Hidden Love

LUNA “Ms. Lenning?… Ms. Lenning—MS. LENNING!” I jolt awake as something collides sharply with my ankle. For a second, I don’t know where I am. I imagine falling off a cliff, or maybe getting murdered in my sleep by some monstrous physics equation. Then pain hits, and I realize the monster is real—just named Mal. “Ow! What was that for, Mal?!” I hiss, rubbing my ankle like the dramatic victim I suddenly decide I am. “If you had done that in class, you wouldn’t be given as much leniency as I’m willing to give,” he says with a devilish smirk that makes me want to kick him back, except he probably has already anticipated that move and planned eighteen counters. He’s that kind of person. I roll my eyes, though I’m privately acknowledging that he’s right. He’s always right. Unfortunately. This is my friend, Mal. Though sometimes “friend” feels too generous a title, because I am actively annoyed with him about 50% of the time we exist in the same space. But he is, embarrassingly, the only friend I have here. And I keep him around, partly because I have no one else, and partly because I probably would die academically without him. Today, he’s tutoring me for three massive tests we have in two days. Three. Not one. Not two. Three. That’s just sadistic scheduling. And ever since we met—him bumping into me during lunch on my first day, both of us awkwardly mumbling apologies before running away like feral squirrels—he’s been the smart one. Not just a smart one. The smart one. Top of every class. Grades so pristine they probably have angelic choir accompaniment. Social life optional, according to rumor, yet I’ve never seen him socialize with anyone but me. And I? I fell asleep while he was explaining physics. Because physics is basically a demon language written to torment mortals, and I refuse to be its victim. “Luna, if you don’t pay attention, you will fail. You know you have to get these equations down,” he says, tapping the textbook with the authoritative confidence of someone who believes the world is saved through math. “I know, but it’s so hard! How do you memorize all this crap? Are you a super genius or something? Do you have, like, a photographic memory?” I groan. He chuckles, pushing his glasses up so they sit perfectly on his nose, hiding the spark in his hazely-golden eyes. Yes, hazely-golden. I don’t know why I care enough to register that. “If I can study every night and ace these tests, you can too. At least I don’t fall asleep during my lessons.” He shoots me a pointed look, and I pretend to be fascinated by my own cuticles to avoid eye contact. He kicks me again. “Ow!” I bark louder than intended. A vicious “shhh” erupts behind me. The librarian narrows her eyes at me like I’ve committed war crimes. I shrink back, imagining her casting some kind of anti-noise hex. I hear Mal snickering, that traitorous sound of someone enjoying my suffering. I glare at him until he stops—but he’s still grinning like he swallowed sunshine. I sigh, accepting that I’ll get him back later. Revenge is a dish best served petty. I glance down at my watch. 4:15. “Well, looks like it’s 4:15. Ready to head out?” “Luna, you slept through half of our tutoring session. Do you really think you’re gonna do well?” “That doesn’t matter. You know my parents need me home at 5:15 exactly. If they head out tonight, I’ll let you know, and we’ll study more then.” This is our ritual: when my parents go on their “date nights,” Mal sneaks into my house, and we study. Or pretend to. Mostly, we stress, snack, and stare out the window every thirty seconds like paranoid raccoons. But honestly? I don’t care how ineffective it is—time with him is the highlight of my day. Plus, my parents are super protective. Like, hovercraft protective. Like, CIA-level surveillance protective. We race out of the library and head to his beat-up pickup truck, which feels like the mascot of small-town living. Rusted, loud, stubborn, loyal. I secretly love it. We start counting out-of-state license plates, our weird game. I win with a triumphant seven. He gets two. Victory tastes sweet. Like chocolate. Or pettiness. By the time we step into the café, I’m already enveloped in the heavenly smell of their hot chocolate. “Mmmmmmmmm.” He snorts. “Does someone need some alone time with the hot chocolate maker?” “Absolutely. If I had their secret recipe, I’d never leave home without it. The only things better than this smell are the forest and my lead in our competition,” I gloat. We don’t get menus anymore; we are part of the furniture. Janet drops off a hot chocolate for me and a black coffee for Mal. I don’t understand how someone drinks coffee at 4 p.m. and isn’t shaking like a chihuahua. “I still don’t know why you get coffee in the evening. How do you sleep?” “Who says I sleep?” he says, winking. I roll my eyes. “Of course. Your line of whores.” He flinches, subtle but real. I instantly regret it. He’s gorgeous—objectively. Muscles hidden under hoodies, warm eyes, olive skin. Girls constantly flirt with him, helplessly drawn in like moths to a very awkward flame. He never flirts back. I make jokes about it, but… it might actually bother him. So I pivot. “Speaking of, what do you think about the school dance coming up? You’ve had, what, four girls ask you this week?” He grimaces. “Not my style. I’d only go if I had a reason.” “It’s senior year homecoming, Mal. Why not? Try new things.” “When there are people I don’t like and things I don’t like, it’s not my forte. But I think you’d have more fun hanging with me, watching movies.” “You know I’ve never been able to enjoy stuff like this. Why would I stay in?” “Because it would be with me.” Wink. Always the wink. I want him to go. Badly. Because if I show up alone, I’ll feel pathetic. And if I don’t go, I’ll regret it until I die at 90 years old with seventeen cats. “What can I do to make you go?” I blurt. Oh no. Mouth. What have you done? Abort mission. Abort. But it's too late; blush rising, dignity fleeing. He stares at his coffee. Actually flustered. Did I just break him? “What can I do to get you to go to homecoming?” I reassert. Too late to back off now. Silence. Heavy enough to build a house on. Janet drops off pastries. He doesn’t look up. I try to thank her, but she’s already gone. People never stick around long enough to talk to me here. Maybe I radiate “emotionally fragile raccoon.” “If…” he begins. “If what?” I whisper, weirdly hopeful. “If you ask me. In a very original way. And you glam up.” He looks away. “And let me meet your parents.” Cue emotional nosedive. My stomach twists, tight and cold. He knows family is sensitive. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know about my routines, my schedules, the rules carved into my bones. No visitors. Ever. And I’m so close to graduating. I can’t risk anything. Janet returns with the bill. I’ve barely eaten. Mal’s pastry is gone. He saw my reaction. He grabs the bill before I can. “Is Janet okay today?” I ask. Distraction: activated. He sighs. “I rejected her... homecoming proposal. She’s upset.” I gasp. “Mal! Was she number five?” “Nine.” “Mal! That many? No wonder you don’t want to go.” I wink. “They don’t understand you need to feel in control.” He smirks. “You know I only do things because you bat your big doe eyes at me. How can I resist someone so sad?” I kick him. We both laugh. Crisis averted. We sit in a peaceful lull. He stares out the window, drifting somewhere inside his brain. He does that sometimes—disappears. I take the moment to study him. And think: I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to move again. I don’t want to lose this. I pack my muffin carefully, folding the box corners with surgical precision. OCD: activated. Comfort ritual. I check my watch. “Mal, it’s 5:00. We gotta go.” He pops back up. “Yep! Let’s go.” We hurry to the truck and drive toward home—well, toward a few blocks away. I don’t let him see the house in daylight. It’s too run-down, too obvious, too revealing. If my father saw me get dropped off by a boy… I don’t even want to imagine the fallout. Historically speaking, every time I make a friend, fate moves us like chess pieces. New town. New school. New life. Again and again. He pulls up to my drop-off point. “Hey,” he says softly. “You don’t have to have me meet your parents. Families can be embarrassing. Just ask me properly and dress up. Then I’m all yours.” I smirk. “Careful. That sounds like a promise.” He scrunches his nose. “It might be.” I hop out of the truck, heart weirdly buoyant and heavy at the same time. He winks and drives off. I stand there, watching the taillights fade. I’m grateful. I’m terrified. I’m not sure which feeling will win. But I hope—God, I hope—these moments last.