The Boy Who Broke The Rules

Chapter 11 - Kennedy - Between The Lines

“Sometimes being understood begins with someone caring enough to enter the world you love.”



My phone vibrates at exactly 10:46 p.m.

I know the time because I have spent the last ten minutes staring at the clock instead of working on my sociology presentation.

Not because I am waiting for anyone to text me.

At least, that is what I tell myself until Levi’s name appears on my screen.

Levi: I have a serious question.

I sit up against my headboard.

Me: That sounds dangerous.

His response arrives immediately.

Levi: Why does Ponyboy keep saying he doesn’t care what people think when he clearly cares about everything?

A smile spreads across my face.

He is not skimming the book. He is actually thinking about it.

Me: Because admitting people can hurt you means admitting they matter.

The typing bubbles disappear, then return.

Levi: That was suspiciously deep for almost eleven at night.

Me: Books don’t follow business hours.

A picture appears seconds later. The Outsiders rests open beside his calculator and football playbook. One of my handmade bookmarks sits carefully between the pages.

Not a folded corner in sight.

Me: I see you’re using a bookmark.

Levi: I learn from my mistakes.

Me: Character development. I’m proud.

Across my room, Imani lowers her phone.

“Who are you smiling at?”

“No one.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You usually look disappointed when no one texts you.”

I lock my screen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Was it Levi?”

“No.”

My phone vibrates again.

Imani dives across my bed and snatches it before I can stop her.

“Imani!”

She holds it out of reach and reads Levi’s latest message.

“‘Do you always understand fictional people this well?’”

She looks at me slowly.

“That isn’t romantic,” I say.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I’m always thinking.”

“That’s debatable.”

She hands my phone back but continues watching me.

“You two talk about books now?”

“He’s reading one I recommended.”

“Mhm.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means ‘mhm.’”

“No. It means you’re being annoying without making an actual accusation.”

Imani smiles. “Your face is making the accusation for me.”

I throw a pillow at her.

The next morning, Professor Whitmore writes an equation across the board that looks less like calculus and more like a personal attack.

A groan moves through the lecture hall.

Levi sits two rows ahead of me beside Noah. He studies the problem instead of making jokes, which is already progress.

Professor Whitmore walks between the desks before stopping beside him.

“Mr. Bowman, would you solve this one?”

Levi looks up. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not particularly.”

A few students laugh as he walks to the board.

For a moment, he stares at the equation without moving.

Then he begins.

One step.

Another.

Halfway through, he glances toward me.

It happens quickly, but I see the uncertainty in his eyes.

I nod once.

You know this.

His shoulders relax.

He completes the problem and steps away.

Professor Whitmore examines his work.

“Correct.”

Levi blinks. “Seriously?”

“Try not to sound so surprised.”

The class laughs, but he is smiling when he returns to his seat.

Before sitting down, he looks back at me.

I lift both thumbs.

He shakes his head, laughing softly.

The pride warming my chest surprises me.

I tutor people because I love watching confusion become confidence. This should feel no different.

But it does.

Maybe because I know how hard he has worked.

Or maybe because his first instinct after succeeding was to look for me.

I push that thought away.

It is too early for emotional complications.

After class, Levi catches up with me outside.

“I got it right.”

“I noticed.”

“Without help.”

“I noticed that too.”

He walks backward in front of me, grinning. “You don’t seem impressed.”

“I’m trying to keep you humble.”

“Impossible.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

He turns around before walking into a bench.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“The library.”

His smile weakens. “Voluntarily?”

I stop. “Levi.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was creating comedic tension.”

“You were afraid.”

He looks toward the library as though I have invited him into a haunted house.

“You’re serious about going in?”

“You survived The Hunger Games. You can survive a library.”

“That book had fewer rules.”

I laugh and lead him inside.

The familiar smell of paper, coffee, and polished wood immediately calms me. Students sit beneath warm lights, surrounded by open laptops and stacks of books.

I show Levi the research desk, study rooms, and the quiet corner I use when campus becomes overwhelming.

My favorite chair sits beside a tall window overlooking the courtyard.

“This is your place,” Levi says.

“How do you know?”

“You look different.”

“Different how?”

He considers his answer.

“Less like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.”

The honesty catches me off guard.

Most people would say I look relaxed.

Levi notices why.

“I come here when I need everything to be quiet,” I admit.

He nods. “Like football.”

“Exactly.”

He sits across from me and pulls The Outsiders from his backpack.

“You brought it?”

“I only have twenty pages left.”

“You can finish it here.”

He looks around. “Am I allowed?”

“No. Security removes anyone caught reading.”

“I knew there were rules.”

For the next thirty minutes, we sit in comfortable silence.

I work on my sociology notes while Levi reads.

Every few pages, he frowns or shakes his head. At one point, he mutters, “That was a terrible decision.”

I glance over my notebook. “Are you talking to the characters?”

“I’m offering constructive criticism.”

I smile. “Of course.”

He returns to the book without embarrassment.

He never judged me for talking to fictional characters. He simply asked for the backstory.

Now he is joining me.

Maybe being understood is not about someone knowing everything about you.

Maybe it is having someone step into your world and decide to stay awhile.

That afternoon, Imani convinces me to stop by football practice because Jonah left his wallet in her car.

“He could come get it,” I say as we approach the field.

“He could,” she agrees. “But then I wouldn’t get to watch him run around in football pants.”

I stare at her.

“What? I believe in honesty.”

Practice is already underway. We wait near the bleachers while Coach Johnson directs the offense through drills.

Levi stands on the sideline between plays.

At first, I assume he is studying his playbook.

Then I recognize the blue cover in his hands.

The Outsiders.

He is reading during football practice.

Not because I asked him to.

Not because he knows I am watching.

Because he wants to finish it.

A smile pulls at my mouth.

Imani follows my gaze.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not a nothing ‘oh.’”

“I just think it’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“That you know exactly what book he’s reading from this far away.”

“He has twenty pages left.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You know how many pages he has left?”

“He told me.”

“Mhm.”

“You need a new sound.”

“Mhm works.”

Coach blows his whistle, and Levi closes the book.

He looks toward the bleachers and spots me.

His face brightens.

He lifts the novel and points toward the final pages.

Almost done.

I give him a thumbs-up.

For one brief second, the rest of the field fades.

Then Noah calls his name, and Levi turns back toward practice.

Imani looks at me.

I refuse to meet her eyes.

“Mhm,” she says again.

I hate that sound.

That night, I return The Hunger Games to its place on my shelf.

Levi’s yellow sticky note still rests inside the front cover.

Peeta deserved better. You can’t change my mind. —Levi

I peel it from the page.

For a moment, I consider throwing it away.

It is only a joke written on a small piece of paper.

Instead, I smooth the wrinkled edge and place it back inside the book.

Carefully.

I tell myself I am saving the conversation, not the person who started it. But as I slide the novel onto the shelf, I am beginning to wonder whether there is still a difference.