There's a certain kind of silence that follows a slap in the hallway.
Not the echo. Not the sting. The silence — the heavy, watching kind that freezes the entire school corridor like a paused movie.
That was the silence after I slapped Malik.
He blinked like I'd short-circuited his brain. His perfectly moisturized cheek slowly turned red, and his boys behind him stopped snickering mid-laugh.
"You're crazy," he muttered, rubbing his face.
I folded my arms and tilted my chin. "And you're trash."
Someone from the crowd whispered, "Daaaamn."
If this had been a K-drama, I would've flipped my braids over my shoulder and walked away in slow motion. But this was real life — my life — and in Ridgewood High, drama spreads faster than head lice in a sleepover.
Malik stepped toward me. "You really think you can embarrass me in front of everybody?"
"I just did."
I could see him grinding his teeth. He hated being outshined — especially by me. But he deserved it.
And then I saw him — the new kid.
He was leaning casually against a row of lockers, black hoodie pulled low over his eyes, headphones hanging loose around his neck. He was watching, not laughing, not whispering. Just… watching.
Our eyes met for half a second.
And then he turned and walked away.
---
Let me rewind.
My name's Imani Okafor, and I go to a school where popularity is a blood sport and your rep matters more than your grades.
Malik was my boyfriend last year. My first real relationship. He told me he loved how I wore my hair natural, how I challenged teachers in debate class, how I wasn't like "those other girls." I believed him.
Until I caught him cheating on me… with my best friend… on my birthday.
Yeah. Happy freaking birthday.
It broke me. Not just the betrayal, but the way everyone acted like I was the dramatic one. Like I should've been grateful he even dated me in the first place.
So I did what broken girls do.
I rebuilt.
I cut my hair into a twist-out, lined my eyes sharp enough to slice egos, and started walking these halls like I was my own bodyguard. No more crying. No more second chances. Definitely no more Malik.
This year, I swore I'd stay away from drama.
That vow lasted a grand total of 72 minutes.
Kayla was reapplying lip gloss beside me in the girl's bathroom, one hip popped as she turned from side to side. She was already late for homeroom but didn't care — she lived for her "fashionably late" entrances.
"Did you hear about the new guy?" she asked, blotting her lips.
"Heard he eats pencils and doesn't talk to anyone," I said, flicking mascara at my lashes.
"He's cute," she added with a smirk. "In that broody 'I hate everyone' kind of way. You'd like him."
"I'm avoiding boys this semester. Especially mysterious ones with Tumblr energy."
She laughed. "Right. Because you totally have self-control."
We walked into first period late — on purpose. I caught sight of him immediately. He was sitting in the back, hoodie still up, sketching something in a beat-up notebook.
"Noah Liang," Mr. Graham announced. "New transfer. Let's give him a warm Ridgewood welcome."
Noah didn't look up.
Tasha, Ridgewood's unofficial queen bee and part-time menace, turned in her seat and grinned at him like she'd already called dibs.
I rolled my eyes.
He didn't even flinch.
By lunch, everyone was talking.
"He's hot but weird."
"He's from Shanghai, I think."
"I heard he punched a teacher at his last school."
None of it made sense, and he clearly didn't care. He sat alone near the vending machine, hood down now, long black hair tied into a low bun. He sketched during the whole lunch period, eyes flicking between his paper and the passing students like he was studying all of us for a future art project.
I tried not to notice. Really. I had other things to worry about — like Malik glaring at me from three tables away and Tasha whispering behind her manicured hand with that fake laugh she reserved for "lesser people."
"Don't look at him," Kayla said, nudging me with her juice box.
"I'm not," I lied.
She smirked. "You should. He's looking at you."
I risked a glance.
He was.
And he didn't look away when I caught him. He just raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure me out.
It made me feel… unsettled.
And a little bit intrigued.
After school, I went to my locker to grab my earbuds.
That's when Malik showed up.
"Imani," he said.
I kept my eyes on the inside of my locker.
"Imani, come on."
"I have nothing to say to you."
He stepped in closer. "I just want to talk."
"I don't."
He reached for my arm. I jerked away.
"Don't touch me."
He grabbed again, this time harder.
"Let go of me."
He didn't.
"Imani—"
"I said let—"
"Let go of her," came a voice from behind.
We both turned.
Noah.
His voice wasn't loud. He didn't raise a fist or puff out his chest. He just stood there, tall and calm, like he wasn't afraid of whatever Malik might try.
Malik's hand dropped from my arm. He looked Noah up and down and sneered.
"Mind your business, man."
Noah didn't blink. "She is my business."
Malik backed off. Muttered something under his breath and walked away.
I stood frozen.
Noah turned to me. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."
He nodded back, adjusted his hoodie, and walked off — again — like nothing had happened.
But this time, I was the one watching him go.
That night, I sat on my bed staring at the ceiling.
I thought about Malik. The way he gripped my arm like I owed him something. The flash of rage in his eyes. The fear I didn't want to admit I felt.
And then I thought about Noah. About how calm he was. How he didn't try to be the hero — he just was one. And how when he said I was his business, my chest had tightened in a way I wasn't ready to explore.
There was something about him.
Something steady. So
mething real.
And maybe, just maybe, this year wasn't going to be about avoiding drama.
Maybe it was about pretending until I was brave enough to stop pretending.