Fishy
609 Words
The bus groaned to a stop, same as yesterday. Same red brick fortress. Same knot in my stomach. One week into senior year, and Saint Michaels still felt like a poorly tailored uniform—itchy and ill-fitting. I’d perfected the art of blending into lockers, my green heart beating a silent protest against the crimson halls.
Renzo was already at our usual spot by the second-floor water fountain, clutching a matcha latte like it was a lifeline. “Anya! You won’t believe the gossip,” he hissed, eyes glittering with mischief. Before I could protest, he dragged me toward Room 214. “New transferee. Sta. Helena transferee. Senior year. Who does that?!”
The classroom buzzed like a kicked hornet’s nest. At the center: Lila Santos. Her Sta. Helena hoodie—forest green, frayed at the sleeves—stood out like a bruise against the sea of red blazers. Her posture screamed defiance, but her eyes… they held the same hollowed-out look I’d seen in my own mirror last year.
Why here?
Renzo leaned in, breath minty with latte. “Rumor mill says expulsion. Or maybe her parents hate her. Or—”
“Or she’s just lost,” I muttered, sliding into my seat. Lila didn’t glance up. We’d never been friends at Sta. Helena—she ran with the theater crowd, I’d been a library ghost—but seeing her here felt like finding a wilted four-leaf clover in a desert.
Mrs. Corolla swept in, her usual sternness undercut by the faintest smile. The class fell silent. “Before homeroom,” she announced, “we have a… surprise.”
The door creaked open.
Mr. Cedric Solis.
My pen slipped. Renzo choked on his latte.
Sta. Helena’s star debate coach—the man who’d led the Green Guardians to three straight national championships—stood in Saint Michaels’ doorway. His signature olive-green blazer was gone, replaced by a burgundy tie that made my throat tighten.
“Class,” Mrs. Corolla said, “meet your new Social Studies teacher.”
The room erupted.
“Traitor,” someone hissed.
Mr. Solis didn’t flinch. His gaze swept the room, lingering on Lila, then me. “Pleasure,” he said, voice smooth as poisoned honey. “We’ll be dissecting political rivalries this term. Starting with… institutional loyalty.”
Lila’s jaw tightened.
Lunch was a minefield. Renzo dissected theories like a true drama queen (“He’s a spy, Anya! A double agent!”), while I picked at my food, Sir Alfred’s Politics assignment burning a hole in my bag: “Analyze a conflict where loyalty became a liability.”
Sta. Helena vs. Saint Michaels. Teachers defecting. Friends turned ghosts.
I scribbled in the margins: When does green become red?
The bus ride home was a silent standoff. Mrs. Corolla sat two rows ahead, texting someone with that soft smile again. Lila sat rigid by the exit, green hoodie pulled tight.
As I stood to leave, Mr. Solis boarded—no briefcase, just a dog-eared copy of 1984. He took the seat beside Lila.
Their whispers chased me into the dusk:
“—couldn’t just leave you there—”
“—think they’ll figure it out?—”
The doors slammed shut.
That night, I stared at Sta. Helena’s faded pep rally photo on my wall. In the corner, a younger Lila grinned mid-cheer, green pom-poms blazing. Now her hoodie was frayed, her eyes empty.
Sir Alfred’s question pulsed louder.
Loyalty. Liability. Lies.
Somewhere, a puzzle was forming—teachers crossing battle lines, transferees with secrets, a rivalry thicker than blood.
And me?
Still stuck in red.
Still searching for green.
- Writer
