The Space Between

Replay

Sitting at this dinner table with mom's rice and beans getting cold because I keep picking at it while dad's talking about calling the school again. Mom's looking at this worksheet like it personally offended her ancestors. All I can think about is how Taylor's lips moved when he said my name and the way his friends laughed but not mean laughed, more like impressed laughs like damn this dude really just walked up to the weird girl. And now I'm the weird girl who got noticed by the hot guy.

Mom keeps saying, "Mija, just do the work," but I can see in her eyes she's furious they're treating me like I'm stupid. Dad's jaw is tight, the way it gets when he's trying not to cuss but really wants to call someone at that school and tell them off. I should be focused on how f****d up this whole situation is, but my brain keeps drifting back to those grey sweats and how good he smelled, even from across the room.

God, what if he talks to me again tomorrow? What if he doesn't? What if Starlet was right to look at him sideways? What if she wasn't, and I'm overthinking everything, like I always do? Now Mom's asking if I'm even listening, and I'm not. My brain is ping-ponging between righteous anger and teenage hormones, and I can't even—

Twenty minutes later, I'm locked in my room, that stupid worksheet abandoned on my desk. My phone's glowing in the dark and I'm three months deep into Taylor's i********:, heart hammering every time I almost double-tap something. His hair is rich chocolate brown, tousled like he just woke up. My chest goes tight at his smile—boy's got no business looking that cute.

Oh. I just looked at his story. He's gonna notice—I just know it. Most of his posts are football field shots and the activity center, but this one's captioned, "Practicing," with a wide shot of the turf. I screenshot his mirror selfie with his curls out. I leave i********: just long enough to set it as my wallpaper.

When I come back, I already have a message. From Taylor.

My heart literally skips.

"Whatchu doin on my page?"

Panic. My brain's throwing out a million bad responses at once. Nobody ever slides into my DMs—especially not a guy. I type, "Just looking," and hit send before I can second-guess it.

He starts typing immediately.

"Just looking? You like what you see?"

I'm lying on my bed, about to combust, my phone burning a hole through my hands. I type, delete, type again, delete again. Finally, I don't send anything.

Then:

"I take that as a yes."

I squirm and giggle into my pillow.

"So you do like what you see."

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those three little dots on my phone screen, the ones that meant Taylor Holloway was typing. And yeah, he'd stopped hours ago, but my brain didn't get the memo. I woke up twice in the middle of the night just to check my phone like an i***t.

I step sleepily off the bus and drag myself into Ms. Horse-face's room. She's not even here—just the girls' basketball coach, who's also a parapro. She's tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like one of the guys.

Taylor's leaning over Starlet's desk, way too close. She's staring up at him like he's something she found stuck to her shoe.

"Get your crusty-smelling self off my desk," she says, every word sharp.

Taylor jerks back, laughing—but it's not real. It's the kind of laugh that says you just hurt my ego. His friends laugh too, the big, echoing kind that fills a room.

"She said, 'get your crusty-smelling self off my desk,'" Taylor repeats like we didn't all just hear it the first time.

Taylor turns to me. "Oh, sup, Hazel?"

I lift a couple fingers in a lazy half-wave, force a pinched smile.

"I'm just tryna figure out what I did," he says, eyes sliding back to Starlet like she's holding the answer.

Starlet doesn't flinch. She just stares at him, all disgust and zero hesitation.

"You did nothing to me personally—yet."

When Taylor finally peels away from her desk, I lean in.

"Why don't you like him?" I ask.

"Because," Starlet says, glancing toward the other side of the room to make sure Taylor's not listening, "he's part of the most messed-up family in town."

"He could be different, for all you know," I say.

She shakes her head, posture stiff like she's bracing against bad weather. "No. He honestly, genuinely creeps me out. There are other guys here you could be talking to."

"Like who?" I ask, tilting my head, daring her to name one.

"Eli," she fires back.

"Eli from chem? No way. He'd never notice me."

"You don't know that," she says, shaking her head again. "He's nice, got a good head on his shoulders, and doesn't act creepy."

I nod like I'm agreeing, but my eyes flick back to Taylor without meaning to. He's leaning against the far wall now, one hand in his pocket, laughing at something his friend just said. There's nothing creepy about the way his smile crinkles at the corners—if anything, it makes me want to know exactly what Starlet thinks she sees that I don't.

Lunch hits and I'm scanning the cafeteria with my tray, looking for Starlet's usual spot. But then I see Taylor wave me over to his table, and my brain just... stops working. Next thing I know, I'm walking past Starlet's confused face toward a table full of football players who probably couldn't pick me out a lineup yesterday.

Starlet's watching me like I just signed my own death certificate, but Taylor's patting the empty seat next to him and suddenly nothing else matters. Not the warnings, not the "messed up family" talk, not even the way his friends are looking at me like I'm some exotic zoo animal they have never seen before.

"You wanna come chill at my place?" Taylor asks, like it's nothing, like asking me over doesn't feel like stepping into another universe. We're all sitting together—me, surrounded by a bunch of football players—and I swear my brain forgot how to function.

"Me and a couple of them are gonna chill and play some video games," he continues, eyes flicking toward his friends, "if you're cool with that."

I blink at him, heart hammering, and try to sound casual. "Sure," My voice comes out too soft, but at least I said it.

"Aight bet," I cringe when Taylor talks like that, it just comes off as fake. He doesn't have to talk like that, and none of the black guys that were over here bothered to say anything. So I push back my cringe and watch as Taylor and his friends exchange looks. Do they know something I don't?