Chapter 7: The SAT Hunger Games

In my previous life, I wasted too much energy on Rachel. My grades tanked, my dreams shrank to whatever space she’d allow.

The SATs are like the Hunger Games—everyone’s out for blood, and you can’t afford to slip. My mom always said, "Keep your eyes on your own paper, Eric."

I only got into a so-so state university. I could have done better. I knew it every time I looked at my acceptance letter and felt a pang of regret.

Now, with less than four months until the test, I’m determined to give it everything. Sticky notes cover my wall: "No regrets."

But Rachel always found me. She was a magnet—impossible to ignore, even when I tried.

Her presence drew attention. Heads turned as she walked down the hallway, underclassmen whispering behind their lockers.

Even the oversized blue school hoodie couldn’t hide her beauty—if anything, it made her look even more fresh-faced and charming. There was a brightness about her nobody else had.

My deskmate nudged me, winking. "She’s definitely here for you." He grinned like he’d just hit the jackpot.

Sure enough, Rachel handed me a paper bag. "My mom asked me to bring this for you—it’s a specialty she brought back from her trip."

I didn’t look up, still scribbling on my scratch paper. "Mm, just leave it there. Tell Mrs. Parker thanks for me."

Rachel didn’t budge. She tapped her foot, impatient.

I glanced up. She was frowning. "Eric, I carried it all the way here. Aren’t you going to thank me?"

I kept it short. "Thank you."

She glared, hesitated, then finally walked away, shoulders slumped.

My deskmate tried to talk sense into me. "Did you two have a fight? The golden girl’s making the first move—don’t be stubborn. Give her a chance."

I denied it. "It’s nothing."

Soon, word got to Jason that Rachel had come to see me. News traveled fast at our school—like living in a fishbowl.

After gym class, a basketball nailed the back of my head. My fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I could fight back.

I turned to see Jason glaring at me. "Let’s fight. If I win, you don’t go near Rachel again."

"Get your facts straight."

I didn’t want to waste time—I had studying to do. I checked my watch, then looked back at him.

He got angrier. "You think Rachel’s bothering you? Don’t think just because you grew up with her, she’ll ever like you. Look at yourself. Rachel would never fall for a loser like you."

‘Loser’ is a serious insult to any guy—especially to me, who’s actually a grown man inside. My fists balled up at my sides.

Jason punched me, taunting, "Loser. Come on."

My glasses flew off, vision blurring. For a second, the gym lights spun above me like carnival rides.

Jason’s punches were wild, but I wasn’t weak. I remembered every taekwondo lesson my mom made me take.

We circled each other, sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor. We traded blows, neither gaining the upper hand. Someone yelled, "Fight, fight, fight!" and a crowd gathered.

Rachel screamed and rushed over to slap me. Her voice cut through the noise like a siren.

My cheek stung. The world went silent for a moment.

It was the first time anyone had ever slapped me.

Rachel used all her strength—her palm was red, her arm trembling. She looked furious, but also scared.

She yelled, "Eric, are you crazy? Why are you bullying Jason?"

The hatred in her eyes could cut me to pieces. I felt smaller than ever.

Jason got a completely different treatment.

Rachel gently helped him up, face full of concern. She brushed his hair from his forehead, her touch soft.

She stood on tiptoe, softly blowing on his face. The other kids started to snicker, making kissing noises.

I had to admit, they looked good together—a beautiful couple. Anyone watching would say so. It was like a scene out of a teen rom-com.

Rachel anxiously asked, "Does it hurt?"

Jason replied, "I’m used to it."

Rachel looked even sorrier for him. I saw tears in her eyes.

To vent for Jason, she ground her heel into the lenses, glass crunching beneath her sneakers. The sound was louder than the kids jeering around us.

Those glasses were a gift from Rachel. When she was sixteen, she won a violin competition and used the prize money to buy them for me. Her mom said she’d picked them out so carefully, guessing which kind I’d like and what would suit me.

"That little girl never put that much thought into picking gifts for me or her dad."

Rachel would blush and protest, "Mom, stop it."

Back then, I treasured everything she gave me. Even a scribbled Post-It from her felt like gold.

In my previous life, I kept those glasses, planning to tell our future kid the story of our love.

Looking back now, it’s just laughable. All that meaning shattered in one stomp.

Rachel pointed at me and cursed, "Eric, you little bastard. A heartless monster."

"I’m telling you, we’re done. We’re not friends anymore."

Strangely, I didn’t feel sad—just annoyed. Mostly, I wanted to get back to my homework.

I stood up, brushed myself off. "Those glasses were from you, so it’s fine you broke them. I’ll let that slap go—I don’t hit girls. But if there’s a next time, I won’t be so forgiving."

"Tell your Jason to stay away from me. I’m busy—I don’t have time for your coming-of-age drama."

Jason’s a lost cause. Only Rachel is naive enough to think she can save him senior year.

If she wants to play savior, fine—it’s not my business. I picked up my backpack and walked out, the crowd parting for me.