Chapter 2: The Name I Shouldn't Know

Math class was my personal version of purgatory. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a sound that felt designed to peel the enamel off my teeth, and the teacher, Ms. Albright, spoke in a monotonous drone about algorithms that seemed utterly pointless. I was supposed to be absorbing information, calculating variables, figuring out the how and why of numbers, but the only variable I could focus on was sitting two classrooms away, or maybe in the nurse’s office, or maybe he’d already melted into the linoleum.

Luchus.

The name was a curse word whispered in my own head. It rolled through my thoughts, deep and resonant, triggering a confusing throb behind my left eye. I didn't even realize I was chewing the inside of my cheek until the sharp, metallic taste of blood snapped me back to the present.

I grabbed my pen and stared at the worksheet. The problems swam before me, a messy spiral of quadratic equations, each one daring me to ignore it. Focus, Mina. This is how they get you. This is how your life becomes even worse. The mantra was rote, practiced. If I failed math, it wouldn't just be an "F." It would be Cara's disappointment—a quiet, heavy disappointment far worse than her yelling—and a fresh reason for some school administrator to question if I was a lost cause.

But the fear of failure, usually enough to glue my attention to the textbook, was fighting a losing battle against a memory that didn't exist.

Where did I know him?

I scanned my memory files. Every apartment, every school yard, every fleeting interaction in the ten years since my parents decided freedom was better than two kids. There was no Luchus. There was no dark-eyed, too-old-for-his-age boy who looked at me like I held the answer to a question I hadn't even heard yet.

It had to be a dream. A weird, anxious pre-school dream I'd finally managed to invent a face for. I felt the familiar burn of sarcasm rise to defend me. Great, Mina. Now you’re hallucinating mysterious, brooding boys in the hallway. Just what your therapist ordered.

I felt my gaze drift sideways, inexorably drawn to the empty chair in the far corner of the room. It was the chair I had seen him occupy in History, the class right before this one.

The chair was empty now. Utterly, disappointingly, reassuringly empty.

Of course he's not here. Stop being a creep.

A sudden, jarring bell shrieked, making half the class jump. Lunch. My stomach gave a pathetic, empty growl of agreement. I looked down at my worksheet. I had finished maybe three problems, all of them probably wrong.

I grimaced at the page, then at myself. The great observer, the sharp-witted critic who saw through everyone's pathetic facades, had spent an entire class period doing the psychological equivalent of giggling over a crush. I closed my textbook with a frustrated thud that was thankfully masked by the mass exodus of students.

Rule Number One, Mina: Don’t get distracted. Distraction leads to connection. Connection leads to pain. I pushed my chair back, trying to gather my books quickly so I wouldn't be caught in the main flow of human traffic.

The hall was a river of bodies. I tightened my grip on my backpack straps, head down, focusing on the ground like I always did. The feeling of eyes on me was instantaneous—not the focused stare of Luchus, but the generalized, prickly weight of judgment. They weren’t looking at me with hatred, just with the detached curiosity reserved for the new girl, the quiet girl, the girl who wore hand-me-down clothes and seemed desperate to disappear. Every glance felt like a question: Who are you? Why are you here?

I sped up, almost jogging to reach the less crowded side corridor. Almost there. Just keep moving. Don’t look up.

And then, disaster.

I wasn't looking, and someone else was walking too quickly, or maybe they just didn't care. We collided hard. My History book skittered across the floor, scattering a small cloud of pencil shavings.

“Watch where you’re going, freshman,” a voice drawled, slow and cold.

I immediately went into full-apology mode, dropping to grab my book. “Oh, I am so sorry! I wasn’t watching. I’ll just get out of your way—”

My hand froze on the textbook cover. She hadn’t moved. The girl standing over me was definitely a senior—tall, with perfectly straightened, expensive-looking blonde hair and an expression that blended boredom with entitlement. She didn't look angry; she looked like I was a tiny, inconvenient smudge she couldn’t be bothered to wipe off.

She finally met my eyes, and the boredom vanished, replaced by something sharp and predatory. She dropped her voice low, a dangerous, silken hiss that somehow cut through the hallway noise.

“Listen to me, new girl. You keep that lonely little head of yours down and out of sight. Got it?”

I nodded frantically, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes, I will. I promise. I'm sorry—"

She smirked, a vicious, practiced curl of her lip that made my blood run cold. She leaned closer, her eyes glittering with malice.

"Because Luchus? He’s mine. You understand? Mine. And anyone who even looks at him wrong is going to regret it for the rest of their sad, little life."

The breath slammed out of my lungs. Luchus. She knew his name. And she thought I was a threat. The sheer, terrifying absurdity of the situation—me, the ghost in the hallway, being threatened over a boy I didn't even know—made my whole body shake.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching my book. "I don't know who you're talking about," I lied weakly, my voice barely a squeak. "I haven't talked to anyone."

She just chuckled, a dry, confident sound. "Good. Keep it that way." Then she spun on her heel and walked off with the effortless swagger of someone who had never once had to apologize for anything.

I stayed rooted to the spot, trying to slow my ragged breathing. My anxiety wasn't a dull thrum anymore; it was a screaming siren. The name I shouldn’t know had just been weaponized by someone powerful. My desire for a predictable life felt hopelessly naïve.

The rest of the day was a blur of forced concentration and hyper-vigilance. My sarcasm vanished, replaced by sheer fear. Every time a door opened, I expected the senior to be standing there, ready to make good on her threat.

Finally, the 3:00 bell chimed. I packed my bag so quickly I almost ripped the zipper. I had to get out. I had to get home, where Cara's loud presence acted like a force field against the outside world.

I was the last student to leave the math classroom. The room was silent now, bathed in the sickly gold of the late-afternoon sun streaming through the windows. As I reached the door, I glanced down the now-empty hallway, half-expecting to see the senior, half-expecting to see no one.

But he was there.

Luchus was leaning against the wall at the very end of the corridor, near the exit doors. He hadn’t moved from the spot I’d seen him in during the morning. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his head was tilted slightly. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring blankly at the beige, institutional wall, a single, dark silhouette in the golden light.

I froze. Every muscle in my body screamed run. The senior’s cold threat echoed in my ears. I didn't want him. I didn't want the connection. I wanted my silence back.

I forced myself to breathe and start walking, keeping my head even lower than usual. I pretended I didn’t see him. I didn’t acknowledge him. I focused solely on the exit sign hovering above his head.

I got closer. I passed him. I could feel the cold stillness radiating off him, but he didn't twitch, didn't move his head. His gaze was still locked on the wall. He didn't see me. He didn't notice. Relief washed over me, a shaky, fragile thing.

But just as I stepped through the main doors and into the chaotic, normal noise of the street, a sliver of doubt pierced the relief. The feeling was overwhelming: heavy, dark, and utterly focused on me.

I didn't turn around. I didn't have to. I knew, with the same unsettling certainty I'd known his name, that even though his body was facing the wall, Luchus's eyes were following me.

I didn't slow down until I reached the cracked asphalt outside Cara's building, where the familiar, slightly chaotic environment of our small apartment offered the only true refuge. Cara wasn't home, of course. Her shift at the diner wouldn't end until close to midnight.

The emptiness of the apartment was a relief. I dropped my heavy backpack and went straight to the kitchen. My anxiety could be tamed with routine. I pulled out ingredients—pasta, sauce, a pathetic little head of iceberg lettuce we could barely afford—and started making dinner. The rhythmic sound of the water boiling and the knife chopping were a comforting distraction, a way to anchor myself back in the predictable world.

By 7:30 PM, I had a generous portion of pasta simmering, enough for a meal, plus leftovers. I ate slowly, watching a mindless show on my ancient laptop.

At 8:00 PM, I finally pulled out my phone and sent Cara a text.

Me (8:00 PM): Made pasta. Leftovers in the fridge for you. Don't worry about heating it up, just eat it.

Her response was instantaneous, always a good sign that she wasn't having a terrible night at work.

Cara (8:01 PM): 👍

That was it. That single thumbs-up was our entire conversation, our nightly check-in, the confirmation that the world was still spinning on its axis and we were both safe. I could finally breathe.

I washed the dishes, checked the locks, and crawled into my bed. The fear of the senior, the confusion of the name, the haunting image of Luchus—all of it felt distant, muted by the exhausting routine of the day. My mind resisted a little longer, replaying the dark intensity of his eyes, but eventually, the weight of the day won.

The noise of the street faded, the buzz of the fridge became a soft lullaby, and Mina finally, mercifully, drifted into a dreamless sleep.

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