Don't Trust Leon
1324 Words
I stare at the text.
I am still wearing Leon's scarf.
Which suddenly feels like terrible evidence in a murder investigation.
Not that anyone has been murdered.
Yet.
Okay.
Amara.
Calm down.
I look at the message again.
Don't trust Leon.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type.
Who is this?
I send it.
Nothing.
I wait.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
One minute.
Still nothing.
“Great,” I whisper.
Anonymous people are so brave.
Especially when they don't have to put their names on anything.
I shove my phone into my bag.
Then I pull it back out.
Maybe they replied.
Nothing.
I hate my brain.
It has decided Leon Fischer is now a mystery novel.
I stand up.
Okay.
Enough.
I grab my books and leave the library.
The hallway is almost empty.
König Academy looks completely different when everyone has gone home.
Usually, the place is full of noise.
Students talking.
Doors slamming.
Someone always running because apparently being on time is optional.
Now it's quiet.
Too quiet.
I walk outside.
Berlin is cold.
I pull Leon's scarf tighter around my neck.
Then I immediately loosen it.
Why am I still wearing this?
Because I'm cold.
Obviously.
Not because it smells like his laundry detergent.
That would be weird.
I walk toward the train station.
My brain refuses to shut up.
What happened at his old school?
Maybe he got expelled.
Maybe he cheated.
Maybe he punched someone.
Maybe he secretly runs an underground empire.
I snort.
“Sure, Amara.”
Leon Fischer.
Criminal mastermind.
His evil plan probably involves color coded spreadsheets.
Then another thought hits me.
What if the person texting me is jealous?
Maybe they hate him.
Maybe they want me to hate him too.
Maybe Leon isn't dangerous at all.
Maybe someone just doesn't want him here.
I stop at the crossing.
The traffic light turns red.
I stare across the road.
There are a hundred possibilities.
I hate all of them.
My phone stays silent.
By the time I get home, I've convinced myself of exactly nothing.
Excellent.
Very productive evening.
I eat dinner, finish my history notes, and try not to think about Leon.
I fail.
Obviously.
I open my laptop.
Berlin Wall research.
I read the same sentence three times.
Nothing.
My eyes move to the scarf hanging over the back of my chair.
I point at it.
“You are the problem.”
The scarf remains silent.
Rude.
I finally go to bed.
I barely sleep.
By morning, I have reached one important conclusion.
I am absolutely going to return the scarf.
And I am absolutely going to act normal.
Easy.
I can do normal.
Probably.
König Academy is already buzzing when I arrive.
I spot Leon near the lockers.
Of course.
He is leaning against the wall, looking completely unbothered by life.
I walk toward him.
My heart does something stupid.
I ignore it.
“Here.”
I hold out the scarf.
He looks at it.
Then at me.
“You kept it.”
“I borrowed it.”
“You wore it home?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
He takes it.
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
He folds it once.
Perfectly.
Of course.
I watch him.
He looks up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring again.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I was looking at the scarf.”
“Why?”
“It's a very interesting scarf.”
He gives me a look.
I smile.
“Anyway. Thanks.”
He puts it into his bag.
Then he walks away.
I watch him go.
Something is definitely wrong.
Because yesterday, I was convinced he was just annoying.
Today, I am suspicious.
Those are very different things.
I find my best friend, Sofia, near the cafeteria.
She is eating an apple and scrolling through her phone.
I sit beside her.
“Question.”
She looks up.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It isn't.”
“You always say that before asking something dangerous.”
I ignore her.
“Do you know anything about Leon?”
She stops chewing.
“Leon?”
“Yes.”
“The new guy?”
“No, the old guy who has been haunting the school since 1974.”
She laughs.
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
Sofia gives me a look.
“You hate him.”
“I don't hate him.”
“You called him a human tax bill yesterday.”
“He deserved it.”
“And now you're curious?”
I take her apple.
She immediately takes it back.
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
“His old school.”
Her expression changes.
Only for a second.
But I notice.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sofia.”
She sighs.
“I heard he went to some private school in Hamburg.”
“That's all?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Amara, I don't exactly collect information on random boys.”
“He isn't random.”
She raises an eyebrow.
I realize how that sounded.
“I mean, he's my project partner.”
“Sure.”
“Don't make that face.”
“What face?”
“That face.”
She grins.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
She laughs.
I look around.
Leon is across the cafeteria.
Talking to another student.
He looks normal.
Too normal.
Then he turns.
Our eyes meet.
I look away immediately.
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Sofia follows my gaze.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You're definitely weird about him.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I just think he's suspicious.”
“Why?”
I lower my voice.
“Someone texted me last night.”
Her smile disappears.
“What?”
I pull out my phone.
I show her the messages.
Don't trust Leon.
I know what happened at his old school.
Sofia reads them twice.
“Who sent this?”
“Unknown number.”
“Did you reply?”
“Yes.”
“Did they answer?”
“No.”
She looks toward Leon.
“This is creepy.”
“Exactly.”
“Did Leon do something to you?”
“No.”
“Then why would someone say that?”
“I don't know.”
A voice comes from behind me.
“You're acting strange.”
I freeze.
Sofia's eyes widen.
I turn around.
Leon.
Standing there.
Of course.
Because apparently the universe enjoys humiliating me.
“I am not acting strange.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“You've been watching me all morning.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
For once.
Nothing.
Leon looks at Sofia.
Then back at me.
“What did you ask her?”
“Nothing.”
“Amara.”
I hate the way he says my name.
Not because it sounds bad.
Because it sounds serious.
“I asked about your old school.”
His expression changes.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“Why?”
I shrug.
“Curiosity.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is literally an answer.”
He steps closer.
Not too close.
Just enough to make me nervous.
Which is annoying.
Very annoying.
I cross my arms.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you're lying.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
I glare at him.
He looks completely calm.
I hate calm people.
Especially rich calm people.
He glances at my phone.
Then at me.
His voice drops.
“You got a text, didn't you?”
My stomach drops.
I stare at him.
He already knows.
The cafeteria suddenly feels too loud.
Too bright.
Too crowded.
And for the first time since yesterday, I wonder if I should have trusted the stranger after all.
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