Category: High School Life Page 5 of 6

The cafeteria was loud as always, but I’d found a table off to the side where the noise was more of a dull hum than an assault. Salisbury steak again — not great, not terrible. I was halfway through it when Gabriel slid into the seat across from me, tray in hand, his eyes locked on me like he’d been waiting for this.

“You got a second?” he asked.

I chewed, swallowed, and gave a slow nod. “Sure. What’s up?”

“That pencil thing.” He leaned forward a little. “You’re not gonna tell me that was normal.”

“It was just reflexes,” I said evenly, stabbing a bite of mashed potatoes.

His eyes narrowed like he didn’t buy a word of it. “Uh-huh. Mind if I try something?”

“Depends,” I said, a faint edge of amusement creeping into my voice. “You gonna throw something at my head?”

“Not your head.”

Before I could respond, he palmed the unopened carton of milk from his tray, flicked it up into the air, and sent it spinning directly toward my face with a quick, sharp toss. He’d done it point-blank, no warning, no chance to see it coming — for anyone else, anyway.

My hand snapped up, catching it mid-spin without even looking at it. The whole move was so smooth I didn’t spill a drop. I set it down gently beside my tray.

A couple of kids at nearby tables had turned to look, but Gabriel didn’t even notice them. He was staring at me, his blue eyes lit with something between shock and fascination.

“No way,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen fast. That’s not fast. That’s…” He shook his head. “I don’t even know what that is.”

I kept my expression neutral. “Good hand-eye coordination.”

He smirked faintly. “Sure. And I’m the King of England.”

I took another bite of Salisbury steak like the whole thing had never happened. “If you say so.”

For the rest of lunch, he didn’t bring it up again — but every time our eyes met, I could see it there in his head, turning over like a puzzle he couldn’t leave alone.

Algebra was one of those classes that never failed to test my patience. I could memorize formulas, sure. I could even explain them back if I had to. But applying them? That was where my brain started chewing its own leg off. The numbers didn’t click into place the way words or instincts did.

Today was worse than usual. Mr. O’Leary had given us an in-class assignment: a set of quadratic equations that seemed deliberately designed to piss me off. My pencil tapped against the paper in an uneven rhythm, my handwriting getting messier with every line. The wolf in me didn’t like the idea of being beaten by… symbols.

“You look like you’re about to eat the worksheet,” Gabriel said, sliding into the empty chair next to mine.

I growled — low enough that only he could hear — and pointed at the half-scribbled mess in front of me. “This makes no sense. At all.”

He leaned over, scanning my work. “Okay, first problem — you’re skipping steps.”

“Because steps are boring,” I muttered.

“Yeah, but they get you to the answer. Here—look. Factor this term out first, then combine the like terms. It’s not about being fast, it’s about seeing the pattern.”

I glanced at him. “You’re really good at this.”

He shrugged. “It’s just logic. You’d get it if you slowed down.” He said it without the smugness most people used — not like he was better, just like he wanted me to win.

I sighed, erased half the problem, and tried it his way. He kept talking me through it, calm and patient, until the numbers actually started falling into place.

Then it happened.

From the far side of the room, a sharp hiss of air — fast, thin — cut through the background chatter. I didn’t think, didn’t look. My hand shot up and closed around a sharpened pencil in mid-flight, less than an inch from Gabriel’s face.

The room went dead silent.

I turned the pencil over in my fingers once, then glanced at the kid who’d thrown it. “Thanks,” I said evenly, “I needed a sharper one.”

I set my old, dull pencil aside and started working the next equation with the new one, like nothing had happened.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gabriel staring at me — not just surprised, but really looking at me, as if trying to process what he’d just seen.

“That was…” he began, but stopped. “Fast.”

“Reflexes,” I said with a shrug. “Guess I’m good at something in this class.”

No one else said a word for the rest of the period. And though Gabriel went back to explaining the math problem, his eyes kept flicking to me, like he wasn’t sure if I’d just saved him from losing an eye… or if he should be just a little bit afraid of how easily I’d done it.

The next morning, I stepped off the bus into the chill Hyannis air and started toward the school entrance. The wolf was quiet now, buried deep, but the night before still lingered in my blood — sharp, hot, and thrumming under the surface.

People noticed.

They didn’t look at me directly — not for long, anyway — but I caught the flickers of motion at the edges of my vision. Conversations faltered when I passed. Shoulders angled away. A couple of kids heading toward the doors suddenly found somewhere else to be, letting me walk in first without a word.

No one could have explained why. But instinct runs deep, even in humans.

By the time I reached my locker, the hallway was strangely open around me — like a bubble had formed, a space no one wanted to cross. I spun the dial, slid my books inside, and shut it with a soft clack.

“Did you grow two feet overnight or something?”

I turned to see Gabriel leaning against the locker beside mine, guitar case propped up next to him. His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“Don’t think so,” I said. “Why?”

He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Because it’s like Moses just walked through here. Everyone’s parting the sea for you.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, the crowd was moving around my locker bank, the flow of students curving like water diverted by a rock.

“Guess they’re in a hurry,” I said.

Gabriel’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, but there was something in his gaze — a mix of curiosity and caution. “Nah,” he said quietly. “It’s not that. It’s you.”

I didn’t answer. Just shouldered my backpack and started toward homeroom. He fell into step beside me, and for a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then, almost too casually, he said, “Whatever it is… you wear it like armor.”

I met his eyes for a fraction of a second. “Armor’s useful,” I said, and kept walking.

He didn’t push, but I knew he’d filed it away — like every other thing about me that didn’t fit the usual picture.

The ferry ride back that night had been quiet, the ocean a flat black sheet under a silvered sky. By the time I stepped off at the Nantucket dock, the wind had picked up, carrying the briny tang of low tide. The streets near my parents’ mansion were mostly empty — tourists long gone, locals behind closed doors.

I was halfway up the crushed-shell drive when a voice cut through the dark.

“Well, if it isn’t the freak from Indiana.”

I stopped.

On the edge of the driveway stood Ryan Locke — one of the neighbor kids from up the hill. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, all gelled hair and designer clothes, the kind of spoiled arrogance that clung like cologne. I’d seen him once or twice before, usually behind the wheel of some imported car his parents had bought to keep him occupied.

“Evening,” I said flatly, starting toward the door.

He stepped into my path. “You’ve been making quite the impression. My mom ran into your mom at a thing the other night… heard all about the little ‘behavioral vacation’ you took back in Indiana.” His smirk widened. “Guess they finally decided to let you out. Brave of them.”

I kept walking, close enough now to smell the expensive whiskey on his breath.

Ryan tilted his head, studying me like I was a science experiment. “What’s the matter? Don’t they let you talk much at the mental hospital?”

The wolf surged so fast it made my hands curl into fists before I realized it. My vision narrowed — him, just him, the pulse beating in his throat, the way his smirk twitched when I stepped in close enough for him to feel the heat rolling off me.

“You really want to keep talking?” I asked, voice low enough to make him lean back a fraction.

His laugh came out thinner now. “What, you gonna hit me?”

The growl slipped out before I could stop it — deep, guttural, carrying all the promise of violence in the world. It froze him in place. My muscles coiled, the shift pressing just under my skin, the urge to tear and break so sharp I could taste it.

For one heartbeat, I stood right on the edge. One more insult, one wrong move, and there wouldn’t be enough left of him to identify.

But I stepped back. Slowly.

Ryan swallowed hard. “You’re… crazy,” he muttered, but his voice shook.

“No,” I said, letting the last trace of the growl ride my words. “I’m worse.” He didn’t try to block my path again. By the time I reached the door, he was still standing in the driveway, pale in the moonlight, watching me like I was something he’d never seen before and never wanted to see again.

The final bell had barely finished ringing when I shouldered my backpack and started toward the line of buses waiting by the curb. The crowd funneled into noisy clusters, some sprinting for the ride home, others dragging their feet. I’d just stepped onto the sidewalk when I heard someone call out behind me.

“Hey—wait up!”

I turned to see Gabriel jogging to catch up, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He fell into step beside me, looking a little hesitant.

“You headed to the ferry already?” he asked.

“Yeah. Gotta catch it before it sails without me.”

He glanced toward the buses, then back at me. “What if you didn’t—just for today? I could show you around Barnstable a bit. Might be better than sitting on a boat with commuters.”

I tilted my head. “You offering the grand tour?”

He shrugged. “Call it… a detour. You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t really seen the place, right?”

I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Show me something worth seeing.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Come on, then.”

We cut through the parking lot and onto the sidewalk along Route 6A, the old King’s Highway. Barnstable Village was close enough to walk. Old clapboard houses with wide porches lined the street, their weathered shingles silvered from decades of salt air.

Gabriel slowed in front of a low, timbered building with a brass plaque by the door. “Sturgis Library. Oldest public library in the country still in its original building. Been here since the 1600s.”

I brushed my fingertips along the rough wood of the doorframe. “Feels like it’s seen a lot.”

“It has,” he said quietly.

We moved on toward the harbor. The scent of salt and seaweed thickened as the street dipped downhill. A cluster of small white buildings came into view, including one with iron bars on its narrow windows.

“That’s the Old Jail,” Gabriel said, nodding toward it. “People say it’s haunted. Used to be part of the Customshouse. Supposedly the ‘Witch of Wellfleet’ spent time there.”

I glanced at the dark doorway. “Yeah… I can see why no one would want to stay long.”

We left the road for the worn path down to Millway Beach. The harbor opened wide before us, boats rocking gently at their moorings. We kicked off our shoes and stood where the cold water lapped at the sand.

“I come here when I need to think,” Gabriel said, looking out at the horizon. “It’s… quiet.”

“I get that,” I replied. “Less people. Less noise.”

We stayed like that for a while, not talking, letting the breeze carry the sound of the water between us. On the walk back, we passed a row of colorful artist shanties near Hyannis Harbor. One booth had wooden guitar picks carved with whales and anchors.

Gabriel stopped to pick one up, running his thumb over the smooth edges. “Not my usual style, but… I like it.”

“You keeping it?” I asked.

He glanced at me, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Maybe. I think I’ll remember today either way.”

When we reached the bus stop, he gave a small nod toward the ferry terminal in the distance. “Guess this is where you bail.”

“Guess so,” I said. “Thanks for the tour.”

“Anytime,” he replied, and I knew he meant it.

Free period again. The air outside was too nice to waste indoors — crisp, cool, and bright under a pale blue sky. I headed toward one of the quieter spots on the edge of the school grounds, a low stone wall half-hidden behind a line of pine trees.

I wasn’t surprised to see Gabriel already there. He was sitting on the wall, one foot resting on the stone, a notebook balanced on his knee. The guitar case was beside him, but closed.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked.

He gave a faint smile at the familiar line. “Sure.”

I hopped up onto the wall beside him. For a while, we just sat there, listening to the wind push through the pines and the distant shouts from the track field.

“Y’know,” Gabriel said eventually, flipping his pencil between his fingers, “you’re not like most people here.”

I glanced at him. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I mean it,” he continued, eyes on the notebook but voice steady. “You don’t… flinch. Ever. Doesn’t matter who’s talking to you or what they’re doing — you don’t react like everyone else.”

“That a good thing or a bad thing?”

He thought about it, then shrugged. “Good, I think. Just… different.” He hesitated, then added, “I guess I notice it because I’ve always felt… off myself.”

“Off?”

He gave a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Not in a ‘I don’t belong here’ teen drama kind of way. More like… I don’t know. Like there’s something under the surface I can’t explain. I’ll be walking somewhere and suddenly I know who’s behind me without looking. Or I’ll get this… pull toward certain people. Or away from them.”

I kept my expression neutral, but inside, the wolf stilled — listening.

“You ever tell anyone that?” I asked.

“No. They’d just say I’m weird. Or paranoid.” He glanced sideways at me. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“No,” I said simply.

He studied me for a moment, like he was trying to read something in my face. Whatever he saw there, it made him relax slightly.

“Thanks,” he said, and went back to idly sketching chords in his notebook.

We didn’t talk much after that, but the silence felt different — not awkward, not empty. More like the kind of quiet that comes when you know someone’s not judging you for the things you can’t explain.

Third period was English, one of the few classes Gabriel and I shared besides IT Tech. I was just stepping through the doorway when I spotted him a few paces ahead, sliding into his seat near the middle of the room.

The space between the door and my desk was crowded — students milling around, swapping books, and talking over one another. I was weaving through the gap when movement on my left caught my attention. One of the same guys from homeroom was cutting straight toward me, a smirk already in place. His path angled just enough to guarantee a collision.

He was going for the classic shoulder-check.

I didn’t step aside. Didn’t tense. I just kept walking, eyes forward, until his shoulder met mine with a heavy thump.

The wolf in me didn’t budge. Literally. My feet stayed planted, my balance steady, while he bounced back a half step like he’d just tried to ram a steel post.

His smirk faltered, and before I even thought about it, a low growl rumbled in my chest — quiet, but carrying that unmistakable don’t try that again edge.

His eyes flicked to mine for a fraction of a second, and something in them shifted. He looked away quickly, muttered something that wasn’t quite an insult, and skirted around me to get to his seat.

I walked to my desk like nothing had happened. Gabriel had turned in his chair to watch, his expression unreadable.

“You didn’t even move,” he said quietly.

“Guess I’m hard to knock over,” I replied, keeping my voice light.

He looked at me for another second, then turned back toward the front, but I caught the faint curve of a smirk on his lips.

The teacher’s voice rose above the chatter, starting the lesson, but the moment lingered — the kind of thing I knew Gabriel wasn’t going to forget.

IT Technician class was my kind of place — rows of computers, the faint hum of cooling fans, the clean smell of plastic and metal instead of cloying cologne. This was one room where the wolf in me didn’t want to bolt for the door.

Gabriel was already at the pod when I walked in, sitting at one of the four workstations arranged in a square. He glanced up briefly as I dropped into the chair across from him.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.” I logged in, the keyboard clicking under my fingers. “What’s today? More network config or are we still on hardware repair?”

“Hardware, I think.” He smirked faintly. “You’ll be bored in five minutes.”

“I’m never bored if I can take something apart.”

That got a small laugh out of him, and before long we were talking — really talking.

“So, Columbus, Indiana, huh?” Gabriel asked, leaning back in his chair. “That’s… a long way from here.”

“Yeah. New scenery. New… everything.”

“Why here?”

I shrugged. “Parents wanted a change. Figured the ocean was a better backdrop for ignoring me.”

“Ouch.”

“Eh, I’m used to it. What about you? Barnstable lifer?”

“Pretty much. Same house, same streets. Been playing guitar since I was ten.”

“Explains the Trivium cover.”

“You recognized that?”

“I’ve got ears. And taste.”

Our conversation was interrupted when Mr. Harris, the teacher, walked over. He was holding the printer cable like it had personally offended him.

“Alright, folks,” he said, addressing our pod. “I need the four of you to move that laser printer from the back corner up here to my desk. Too many… inappropriate print jobs when I’m not looking.”

I glanced at the others — Gabriel, a short kid named Devin, and a tall but very lanky junior named Matt.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, waving them off. “I got it.”

Devin chuckled. “Uh-huh. Sure you do.”

Matt smirked. “That thing’s like a hundred-sixty pounds, dude.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

I walked to the back corner, crouched by the hulking gray printer, and gripped it on either side. The wolf in me shifted under my skin, muscles coiling and tightening, and then — just like lifting a toaster — I stood up with it in my arms. No grunt, no strain. Just walked it to the front like it weighed nothing.

Mr. Harris blinked. “Uh… thanks.”

I set it gently on the table by his desk, made sure it was lined up with the edge, and walked back to my seat. The room was dead quiet except for the faint hum of the machines. Every pair of eyes followed me.

I sat down, logged back into my computer, and pretended nothing had happened.

Gabriel was still staring at me, his expression caught between surprise and calculation.

“You, uh… work out a lot?” he asked finally.

“Something like that.” I gave him a small, knowing smile.

He didn’t push it, but I could tell he’d filed that moment away. And for the rest of class, I caught him glancing at me every so often — not like he was suspicious, but like he was trying to connect a set of dots he didn’t know existed yet.

Free period was one of the few things I liked about this place so far. No teachers hovering, no assignments hanging over my head, and — most importantly — the chance to get away from the stench of too many people wearing too much perfume and cologne. The wolf in me hated it. My nose could pick out every artificial note, every cloying chemical, and after three class periods of breathing it in, I needed air.

Outside, the world felt immediately cleaner. The late-morning sky was bright but not blinding, the air crisp and cool, edged with the scent of pine and salt from the nearby coast. The noise of the school dulled behind me until all I could hear was the wind threading through the branches.

That’s when I heard it — soft at first, almost blending with the breeze. The unmistakable rise and fall of an acoustic guitar. The song was familiar, a stripped-down version of a Trivium track I knew well. Whoever was playing had taken the metal out of it, leaving just the bones — and those bones were good. Smooth transitions. Clean tone. A quiet sort of confidence in each chord.

I followed the sound across the field and around the edge of the school grounds until I saw him. Gabriel, sitting cross-legged under a tall oak, guitar balanced on his knee, head bent slightly as his fingers moved over the strings. No hood this time. His dark hair caught the light, and for a second I just watched, letting the music fill the space between us.

I stepped closer until he noticed me, pausing mid-phrase. One eyebrow lifted, like he was waiting for me to say something.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked, letting the words carry the same casual tone he’d used on me in the cafeteria.

A flicker of something passed through his expression — recognition, maybe even amusement — and he nodded toward the grass beside him. “Go ahead.”

I dropped down beside him, leaning back against the tree trunk. “That was Trivium, right? Didn’t think I’d hear that out here.”

He gave a small shrug. “Figured no one would notice if I kept it quiet.”

“I noticed,” I said, and meant it.

For a while, we talked in fits and starts — about music, about how different this school was from others I’d been to, about the random weirdness of cafeteria food. He didn’t volunteer much about himself, but he asked a couple of questions about me, like he was testing the waters.

Some movement caught my attention over his shoulder. One of the bullies from homeroom — letterman jacket again — was standing with a couple of his buddies near the edge of the field. He’d spotted Gabriel, and I could see it in his face — the slow grin, the shift in posture. He was about to make his move.

Then he saw me.

Our eyes met across the distance, and I let the wolf slide into my gaze just enough to sharpen the edges, just enough for him to feel it in his gut. His smirk faltered, and after a beat of hesitation, he turned away, muttering something to his friends as they headed in the opposite direction.

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was thoughtful.

I just leaned my head back against the tree, letting the breeze carry the last notes of his playing through the air. For the first time since I’d arrived, the day felt… right.

The lunch line smelled like overcooked vegetables and fryer oil, but not in a way that made me want to turn around. Cape Cod Tech’s cafeteria wasn’t fancy, but it was big, loud, and full of movement — a hunting ground of sorts, if you thought about it.

Today’s special was Salisbury steak. Or at least, that’s what the sign claimed. The slabs on the serving tray were dark brown and glistening under the heat lamp, and while I’d had my share of questionable cafeteria food, this actually smelled… decent.

The lunch lady, a short woman with hair the color of cigarette ash and laugh lines deep enough to store secrets, plopped one onto my tray with a scoop of mashed potatoes.

“Any chance,” I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “that a starving new kid could talk you into a little extra?”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Oh, I see. Think you’re charming, do you?”

I leaned on the counter just enough to make it look like I had all day. “No, ma’am. I know I’m charming.”

She laughed — actually laughed — and before I knew it, she was sliding not one, but three extra slabs onto my tray.

“Don’t say I never did nothing for you,” she said, waving me along.

I found a table near the back wall, the kind where you could see the whole room but not get boxed in. The wolf liked vantage points. I’d barely taken my first bite when I saw him come in — Gabriel, hood still up, moving with that cautious awareness of someone who’s learned to read a room before stepping too far into it.

He made it three steps before a kid “accidentally” shoulder-checked him hard enough to jolt his tray. Gabriel didn’t spill anything, but the other guy smirked like he’d won a prize. Gabriel’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the faint flare of his nostrils, the kind you get when you’re swallowing down the urge to snap.

He scanned the room, saw me, and after a pause that felt like a choice, he came over.

“Mind if I sit?”

I shrugged toward the empty seat. “Go ahead.”

For a while, we ate in silence, the cafeteria noise filling the gaps. He picked at his food like he was just killing time. I’d already finished one slab and was starting on a second when I decided to break the quiet.

“You know,” I said, “this stuff’s not bad. I was expecting worse.”

He gave a small, almost amused snort. “Guess you’re easier to please than I am.”

I speared another bite, chewed, then slid one of my untouched slabs across the table toward him. “Here. You look like you could use it more than I can.”

He glanced from the meat to me, suspicion flickering in his eyes before giving way to something else — surprise, maybe. “You’re… giving me food?”

“Yeah. Unless you’re vegetarian, in which case I’ll take it back and reconsider everything I thought I knew about you.”

A smile ghosted over his face before he caught it. “No. I’m not vegetarian.” He pulled the tray closer and took a bite. “Huh. You’re right. Not bad.”

We didn’t talk much more, but something eased in his posture. And for the first time since I’d arrived on this island, I felt the faint outline of a pack forming — small, fragile, but real.

The wolf in me approved.