Enchanted To Hate Him

Find The Girl

I stare at my phone.

You found the school. Now find the girl.

I think Leon knows where she is.

My brain stops working.

Completely.

Nothing.

Not even one sarcastic thought.

That is how I know this is serious.

“Amara?”

I don't answer.

“Amara.”

I blink.

Sofia is standing in front of me.

“What?”

“You've been staring at your phone for like a full minute.”

I hand it to her.

She reads the message.

Her face changes.

“What the hell?”

“Yeah.”

She reads it again.

Then again.

“This is getting too much.”

“I know.”

“First, don't trust Leon. Then someone got hurt. Now there's a girl?”

“Apparently.”

Sofia looks around the hallway.

“Who is this person?”

“I don't know.”

“Do they know you?”

“I don't know.”

“Do they know Leon?”

“I think so.”

She lowers the phone.

“Amara.”

“What?”

“This isn't funny anymore.”

“I know.”

The bell rings.

Neither of us moves.

Students push past us.

Someone bumps my shoulder.

I barely notice.

Sofia looks at me.

“Tell Leon.”

I immediately shake my head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he already knows I searched his school.”

“So?”

“So imagine walking up to him and saying, ‘Hi, I got another anonymous message saying you know where some mysterious girl is.’”

She thinks about it.

“Okay.”

“Exactly.”

“You would sound insane.”

“Thank you.”

“But you might still need to tell him.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“When I know what I'm talking about.”

Sofia sighs.

“Promise me you're not going to investigate this alone.”

I give her a look.

She gives me one back.

I look away.

“Fine.”

“Amara.”

“Fine. I'll be careful.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

“It's the best you're getting.”

She groans.

I put my phone away.

One thing is certain.

I'm not telling Leon.

Not yet.

Because if he really knows where this girl is, I need to figure out why first.

After school, I go to the library.

Again.

Because apparently this is my second home now.

Leon is already there.

Of course.

He's sitting at the same table, laptop open, books arranged neatly beside him.

I sit down.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Silence.

I open my notebook.

The page is a mess.

Dates.

Names.

Arrows.

Half-finished sentences.

A coffee stain.

My handwriting looks like it has been through emotional trauma.

Leon looks at it.

“You're getting worse.”

I look at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Your notes.”

“Oh.”

I glance down.

“I'm experimenting.”

“With what?”

“Chaos.”

“You're succeeding.”

I almost laugh.

Almost.

Then I remember the message.

Find the girl.

I stare at the page.

Leon notices.

“You're quiet.”

“I can be quiet.”

“You're usually not.”

“People change.”

He watches me for a second.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

He doesn't look convinced.

“I said yes.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you staring?”

“Because you're lying.”

I close my notebook.

“Can we just do the project?”

He nods.

“Fine.”

We work.

For about seven minutes.

Then I realize I've written the same sentence three times.

The Berlin Wall divided Berlin.

The Berlin Wall divided Berlin.

The Berlin Wall divided Berlin.

I stare at it.

Brilliant.

A historian.

A scholar.

A genius.

Leon reaches over and turns my notebook toward himself.

“You're stuck.”

“No.”

“You wrote the same sentence three times.”

“It was important.”

“You wrote it three times.”

“Very important.”

He takes my pen.

I immediately look at him.

“What are you doing?”

He crosses out two of the sentences.

Then writes a short heading.

Daily Life in Divided Berlin.

He pushes the notebook back.

“Start there.”

I look at the page.

His handwriting is ridiculously neat.

I hate it.

“Why do you keep fixing my notes?”

“Because they're painful.”

“They have feelings.”

“They're paper.”

“You don't know that.”

He looks at me.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiles.

A real one.

Small.

But real.

My brain forgets how to function for approximately three seconds.

I look down.

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

“Why?”

“It makes you look less annoying.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“That's the goal.”

I bite back a smile.

“Don't get excited.”

We go back to work.

For a while, it's almost normal.

No mystery.

No anonymous messages.

No Hamburg.

Just two people working on a history project.

I catch myself enjoying it.

That worries me.

Because I still don't trust him.

But I don't think I hate him anymore either.

And that might be worse.

We finish another section.

Leon closes his laptop.

“Tomorrow?”

I nod.

“Tomorrow.”

He stands.

Then looks at me.

“Amara.”

“Yeah?”

“If something is bothering you, tell me.”

My fingers tighten around my pen.

The girl flashes through my mind.

The messages.

The school.

His face when I mentioned the incident.

I force a smile.

“Nothing's bothering me.”

He studies me.

“Okay.”

He doesn't believe me.

I know he doesn't.

But he lets it go.

When I get home, I drop my bag on the floor.

I don't even change.

I open my laptop.

I know what I promised Sofia.

I know what I told myself.

Don't investigate alone.

I type anyway.

International School Hamburg girl incident

Enter.

The results load.

Most are useless.

School events.

Old sports pages.

Student newsletters.

Then I see something.

A cached school newspaper.

My heart jumps.

I click.

The page loads.

There is a photograph.

A group of students standing outside the school.

The image is old and slightly blurry.

I zoom in.

One girl is standing near the edge.

Dark hair.

School uniform.

A small smile.

I scroll down.

There is a caption.

My eyes move across the words.

Student representatives, Spring Term.

Then I see a name.

Lena.

I stop.

Lena.

Could that be her?

I scroll further.

Nothing.

No surname.

No explanation.

Just Lena.

Then my phone buzzes.

I freeze.

Unknown number.

A photo.

I open it.

It's the same girl.

Lena.

But this isn't a school photograph.

She's standing outside a building.

And written underneath the picture are four words.

“Ask Leon what he did.”

I stare at the screen.

My heart pounds.

Because now I know the girl's name.

And whoever is texting me knows exactly what I'm doing.