The Butterfly Effect

Chapter 4

Nova

The next day, I weave through the swarm of bodies crowding the hallways, the scent of expensive perfume and overpriced cafeteria food swirling in the air. Everything feels sterile—rows of polished lockers, clean-cut uniforms, and curated diversity brochures posted on the walls. The school brags about inclusion, but it all feels like smoke and mirrors.

Most of the people I hang out with are the few students of color at this school. We're always conveniently spotlighted in promotional materials, like the school's way of saying, Look, we're diverse! See? We have Black friends too!

It's frustrating—this constant spotlight. Whether I'm walking alone or with my crew, eyes track us like we're part of some traveling art installation. It's as if we exist just to spice up their world.

Finally, I push through the door to the art room, grateful to escape the hallway circus. Mrs. Tehran smiles from her desk as I walk in. She's this gentle, bird-like woman with cropped silver hair and colorful scarves that make her look like she stepped out of a Pinterest board. Sweet as pie, always more concerned about our self-expression than any rubric.

"Good to see you, Nova," she chirps as I pass her.

I nod and take my seat, pulling out my phone. Still no response from Amir. It's been three hours. The message sits there, bold and unread. I sigh and drop the phone face-down on the table.

The bell chimes. Mrs. Tehran claps her hands gently. "Good afternoon, artists. Today, we'll continue with our personal identity pieces—remember, this is your canvas to show the world who you are."

I stare at the blank paper in front of me. What even is me? How do I paint something I don't fully understand?

"Yo, Nova," Antonio calls across the room.

Antonio's that kid who knows everyone—student body president, big energy. He's Daisuke's best friend and basically the welcoming committee for every new face at the school.

"What's up?" I reply, glancing over.

"You figured out what you're painting?" he asks, resting his chin on his hand.

I shake my head. "Not a clue."

"Same," he says, gesturing to Andre next to him. "We're stuck too."

Andre gives a little nod in agreement. He's the quietest of their trio—stoic, reserved, but sharp. He doesn't talk much unless he really has something to say.

"Maybe try something political? Since you're the face of the student body and all," I suggest.

Antonio lights up. "That's a great idea! Thanks, Nova."

I glance at Andre. "Wish I could help you too."

"You straight, shawty. I'll come up with something," Andre says, his voice low and smooth.

I give him a smile and turn back to my own blank page. Funny how I can help them brainstorm but can't pin down a single idea for myself.

My phone buzzes. I flip it over.

Amir: Sorry it took me so long to text back. I was in class. What are you doing now?

Me: Art class.

Amir: Think you can skip?

Me: Maybe. Why?

Amir: Because I want to see your sexy self.

I roll my eyes, trying not to smile.

Me: Where should we meet?

Amir: Stairwell by the main exit. First floor.

Me: On my way.

I grab my bag and head to Mrs. Tehran's desk.

"Can I use the restroom?" I ask, already inching toward the door.

She squints at my backpack. "Why are you taking your bag, honey?"

"It's a girl emergency," I say with a shrug, giving her the practiced line.

Her expression softens immediately. "Oh, of course. Take your time, sweetheart."

I shoot her a grateful smile, even though I feel a small twinge of guilt. She's too nice. But whatever—I'm not doing anything reckless. Just... skipping a little.

I head down the stairs, spotting Amir leaning against the wall like he's in some teen drama. He flashes that smile that makes it hard to stay mad.

"Hey, Nova."

"Hey," I say, keeping my voice flat.

He picks up on it instantly. "What's with the attitude?"

"Nothing," I lie.

He steps closer, boxing me in with one hand on the wall. His breath grazes my cheek, and I resist the urge to glance at his lips.

"Talk to me," he murmurs. "Is this about the text?"

"Took you three hours," I mutter, looking at my shoes.

"I didn't mean to. I got caught up with stuff," he says, voice soft.

I shrug. If he really cared, he would've made time.

"Nova..." he lifts my chin gently, his eyes locking onto mine.

His lips brush mine—soft, hesitant—before deepening into a kiss. His tongue presses forward, asking, and I let him in. The rest of the world vanishes. It's just his hands, my heartbeat, and that dizzy flutter in my stomach.

When he pulls back, he smirks. "So... you forgive me?"

"That's cheating," I say, laughing lightly. "But yeah. I guess."

"Good." He laces his fingers through mine. "Let's go."

We slip out the side door and walk hand in hand toward the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we climb into his car.

"You'll see," he says with that smug little grin.

I raise an eyebrow but say nothing, settling into the passenger seat. The ride is short, maybe ten minutes. Then he pulls into a small, retro-looking ice cream shop.

"Not you taking me on a date," I tease as we get out.

"You like ice cream, right?"

"Who doesn't?"

Inside, the shop glows with pastel colors and neon signs. Everything smells like sugar and childhood.

"What's your favorite flavor?" he asks as we step up to the counter.

"Strawberry."

"No way. That's my favorite too."

"Liar," I say, laughing. "You're just trying to copy me."

"Maybe I am," he says, ordering two.

He pays, and we take our cones to a cozy booth in the corner.

"You know," he says between licks, "this is the first time I've snuck someone off campus."

"Better not be the last," I joke.

"It won't be. You've got me wrapped around your finger already."

I smirk. "Good to know."

After a pause, he leans closer. "Nova... I know we haven't known each other that long, but I swear, it's like you cast a spell on me. I can't stop thinking about you."

I laugh. "Maybe I did."

He grins, eyes twinkling. We finish our ice cream, and I sit there, stunned that someone like him is already this into me. and I've barely did anything.