The Puck and The President

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The sound of my phone ringing was an unwelcome interruption. It tore through the fragile bubble Liam and I had created in the main hall. He pulled back, the air between us suddenly thick with the unspoken. The moment, a millisecond away from becoming something, was gone.

“You should get that, Prez,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. He stepped back, a professional distance now between us.

I fumbled with my phone, my hands trembling slightly. The screen displayed my dad’s name. Guilt, sharp and sudden, pierced through the romantic haze I had been in. I was supposed to be home for dinner. I was supposed to be perfect.

"Hello?" I said, my voice barely a whisper.

My dad’s voice, a steady, kind rumble, filled my ear. “Nadine? Are you alright? You’re late.”

“I’m fine, Dad. Just… ran into a little trouble with the gala,” I said, and the lie tasted like ash in my mouth. "I'm on my way now."

"Don't worry about it, honey. Just be careful. We'll be waiting for you," he said. He had no idea. He had no idea what kind of trouble I was in.

I hung up, the silence a stark reminder of what had just happened. Liam was back at his soundboard, his hands busy with the wires, his back to me. He was giving me space, a kindness I didn't deserve.

“Family?” he asked, without turning around.

“Yeah,” I said, and a sudden, inexplicable anger flared up inside of me. “My dad. I have to go. My parents are probably worried sick.”

“Right,” he said, and his voice was completely devoid of emotion. “The perfect daughter. The perfect Prez. The perfect… everything.”

I flinched. The words were a slap in the face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He finally turned around, his face a mask of disappointment. "It means you're so worried about being perfect that you're missing out on everything else. You're so busy being a spreadsheet that you don't even know how to be a person."

The words stung, each one a perfectly aimed arrow. “You don’t know me,” I said, my voice trembling.

“Maybe not. But I know a prison when I see one,” he said, his eyes hard and cold. "And you, Prez, are in a prison of your own making."

He didn't say anything else. He just started packing up his equipment, his movements sharp and efficient. The casual, relaxed Liam from a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by a cold, distant stranger. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that my life wasn't a prison. That it was the life I had built for myself, the life I had always wanted. But the words wouldn't come. Because a small, terrified voice in the back of my head was whispering the truth: He was right.

I stood there, frozen, watching him pack up his life, his passion, his art. He didn't look at me once. He didn't say a single word. When he was done, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked past me, his shoulder brushing against mine. The contact was a jolt, a spark of electricity that didn't feel like a jolt anymore. It felt like a warning.

He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle. “Don’t be late for your next meeting, Prez,” he said, his voice a low, mocking whisper. “Your parents are counting on you.” And then he was gone.

I was left alone in the dark, empty hall, the silence more deafening than before. The music was gone. The magic was gone. And all that was left was the echo of his words and the sickening feeling that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I drove home on autopilot, my mind a blank canvas. I didn't even notice the rain. I didn't notice the cars passing me by. I didn't notice anything. All I could see was his face, the disappointment in his eyes, the coldness in his voice. I pulled into my driveway, the headlights of my car illuminating the front door. The house was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, empty hall I had just left.

I walked into the house, and the scent of my mother’s cooking filled my nose. My dad was sitting at the table, a book in his hand. My mother was humming a tune, stirring a pot on the stove. This was my life. This was my perfect, predictable life. And yet… it felt hollow. It felt like a performance. Like I was an actress in a play I was no longer interested in.

"Nadine! You're home! We were getting worried," my mom said, her voice full of warmth. She walked over and hugged me, the warmth of her body a stark contrast to the coldness of my heart.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just… had a long day," I said, a forced smile on my face.

"Don't worry, sweetie," she said, and she stroked my hair. "It's all going to be worth it in the end. All your hard work. You're going to get into that Ivy League school, and you're going to do great things."

I nodded, my heart heavy with the lie. I was going to do great things. I was going to be a perfect, predictable spreadsheet. And the thought, which had once filled me with a sense of purpose and a sense of pride, now filled me with a sense of dread.

I went to my room, the sanctuary of my perfect life. I changed into my pajamas, pulled my hair into a messy bun, and sat on my bed. I looked at the photos on my desk: me with my parents on my eighth birthday, my first-place trophy from the debate competition, my high school report card with a perfect 4.0 GPA. Everything was perfect. Everything was in order. So why did it feel so wrong?

I picked up my phone, my fingers hovering over his contact. "Liam Hayes." I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to explain. I wanted to go back in time and be the girl who had let him lean in. The girl who had told him, honestly, that she trusted him. But that girl was gone. Replaced by the perfect, predictable Nadine Leyva.

I put my phone down, the screen dark and empty. I knew what I had to do. I had to go back to my perfect life. I had to forget the soundboard and the music and the boy with the accent who had, for a moment, made me believe that a little bit of chaos was exactly what I needed. It was a dangerous thought. A reckless thought. A thought that didn’t belong in my perfect, predictable life. And I had to kill it. Before it killed me.