Call me Gavin.
1503 Words
The drive home was silent, the hum of the engine mocking the static in my brain. By the time I reached my front door, the adrenaline from the gym had soured into a cold, heavy lump of guilt.
I sat on my bed, staring at my reflection. My eyeliner was smudged now—not because of Julian’s lie, but because I’d wiped sweat from my face after screaming at the only people who actually tolerated me. I thought of Chloe’s tear-filled eyes and felt sick. I was protecting a throne that felt more like an electric chair every day.
The Next Morning I tracked them down at the lockers before first period. Chloe was leaning against a locker, whispering to Brooke a flyer with a sharp tongue and a low tolerance for my moods.
"Hey," I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "About yesterday. I was... stressed. I shouldn't have pushed you guys that hard. I'm sorry."
The word sorry felt like a foreign object in my mouth.
Chloe looked at me, her expression softening just a fraction, but Brooke stepped forward, her arms crossed tight.
"Stressed?" Brooke spat, her voice vibrating with a quiet fury. "You weren't stressed, Vivian. You were a monster. My ankles are swollen because you made us repeat that stunt twenty times after we already nailed it. We’re not your punching bags just because you’re having a bad week."
"Brooke, I said I’m sorry," I repeated, the old Vivian rising up, ready to snap back.
"Keep it," Brooke said, grabbing Chloe’s arm. "Come on, Chloe. We’re going to be late."
Chloe gave me one last, pained look before Brooke pulled her away. I stood there, the Queen of nothing, watching my circle shrink in real-time.
Chemistry: The Cat and the Mouse
I dragged myself to Chemistry, a subject I found about as interesting as watching paint dry. I just needed to sit in the back, hide behind my hair, and survive the hour.
"Alright, class," Mr. Harrison announced, tapping a beaker with a glass rod. "New semester, new lab partners. I’ve pre-assigned them based on your current standings. We need a balance of... let's say, 'enthusiasm' and 'aptitude.'"
My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.
"Vivian Vance," Mr. Harrison called out. "You'll be at Station 4 with Julian Thorne."
The room seemed to shrink. Julian was already at the station, his black sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing a faint scar on his forearm. He didn't look up as I approached. He just set a clean beaker on the table.
I slid into the stool next to him, the scent of expensive perfume clashing with the sterile smell of the lab. I expected him to make a joke, to mock me for my "tide" metaphor, or to call out my rejection by the squad.
Instead, he pushed the lab manual toward me.
"You do the recording, I’ll do the mixing," he said, his voice level. "Unless you're afraid to get your hands dirty."
I looked at him—the 'mouse' who had dared to bite back. I was the 'cat,' used to pouncing, used to winning. But sitting here, with Brooke’s anger still ringing in my ears and his calm eyes boring into mine, I felt like the roles were blurring.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I whispered, grabbing the pen.
"Good," he said, finally looking at me. A small, knowing spark lit up his eyes. "Because this experiment gets messy if you don't keep a steady hand."
The smell of sulfur and ammonia filled the air as the lab buzzed with the sound of clinking glass. I gripped the pen so hard the plastic casing groaned. I was supposed to be recording the observations, but my eyes kept drifting to the way he handled the pipettes. He was steady. Methodical. He wasn't rushing to finish like everyone else; he was actually watching the liquid change.
"Add three drops of the catalyst," I commanded, my voice trying to find its old "Queen" resonance. "If you overdo it, the solution turns cloudy and we fail."
He didn't even look up. "It’s not a race, Vivian. If you add it too fast, the reaction becomes exothermic. It’ll get hot. Kind of like you at practice yesterday."
I froze. "What do you know about my practice?"
"The gym doors aren't soundproof," he said, finally turning to look at me. He held the dropper poised over the beaker. "I saw the girls leaving. Chloe looked like she’d just survived a car wreck. You really like making people feel small, don't you? It makes the world feel more... manageable?"
"You don't know anything," I hissed, leaning in. "I have standards. This school has standards. If they can't handle a little pressure, they don't belong on my mat."
"It wasn't 'pressure,' Vivian. It was a tantrum."
He turned back to the beaker and squeezed the dropper. But just as the first drop hit the liquid, I reached out to grab the lab manual—my sleeve caught the edge of the cooling rack.
CRACK.
The beaker didn't shatter, but it tipped. A bright, neon-blue solution splashed across the black soapstone table, sizzling slightly as it pooled toward Julian’s notebook.
"Dammit!" I gasped, jumping back to save my white designer blouse.
He didn't jump. Without a word, he grabbed a stack of paper towels and pinned the liquid down before it could reach his bag. But the blue stain was already eating into his notes—notes that looked like they had hours of work in them.
"I... I'll get the neutralizing base," I stammered, my heart racing. For the first time, I wasn't the one in control of the mess.
"Don't," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. He looked at the blue-stained paper, then up at me. My hands were shaking. Not 'strict' shaking—real, 'I'm-about-to-fall-apart' shaking.
He reached out, his hand hovering just an inch from mine on the table. He didn't touch me, but the warmth was there. "The world didn't end, Vivian. It's just a spill. Why are you so terrified of a little mess?"
Outside the lab window, I saw Brooke and a few other girls stop. They were staring, their heads huddled together, phones already out. The 'Queen' was sitting in a puddle of blue chemicals, being comforted by the 'Gutter Boy.'
What’s the next move?
I need to act fast,I didn't want anyone even Brooke to see my vulnerability.
The blue liquid was still sizzling on the table, but the air between us felt even more volatile. Instead of cleaning it up, I leaned back, crossing my arms and trying to reclaim the space. I needed him to be the mouse again. I needed to feel like the cat.
"Whatever, new kid," I snapped, rolling my eyes at the ruined notes. "It’s just paper. Buy another notebook with your lunch money. Now, get more of the base solution. And hurry up, new kid, we’re behind schedule."
He stopped moving. He didn't reach for the paper towels. He didn't move toward the supply cabinet. He just slowly straightened his back, his shoulders squaring under that black hoodie.
"Get moving," I prodded, my voice sharpening. "Did you hear me, new kid? I don't have all day to sit in the gutter with—"
"Gavin."
The word cut through my sentence like a blade. It wasn't shouted; it was heavy, low, and vibrating with a sudden, dangerous authority that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I blinked, taken aback. "What?"
He turned fully now, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He stepped into my personal space—the three-foot "royal" bubble no one at St. Jude’s dared to cross.
"My name is Gavin," he said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. "Not 'new kid.' Not 'Gutter Boy.' And definitely not whatever project you think you’re managing today."
I tried to let out a dry, condescending laugh, but it died in my throat. "Listen, you don't tell me—"
"I just did," Gavin interrupted, leaning down so his face was level with mine. "You spend so much time putting labels on everyone else so you don't have to look at the wreck you’re becoming. But you’re going to use my name. Say it."
I looked around the room. Brooke was watching through the glass, her jaw dropped. The entire lab had gone silent. The 'Queen' was being cornered at Station 4.
"Say it, Vivian," he challenged, his gaze not wavering for a second. "Unless the 'Queen' is too weak to handle a simple name."
What happens next?
- Writer
