Static
2841 Words
(Malik's POV)
The school bell hadn’t even rung yet, and I was already done with the day.
Some people wake up motivated. I wake up annoyed — the kind of annoyed that hums in your chest like static. Not the dramatic kind, just the everyday “don’t talk to me before caffeine” kind. Except I don’t even drink coffee. Too bitter. Too American.
Atlanta mornings always smell like heat — asphalt, engine fumes, ambition. Even when the sun’s still dragging itself up, the air’s thick enough to taste. Cleverly High gleams in the distance, big and smug, like it’s proud to ruin lives.
I lean against my car — beat-up navy blue, barely holding itself together but loyal. Hoodie up, earbuds in, eyes half-closed. I’m early. Don’t ask why. Habit, I guess. Or boredom.
Then Jemma shows up.
She’s got on a black hoodie two sizes too big, yellow Crocs, and hair in messy space buns that look like they’ve survived a war. She grins like chaos in human form.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“You look like you fought your alarm and lost,” I say.
She flips me off. “I did. It cheated.”
We both laugh — that tired, easy kind that means we’ve been doing this forever.
“Truancy twins back at it again?” she says, dropping her backpack beside mine.
“You skipping first period?”
“I’m skipping all of ’em.”
“Bold.”
“Efficient,” I correct. “Why waste time failing classes I’m already failing?”
She rolls her eyes. “Your mom’s gonna kill you.”
“My mom’s too busy working to notice.”
That one hangs there, quiet. Jemma looks at me for a second, then tosses me a pack of gum.
“Then I’ll notice for her.”
I grin, chewing a piece. “Appreciate the concern, counselor.”
She smirks. “Don’t make me regret it.”
---
We end up at the diner down the street from school — the one that smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and broken dreams. The cracked jukebox in the corner hasn’t worked since forever, but it’s part of the vibe.
Jemma orders pancakes the size of her face; I get fries because that’s all the cash in my pocket allows.
She scrolls through her phone, straw clinking against her cup. “So, rumor mill’s on fire again.”
“When isn’t it?”
She smirks. “You haven’t seen?”
“Should I care?”
“Probably not, but it’s entertaining.” She turns her phone around, showing me the photo — that grainy shot everyone’s been losing their minds over. Some teacher, some girl, faces half-hidden, drama full-blown.
“This what everyone’s panicking about?”
“Apparently. They think it’s one of the girls from school.”
“Which one this week?”
“Half say it’s Jayla. The other half think it’s that new chick—”
“Amara,” I say before I can stop myself.
Jemma’s grin spreads slow. “Ohhh. So you do know who she is.”
“I know everyone,” I lie, pretending to scroll.
“Sure you do.” She laughs. “Anyway, she’s trending again. Something about her and that principal’s son. Ethan? The one who looks like he moisturizes with confidence.”
I laugh despite myself. “You need hobbies.”
“This is my hobby,” she says proudly. “Gossip and diagnosing people’s bad decisions.”
I shake my head. “Y’all really got too much free time.”
She shrugs. “At Cleverly? Gossip is the economy.”
She’s not wrong. Cleverly High’s a rumor factory. You could sneeze and by lunchtime, someone would swear you were expelled for biological warfare.
Still, something about the photo bothers me — not what’s in it, but how easy it spreads.
---
When we leave, the air’s heavier. Atlanta heat doesn’t play fair. Jemma’s ahead, singing off-key to whatever song’s blasting from her phone.
I check my notifications — five missed calls from Mum, one from the landlord.
> Rent due. No extensions.
Perfect. Just what I needed.
I shove the phone back in my pocket. My jaw tightens.
Jemma glances over her shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You do that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘yeah but not really’ thing.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, sharper this time.
She holds her hands up. “Okay, chill. Just checking.”
We walk in silence for a while. She kicks pebbles; I count cracks in the pavement. Same rhythm, different thoughts.
“Wanna hit the park?” she says finally. “They got food trucks today.”
I shrug. “Yeah, why not.”
She grins. “See? You’re getting soft.”
“Shut up,” I say, but there’s a smile hiding behind it.
---
The park’s alive — music blasting, kids screaming, the smell of grilled meat everywhere. Someone’s dancing on roller skates; someone else is selling lemonade for five bucks a cup.
Jemma buys two and hands me one. “To freedom.”
“To bad decisions.”
We clink cups, sit on the grass, and let the noise fill the silence.
For a moment, it feels like life outside of Cleverly might actually exist.
Then she ruins it.
“So,” she says, casual but not really, “you and Amara, huh?”
I groan. “What about us?”
“You tell me. You been hangin’ out with her a lot lately. She cute, you trouble — it’s a story waiting to happen.”
“She’s just cool, alright? Chill to talk to. Not fake like most people.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Don’t ‘mmhmm’ me.”
She laughs. “Fine. Just saying, you act different around her. Like... less annoyed at the world.”
“She’s easy to be around,” I say quietly.
Jemma raises an eyebrow. “Exactly.”
We let that hang in the air. Wind rustles. Somewhere, a kid drops their ice cream and cries. Life moves on.
---
By the time I dropped Jemma off, the sun was sliding low, painting everything gold and fake-pretty. I should’ve gone home. Instead, I drove nowhere for a while — just me, the hum of the car, and the kind of silence that makes you start arguing with yourself.
The notifications wouldn’t stop. Mentions. Comments. Someone had even screenshotted my profile and circled my face like I was a suspect in a crime show.
> “That British guy always hanging with Amara.”
“He’s shady.”
“He probably leaked it.”
I laughed at first — the kind of laugh that’s mostly teeth.
Then I didn’t.
People love villains because it gives them someone to blame. And I’ve always looked the part: hoodie, accent, quiet face that doesn’t explain itself.
---
When I finally pulled up at Cleverly, it was near empty — just a few cars, some echoing basketballs, the faint buzz of streetlights warming up. I grabbed my bag and started toward the gym when I heard heels. Sharp, purposeful, expensive.
“Malik.”
I turned. Jayla Robinson — posture straight, edges sharper. Even her perfume smelled judgmental.
“Jayla,” I said. “Didn’t know we were speaking terms.”
“Cut it. I need to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Your Majesty.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you take that picture?”
“What picture?”
“The one everyone’s talking about.” She glanced around before lowering her voice. “The one of me and Mr. Carter.”
Ah. That photo. The one I’d seen a hundred times today and still didn’t care about — until now.
I raised an eyebrow. “You think I did?”
“I think you were acting weird when it came out.”
“How exactly does one ‘act weird’?”
“You were smirking in the hallway,” she said, eyes flaring. “Like you knew something.”
“That’s just my face, love. Comes with the accent.”
She folded her arms. “You think this is funny?”
“Not particularly. But it’s definitely ridiculous.”
Her jaw tightened. “My reputation’s on the line. My—”
“Your reputation?” I cut in. “You mean that thing built on everyone else’s approval?”
Her face went cold. “Excuse me?”
“I said what I said.” I stepped closer, voice lower now. “You walk through this school like you own air, and then when people start whispering, suddenly you’re human like the rest of us. Welcome.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“Don’t twist this,” she said after a pause. “I’m not like you.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I actually don’t care what they think.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to fight, but all that came out was, “You’re unbelievable.”
“Flattering.”
She looked away then — just for a heartbeat. That tiny c***k in her armor. “This isn’t some game, Malik. My life’s falling apart.”
For a second, I almost said sorry. Almost. But something in me stiffened — that same something that remembered unpaid rent, missed calls from Mum, and every teacher who’d looked at me like trouble before I even spoke.
“Then maybe stop blaming people who didn’t do it,” I said quietly. “I didn’t take your damn picture. Didn’t post it. Don’t even care enough to scroll.”
She searched my face for a lie and found none. It didn’t seem to help.
“Then why were you—”
“Because I smirk,” I interrupted. “Because I’m foreign. Because I don’t fit your neat little boxes. That’s why.”
Her stare flickered again — confusion this time. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else.
I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Look, you don’t gotta believe me. But stop hunting shadows. It’s not a good look.”
She didn’t move, didn’t speak. I started walking off — almost made it three steps before her voice caught me.
“Why would Amara even hang out with someone like you?”
That one stung more than I wanted it to.
I turned back slow. “Maybe because I don’t ask questions like that.”
For a second, neither of us breathed. Then I smiled — small, real, dangerous. “See you around, Robinson.”
She didn’t answer. Just stood there, nails digging into her phone like she could text her way out of the moment.
---
Outside, the sky had gone that deep orange, the kind that makes everything look temporary. My phone buzzed — Mum. I almost ignored it, then picked up.
“Malik, are you okay?”
Her voice came through warm but tired, the kind of tired that lives in bones.
“Yeah, Mum. Just… school stuff.”
“You sound stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Don’t lie to your mother.”
I smiled faintly. “You’re halfway across the world, you can’t even see me.”
“I can always hear it.” She sighed softly. “Promise me you’re staying out of trouble.”
“Define trouble.”
She laughed — a short, sad sound. “Don’t get clever.”
We talked a bit longer — about Dad's full time work, her night shifts, the rent she swore she’d send even though I told her not to. Then she said, “Malik, don’t let people here make you forget who you are. You fight smart. Always.”
“I always do.”
She hummed — not believing it, but letting me pretend. When the call ended, I sat there staring at my phone, thumb tracing the c***k across the screen.
Jayla’s words echoed. Someone like you.
The thing about growing up where I did — you hear that phrase early. Sometimes it’s a teacher. Sometimes it’s a cop. Sometimes it’s a pretty girl who doesn’t even realize she’s part of the choir.
But it always sounds the same.
Like a door closing.
---
That’s when I saw her — Amara, walking across the empty lot, sunlight turning her curls into gold wire. She waved like nothing heavy existed in the world.
“You look mad,” she called out.
“I don’t get mad. I get mildly inconvenienced.”
She smirked. “Sure.”
I motioned for her to sit. She did, sneakers dusted from the walk, eyes scanning the fading sky.
“You ever think people like us are one rumor away from disaster?” she asked quietly.
“Always,” I said.
“Then why do you look so calm about it?”
“Because I already know how it ends,” I said. “They talk, we survive. They move on, we don’t.”
She nudged me. “You’re way too poetic for someone who eats fries for breakfast.”
“I’m complex,” I said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled too.
We sat there a while longer, not saying much — just letting the quiet do the work. For once, it felt like peace wasn’t asking for anything.
---After Amara left, I stayed sitting on the bleachers. The air had cooled, but the noise in my head hadn’t.
Everything felt like static — buzzing, loud, too close.
My phone lit up again. New mentions. My name under another post.
> “Malik been too quiet lately.”
“Of course it’s him. Look at the way he acts.”
“British boy guilty af.”
I stared at it for a long second before turning the screen off.
I’d learned early that silence can look like guilt to people who can’t handle quiet.
But still, it burned.
I leaned back, watching the clouds fade into deep violet. The school lights flickered to life, buzzing like they were nervous too. Somewhere down the block, someone was blasting Rod Wave — heartbreak and 808s. Fitting.
This was the part nobody ever saw — the calm after the rumor, the weight of being misunderstood.
Not just today. Always.
---
By the time I got home, night had crawled in full. The apartment smelled faintly like leftover curry and rain through cracked windows. I dropped my bag, flicked on the light, and stood there for a minute, just breathing.
People said he couldn’t handle the pressure — bills, distance, life.
But what I remember most is that he was quiet too. The kind of quiet that eats you from the inside until you disappear.
That’s what scared me — not being hated, not being blamed.
Becoming that quiet.
---
Later, I went out to the fire escape with my headphones, the city stretching below like it was stitched from neon and bad decisions. I scrolled through my phone again, thumb hovering over Amara’s name.
For a second, I typed:
> Be careful who you trust.
Then I deleted it.
Some lessons had to hurt before they landed.
Instead, I opened my notes app and started typing something else. Not lyrics. Not a message. Just thoughts — the kind that don’t belong anywhere else.
> “They only talk about you when they think you can’t hear.
But I hear everything.
And I remember.”
I didn’t know why I wrote it down. Maybe because if I didn’t, it’d sit in my chest like a bruise.
I looked out over the street — the flicker of passing cars, the faint smell of rain coming. Somewhere far off, sirens wailed. It almost sounded like home.
---
That’s when my phone buzzed again.
A DM.
From an anonymous account.
> You think you’re innocent, huh?
I froze. The profile pic was blank. No name. No posts. Just one message waiting under the preview.
> Keep pretending. It’s only a matter of time.
For a second, everything around me went quiet — city, wind, even my own breath.
Then I laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course this is happening.”
I typed back —
> Who is this?
No reply. Just seen.
---
I sat there for a long while after, eyes on the skyline, the phone screen glowing against my palm.
Somewhere deep down, something told me this wasn’t random.
And if Jayla was right — if this really was connected to her —
then someone out there was playing a bigger game than any of us realized.
The problem?
They just picked the wrong person to mess with.
---
I put my hood up, slid my phone in my pocket, and looked at the city one last time.
The lights blinked like secrets.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
But tonight, I let the quiet win — just once.
Because in a place like Cleverly High, peace is the rarest rumor of all.
---
- Writer
