Chapter 2: Torn to Shreds

As soon as Natalie walked in, every eye in the room locked on us. Phones came out, whispers buzzed behind textbooks—it felt like the whole world shrank to the patch of scuffed linoleum between my desk and her Nikes.

Natalie Brooks was everything I wasn’t—gorgeous, rich, top of every class. She rocked AirPods in class, rolled her eyes at teachers, and her Instagram got more likes in an hour than I’d see in a year. Her dad owned car dealerships, her mom was a law firm partner. Me? I was the kid at the bottom—never scoring above 800, biking to school in rain or shine, thrift store books in my bag, shoes falling apart at the seams.

If we didn’t go to the same school, we’d never even cross paths. Her world was all glitter and spotlights; mine was as gray as a November sky. But now, with her standing next to me, the whole class looked on, giddy with anticipation.

I pressed my lips together and kept quiet, eyes glued to my shoelaces. I’d learned in middle school that talking back only made things worse. Silence was the only armor I had left.

Her smile faded, eyes narrowing. She flicked her hair, scanning my faded hoodie and battered binder like I was something on the bottom of her shoe. "Caleb, has anyone ever told you—"

She leaned in, syrupy voice hiding the barbs underneath. "Maybe next time, check your own stats before you shoot your shot."

Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp as cut glass. She glanced at the math test on my desk—my name in awkward block letters, a big red 17 circled at the top. She smirked, then snatched the test from my hand and tore it in half with a sharp rip. The sound echoed through the room. My stomach twisted, but I kept my face blank. If I let her see me crack, that’s all anyone would remember.

She tossed the pieces aside, not caring where they landed, and finished, "If you like me, you’d better get over it. You really need to know your place."

For a heartbeat, the room was dead silent, the only sound the air conditioner humming. Then the class erupted in laughter. Some tried to hide it, others didn’t bother. I could feel my neck burning, but I refused to flinch.

I met her eyes, voice steady. "I don’t like you, and I didn’t take your hair tie."

Nobody believed me. The snickers got louder, and Natalie just rolled her eyes, barely dignifying me with a response before sweeping out of the room, skirt swirling, laughter trailing her into the hallway. The teacher came in a moment later, raising her eyebrows at the giggles but not asking questions.

I crouched down, picking up the torn test, smoothing it out before tucking it into a file folder with the rest of my battered scores. On the outside, I looked calm. Inside, my thoughts spun like a tornado, but I locked it all down. The SATs were coming. I wasn’t going to waste energy on queen bee drama.

After study hall, I stayed late, working quietly as the cleaning crew swept through the halls. No one understood why I worked so hard for such lousy scores. Teachers had asked if I needed help, if I was okay. I just shrugged, hoping they’d leave me alone.

At eleven, I finally packed up and headed into the cool night, cutting across the empty parking lot toward downtown. Instead of home, I went straight to the hospital. The brick building loomed over Main Street, neon signs buzzing, the city quiet except for the occasional bus rumbling by.

At the entrance, I took a deep breath and called out to the system in my mind. The automatic doors whooshed open, the air thick with lemon cleaner and burnt coffee. I pretended to read the vending machine menu, bracing myself.

Finally, the system answered, lazy as ever: "Host, what’s up?" If the system had a voice, it’d be a college dropout who’d seen too many late-night infomercials—bored, snarky, and a little too chill.

I rubbed my temples and asked how many more points it would take to cure Lillian. The system calculated, digital static humming in my head. After a pause, it said, "Almost done. As long as you score a bit lower on the next few exams, Lillian can be cured before the SATs." The relief was so sharp I nearly laughed. "Go get ‘em, champ," it added, like a sarcastic coach.

For the first time in days, I let my shoulders drop. As long as Lillian was okay, nothing else mattered. She’d been my only real friend since childhood, the one who stood up for me when everyone else turned away. She’d always had perfect grades until the accident that left her in a coma. Her parents tried everything, but nothing worked—until the system found me on my birthday, promising I could trade my test scores for her health.

At first, I thought it was a joke. But after I deliberately tanked a few exams, Lillian started getting better. Her mom brought flowers again. Her fingers twitched for the first time. That was all the proof I needed. I kept my scores under 800, no matter how easy the tests were. Teachers were baffled, classmates called me hopeless, but I didn’t care.

I clutched the hair tie tight as I entered Lillian’s room. The hallway was quiet except for machines beeping, the air tinged with old coffee and disinfectant. I left the hair tie by her bedside, next to her faded teddy bear. It was my birthday gift to her—blue, her favorite color, bought with babysitting money and raked leaves.

The system nudged me: "Host, you need to cure Lillian before the SATs." The countdown was real. On SAT day, the system would unbind, win or lose.

I brushed Lillian’s hair, whispering, "I will." I pressed my palm to hers, promising I’d see it through.