bottle betrayed a subtle, creeping tension. It was Malika St. Claire.

  She wasn't looking at the empty seats, or the sprawling digital menu boards. Her eyes were locked directly on us—well, more specifically the back of Paul’s head.

  I stopped chewing. Is she…

  Yep, she closed the distance. She looked oddly tense and guarded. Maybe even a little apologetic, though with the St. Claire's family's knack for forced smiles and maintaining perfect appearances, it was hard to tell how much of it was genuine.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice cutting clearly through the ambient roar of the cafeteria.

  She stepped up to the edge of our table, her gaze doing a rapid, analytical sweep of our faces—registering me, Felicity and Ruben—before snapping back to anchor squarely on Paul.

  Felicity froze, a french fry hovering an inch from her mouth. Ruben’s jaw practically unhinged, his eyes darting wildly. Paul, completely oblivious to the sudden plunge in atmospheric pressure, had just stuffed the last three inches of his Italian sub into his mouth. His cheeks bulged comically, transforming the intimidating, towering monolith of a guy into an overgrown chipmunk.

  He froze mid-chew, blinking up at Malika.

  “Uh, Paul, right?” Malika asked, shifting her weight slightly to one foot.

  Paul nodded slowly, his eyes wide as he chewed frantically, swallowing with a visible, forceful gulp that made his Adam's apple bob.

  “Sorry to bother you all in the middle of a meal,” Malika continued, her tone clipped but remarkably soft in the delivery. “I just saw you over here and wanted to apologize… for earlier. I didn’t mean for all of that to come across as so… aggressive. It’s the first day, and I let the pressure of it all dictate my tone—which is a poor reflection on me, I’m sorry.”

  Paul grabbed his napkin, hastily wiping a smudge of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat, his natural peacemaker instincts overriding whatever lingering awkwardness remained.

  “Oh! Hey. No worries at all,” Paul rumbled, waving his massive hand dismissively. “Honestly, I’m sorry too if I came across as not serious enough or whatever. I was just trying to defuse the tension in the room and… yeah. Water under the bridge! No worries at all.”

  I stayed completely silent, stabbing at my pasta, rolling the noodles around the points of my fork, intently watching the scene unfold.

  Malika’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, a brief flash of genuine relief cracking through her polished exterior. “I appreciate that, seriously. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, that's for sure. Thank you.”

  A beat of silence passed. The kind of silence that demands a polite exit, but Malika lingered, perhaps still preparing to excuse herself and return to wherever the upper-crust kids ate.

  But Paul, possessing a heart of pure gold—and absolutely zero instinct for social preservation—glanced at the empty chairs around us and smiled warmly.

  “Would you like to sit with us?”

  Felicity inhaled so sharply she nearly choked. Ruben physically recoiled, pressing himself flat against the back of his plastic chair. I locked eyes with them and sucked on my teeth. I really don’t wanna get involved right now.

  “These are some friends I made during orientation,” Paul continued smoothly, entirely missing the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating from the other side of the table. “Actually, we all went to Red Rocks. This is Jesse, he’s in the Non-Combatant track. And over here is Felicity and Ruben; they are on the Combatant track like us.”

  As Paul cheerfully rattled off our names, Felicity’s eyes bored a hole into the side of Paul's head. If looks could physically manifest, Paul would be bleeding out into his turkey wrap. Her gaze flicked frantically from Malika to the empty chair directly to my left—the chair currently draped in her own jacket.

  I didn't say a word. I just brought the Frappuccino straw back to my lips, slurping the violently sweet caramel as my head pounded.

  ‘Please say no.’ Is all I could think.