The bus rattled down the street, every pothole shaking the frame until it felt like the whole thing might come apart. The vinyl seat under Erick's legs was split wide, yellow stuffing poking out like weeds. He sat alone in the back, backpack pulled tight against his chest like a shield.
Outside, palm trees flicked past in the Miami heat, their shadows stretched across cracked sidewalks. The air sneaking through the cracked window carried salt, sweat, and gasoline, clinging to his skin.
The glass was smeared with grime. Erick dragged his finger through one streak, only making it worse, headphones blasting until the bass buzzed in his teeth. Didn't matter—he still caught the sideways glances, the muttered jokes that weren't even whispered anymore.
"Big E.""Van Fries."A low chuckle, then the sharp crack of laughter.
Then Marcus Torres's voice cut through, smooth and cocky, the kind of sound everyone else followed. Erick didn't have to look to know who it was.
Marcus sat three rows up, tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair cut sharp, gold chain flashing when he smirked. Even slouched sideways in his seat, Marcus had that golden-boy aura, like he'd been built for varsity pictures and yearbook covers. The kind of guy the bus bent around.
"Yo, De Vries," Marcus called back, voice dripping with fake curiosity. "Didn't you say you wanted to date Elisabeth last year?"
The back half of the bus froze. Erick's chest tightened. His grip on his backpack straps turned white-knuckled. He knew it was a setup, but the word slipped out anyway."Yeah."
Elisabeth's head whipped around. Her cheeks went pink, but not the good kind. "Ew." One word, sharp as a slap.
Marcus barked a laugh. "She'd need a forklift at prom!"One of his boys piled on, grinning. "Better clear out the buffet first, huh?"
The bus cracked open with laughter. Kids stomped their sneakers on the floor, howling. Erick pressed his forehead against the cool glass, jaw locked so hard it ached. He told himself not to care. He told himself every morning. It never worked.
By the time the bus screeched to a stop, his chest felt caved in. And the day had barely started.
Gym didn't give him a break.
Coach Martinez tossed him a ball with that look—the one that already said waste of time. Erick made it halfway down the court before his lungs clamped shut, sweat soaking through his shirt. His legs dragged like anchors, and the ball slipped away.
The laughter hit before it even bounced.
Somebody started oinking, loud and sharp, and the bleachers lit up.
Coach shook his head, muttering just loud enough for Erick to hear. "Hopeless."
That landed harder than the animal sounds. Erick shoved his dark hair out of his face, damp strands falling right back into his eyes. On someone else it might've looked messy-cool. On him, it just screamed tired and beaten down.
He grabbed his stuff without a word, trying to drown out the echo of oinks, sneakers squeaking, Coach's muttered hopeless looping in his head. He shoved through the locker room doors—
And there was Rafa.
He leaned against the cinderblock wall, hair still damp from a shower, Flamengo jersey draped over his shoulder, phone in his hand. His smirk came easy.
"You gonna keep letting them clown you like that?" Rafa asked without looking up.
Erick snapped before he could stop himself. "The fuck do you care? Go bug somebody else."
"I don't care," Rafa said, calm as ever. He slipped the phone in his pocket. "Just don't get why you sit there and take it."
"Mind your own shit," Erick muttered, yanking his hood up.
"Watching you roll over every day's painful, bro," Rafa called after him.
The words trailed him down the hall, whether he wanted them or not.
Math was no better. Erick slid into the back row, head low, praying to disappear.
Then the door opened.
She walked in like she owned the air. Black hair tied back neat, blouse crisp, posture perfect.
"This is Yumi Nakamura," the teacher said. "She's an exchange student from Japan."
The room buzzed instantly. Marcus leaned back, smirking. "Damn. She's bad."One of his boys muttered, "Fresh meat."Marcus grinned wider. "Yeah. I'll take first dibs."
The teacher scanned the seating chart. "There's a spot next to… De Vries."
The room cracked open with laughter.
Marcus didn't miss his chance. "Cold as hell. New girl's already being punished."Another voice piled on: "Careful, desk might collapse before the end of class."
The teacher sighed. "Enough, Marcus." But that was it—no follow-through.
Yumi didn't blink. She crossed the room with steady steps, slid into the seat beside Erick, and pulled out her notebook without giving the comments a second glance.
Erick's pulse was going crazy. He stared at his desk, then forced himself to risk it."Uh… hey."
She turned just enough, her voice calm and flat. "Hi." Then she started writing.
Not cruel. Just distant. Untouchable.
Erick bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted metal. Next to her, every flaw felt louder—his size, his sweat, the way his shirt clung to him. And the thought cut deep: if he ever wanted a girl like that to even notice, he'd have to tear himself down and start over.
By the end of the day, he should've gone straight to the bus. Instead, his legs carried him to the courtyard. Rafa sat against the wall, phone in hand, jersey slung casual over his shoulder.
Erick swallowed hard. "Yo."
Rafa looked up, smirk in place. "What's up, fatass?"
Erick scowled. "Didn't mean to snap earlier. Just… shit day." The words came out rough, clunky. He hated saying them.
Rafa studied him for a beat, then shrugged. "Happens." He tucked the phone away. "What you doing now?"
"Go home. Play PlayStation," Erick muttered.
"What, FIFA?"
Erick's face lit without meaning to. "Yeah. And COD sometimes. What about you?"
"Same," Rafa said, grinning. "But I don't park my ass on it all day. I play, but I still move. There's time for both."
The spark in Erick's chest fizzled. Rafa didn't even notice.
"We could play tonight," Erick offered, voice small.
"Can't. Running at the park with my boys. Six o'clock."
Erick frowned. "What park?"
"The one by the rec. Where else?"
"We could still play after," Erick said, clinging to the idea.
"Maybe. If I'm not dead tired." Rafa stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and left He didn't look back.
The foster house was chaos when Erick got back. Kids shouting over each other, cartoons blaring, dishes stacked in the sink. Mrs. Garcia stirred a pot on the stove, eyes glazed, already worn thin.
"Food in ten," she said, not looking up.
Erick slipped into his room, dropped onto the sagging mattress, and fired up the PlayStation. FIFA lit the screen, the green pitch glowing.
The controller buzzed in his hands, but he couldn't focus. Marcus's laugh kept replaying. Elisabeth's "ew." Coach muttering hopeless. Yumi brushing past like he was invisible.
And under it all Rafa's voice.There's time for both.
"Fuck," Erick muttered, tossing the controller onto the bed.
He sat there, fighting with himself. Stay in. Hide. Screw Rafa. Screw the park.
But his legs didn't listen.
By six, Erick was out the door, heading for the park.