CHAPTER 17: BENEATH THE SURFACE
825 Words
Tuesday morning came with fog. Not the kind that draped the sky, but the kind that clouded your gut. I didn’t know why, but I woke up with the sense that something subtle was shifting. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline from the debate. Maybe it was how calm everything seemed afterward—too calm. Or maybe it was because Nate smiled at me.
We hadn’t talked much before. I’d seen him around, always flanked by people. He moved like someone who didn’t need permission to take up space. Sharp jawline, always slightly rumpled uniform, a chain he was probably warned not to wear but wore anyway. He had a confidence that floated.
And yet, that morning, after literature class, he slowed down beside me on our way out.
"Nice debate yesterday," he said casually, walking in step with me.
I glanced at him. "Thanks."
He smiled again, and it wasn’t like the teasing smirks most boys gave when they didn’t know what to do with a girl who wore cargo pants and stared back.
"Didn’t think you’d speak that well," he added, not unkindly. "You don’t talk. At all."
"Maybe I’m selective," I replied.
He let out a short laugh. "Selective is cool. Keeps people guessing."
I didn’t say anything else. I could feel the eyes around us—the curious ones, the judgmental ones, the envious ones. Nate was popular, though not like Eli. Nate had a different kind of pull. His kindness made me uneasy. People weren’t kind without reason. Grandpa had taught me that.
I slowed my steps. He didn’t insist on keeping pace.
"Catch you later, Ayoola," he said, tossing a wave.
My name sounded different from his mouth. Like it was being tested.
---
Later that day, after lunch, I passed by the back of the art block on my way to the library. The corridor was usually quiet. That’s why I liked it. But that afternoon, I heard voices. Sharp. Whispering. Laced with something dark.
"You think she knows she smells like powdered milk?"
"Probably thinks we’re her friends. Pathetic."
"She actually wore that again? She’s asking for it."
I slowed down and peeked through the small hallway leading toward the empty science room. Three girls stood there—well-dressed, all gloss and braids and manicures. Their body language was casual, but their words were razors. Between them stood a smaller girl, thin, clutching her books like they were protection.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. Just stood there, shrinking slowly under their words.
I didn’t interfere.
I walked past without a sound.
Maybe that made me a coward. But I’d learned long ago that stepping into battles you don’t understand can leave you with wounds you can’t explain.
I’d always assumed schools like this were immune to that kind of cruelty. That shiny uniforms and imported backpacks meant better manners. But these girls were polished predators. They didn’t need fists to make someone feel invisible.
I reached the library. And as I stepped into the cool air between tall bookshelves, a voice spoke from behind me.
"Do you think such things don’t happen here?"
I turned slightly. It was the girl who always slept in class. No one knew her name. She was always tucked into the back seat like a forgotten paragraph. Hoodies. Large glasses. Sometimes a novel halfway open on her lap. I’d never seen her speak to anyone before.
She stood at the end of the aisle, arms folded. Her voice was steady but low.
"Things aren’t always what they seem. Worse things occur."
Then, just as quickly, she turned and left. As if the message was only meant to be dropped off and not explained.
---
Back in class, I watched the sleeping girl as she slumped onto her desk again. She looked peaceful, but something about her words stayed with me. They echoed louder than the principal’s morning assembly speech. Louder than the classroom gossip. Louder than even Zainab’s laughter.
Worse things occur.
She had said it like a warning. Or a secret.
---
The next morning, after first period, I returned to my desk and found an envelope waiting for me. Plain. No name on the front. I opened it.
Inside was a cream-colored invitation card:
Dear Ayoola Davis,
You are cordially invited to join the School Literary & Debating Society. Your performance in the recent debate has drawn unanimous recommendation. We believe your voice is one the school should hear more often.
First meeting: Friday after school in the East Lecture Hall.
Signed,
Mrs. Bello (Coordinator)
Zainab peeked over my shoulder.
"Whoa. Fancy. You going?"
I nodded.
But deep down, I knew it was more than just a club meeting.
It was another stage. Another chance.
Another ring to step into.
And maybe this time, my words wouldn’t just defend—they’d uncover.
Because clearly, beneath all this polish, something darker thrived.
And I was finally beginning to see it.
- Writer
