HIGHSCHOOL CHAOS!Homework, Hormones and Horrible Timing

ONE

CHAPTER 1

     "it's strange how one person can suddenly make you notice things you've been walking past your whole life."

     This morning, for absolutely no reason, my brain decided to gift me with a memory I never asked for: my mom's voice, loud and clear, going, "Daniel, remember when you used to dance in the last row at the school fests? So cute!"

     Why am I remembering this right now? The last row? Like, was I a backup dancer for the backup dancers? Why does this feel like a personal betrayal? And why did my parents allow this travesty to happen?

     Shouldn't I have been, I don't know, front and center, moonwalking my way into childhood stardom?

     Really? The back corner, where even the janitor barely notices you?

     I'm suddenly questioning my entire existence. Was I even good, or was I just there to fill up space so the group wouldn't look like a sad kindergarten version of a flash mob?

     And honestly, if anyone ever finds out about this... I'm done for. My whole reputation~gone. Toppled by my own five-year-old self in a sequined disaster. I'll have to move, change my name, maybe even join a witness protection program for last-row dancers.

     Finally, I forced myself out of bed, fueled by one thought: This is it. My last year of high school, and I'm going to shine; no more fading into the background.

     Front and center, that's my new motto.

     Dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn isn't exactly thrilling, especially knowing it means enduring yet another dull assembly. But there's something or rather, someone; who's become an unusual part of my morning routine. I'm not sure when it began, but it's definitely become a thing.

     The Assembly Hall is a vast, echoing space with the stage at the front is barely lit, and the heavy curtains, once a bright red, are now faded and dusty. The morning light streams in through the high windows, casting long, uneven shadows across the room. The buzz of students creates a low hum that reverberates off the walls.

     I stand in my usual spot at the back of the row, hidden behind a cluster of taller students. Most people think it's because I'm tall and don't want to block anyone's view, but that's not really it. Honestly, it's the perfect spot to watch her without being noticed.

     She's always late. Always. You'd think that after, I don't know, a hundred times, she'd get her act together. But no, here she comes again today, racing across the courtyard with an air of quiet determination, though her every step is marked by an awkwardness that seems almost endearing.

     She bursts through the Assembly Hall doors just as Mr. Thompson, the principal, begins his monotonous "responsibility and punctuality" speech. She pauses just inside the door, her face a mixture of embarrassment and determination. Her dark hair, usually neatly arranged, is now a tangled mess, and her crisp white blouse is rumpled, half-tucked into her skirt.

     She moves with a deliberate slowness as she makes her way toward Mr. Hanley, the gym teacher, who stands at the edge of the stage with a disapproving frown etched deeply into his face. Her movements are careful, almost tentative, as if she's trying to avoid drawing more attention to herself.

     "Late again, Isabel," Mr. Hanley says, his tone firm but not unkind. He regards her with a weary resignation, as though this is just another chapter in a long, tiresome story.

     Isabel avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed on the floor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hanley. I missed my bus, I didn't mean to be late."

     Her voice is soft and measured, lacking the exuberance one might expect. It's clear she's not trying to charm her way out of trouble but simply offering an honest, albeit clumsy, explanation. The way she fumbles with her backpack strap and smooths her skirt seems to heighten the awkwardness of the situation.