9:38 AM — [School Gym]
The squeak of shoes echoed across the polished floor, a nervous rhythm against the tense quiet of the student body.
Dolores stood with his arms crossed, a spectator for the first round. He watched as teams were picked with unspoken rules.
"Alright, split up," the teacher barked, voice bouncing off the high walls.
The division was immediate and visceral. A knot of White boys coalesced on one side, calling out to each other, claiming the court as their own. The others— Black, Asian, South and Native American— drifted toward the benches, their posture a mix of resignation and watchful waiting. It was a familiar, silent segregation.
"Pass!" a tall White kid named Brett yelled mid-game. The ball whistled past his teammate, a shorter boy named Marco who had raised his hands, and sailed out of bounds. A few snickers rippled through Brett's group. Marco's jaw tightened as he jogged to retrieve it.
Ama wandered over beside Dolores, tucking her hands into her hoodie pocket. "That looked like a pass to the bleachers, huh?" Her voice was dry, her thick glasses fixed on the court.
"The way they huddle," Ama continued, her Fulani braids perfectly still. "Hate always makes people tribal. We'd rather lose with our own than win with strangers."
"... The Social Identity Theory. Didn't you make a presentation on that?" Dolores replied, his gaze still on the game. He remembered because they were ranked first and second in the AP psychology class— a healthy competition.
"Yes, and you just barely managed to get a higher mark than me," she said without malice.
On the court, a defender with explosive grace— Elijah, Ama's cousin and captain of the school's basketball team— stole the ball from Brett cleanly, driving down the court for an easy layup. A few genuine cheers rose from the sidelines.
Ama let out an enthusiastic whistle. "Beautiful. Watch, next play they're gonna start getting rough."
She was right. The next possession, Brett shoved Elijah on the shoulder, a cheap shot masked as aggressive defense. The coach called a half-hearted foul. Brett just shrugged, a smirk on his lips.
The game devolved, the air thickening with frustration and unspoken animosity.
"Alright, subs! You, and... Dolores. You're in," the teacher called, pointing vaguely.
Dolores didn't move at first. He found the whole display tedious, the scene pathetic. This has been routine the entire year. But Brett's smirk, the deliberate exclusion, the casual cruelty— it was all suddenly, especially, profoundly annoying.
He pulled off his hoodie, revealing a lean build that his usual clothes concealed. He walked onto the court without a word, his movement fluid and quiet.
Elijah caught his eye and gave a slow, knowing grin. "You sure you remember how to do this, man? Middle school was a long time ago."
Dolores said nothing, just taking his position. The ball was inbounded to Brett, who immediately tried to drive past his defender. Dolores cut across the key, a blur of motion.
He didn't steal the ball; he simply absorbed the space around Brett, forcing him into a clumsy, off-balance shot that clanked off the rim.
Dolores grabbed the rebound, landed, and in one seamless motion, fired a full-court pass that hit Elijah perfectly in stride for an open layup.
The game shifted.
When Dolores had the ball, he was untouchable. His dribble was a low, punishing staccato against the floor. He didn't just evade defenders; he dismantled them. A behind-the-back move left one stumbling, a hesitation crossover froze another in place.
.
.
.
He wasn't playing to score; he was playing to dominate, to humiliate. He fed Marco and the other overlooked players, creating easy shots they couldn't miss.
Brett, flushed and angry, tried to guard him. Dolores posted him up, not with brute strength, but with footwork and leverage. He backed him down, each step a calculated push. He could feel Brett straining, hear his frustrated grunts. With a final, effortless shift of weight, Dolores spun baseline, leaving Brett grasping at air, and dunked the ball with a quiet, contemptuous finality.
The gym, for a second, fell silent. It wasn't a friendly scrimmage dunk. It was a statement.
The next time down the court, Brett went for revenge, lowering his shoulder for a charge. Dolores saw it coming a mile away. Instead of avoiding it, he accepted the contact, rolling with the impact perfectly to draw an offensive foul. As Brett slammed into him, Dolores's hand shot out, not to brace himself, but to subtly dig his fingers into the pressure point on Brett's side, just under the ribs. It was a vicious, hidden jab.
Brett gasped, crumpling to the floor not from the collision, but from the sudden, nauseating agony, clutching his side. Dolores looked down at him, his expression not one of anger, but of cold, clinical curiosity— as if observing the effects of an experiment.
The whistle blew. "Foul! Offensive!" the teacher yelled.
Dolores offered a hand. Brett swatted it away, his face pale.
He walked to the free-throw line, the game now entirely his. He didn't look at the basket; he just sank the shot. Swish.
Ama watched from the sidelines, her earlier amusement gone, replaced by a thoughtful, slightly wary frown. She nudged Elijah as he subbed out. "Was he always like this?"
Elijah wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes wide. "Nah, man. He was good back then. A really good all-rounder. He was never... that."
Dolores stripped the ball from the last defender, scoring the point cementing total victory for the rest of the class. As the teacher blew the whistle, Dolores walked off the court without a word to anyone.
He'd made his point. The annoyance was gone, replaced by a hollow, thrumming satisfaction that felt far more familiar.
12:14 PM — [School Library]
In the library, Dolores scanned the room. No sign of Prudence yet. Between the rows of bookshelves and low tables, sunlight filtered lazily through wide windows, casting golden slants over the polished floor. It was a peaceful kind of silence, held together by the soft clacking of keyboards and occasional coughs.
He picked a random two-seat table and set his laptop down. As he reached into his pocket for his wallet, realization hit him— he had forgotten to ask his mother for cash this week.
No lunch today.
His stomach grumbled. Lately, he'd been feeling hungry more often. He debated calling his mother, until finally stepping outside the library to make the call. Phone calls weren't allowed inside.
After a few rings— "Boo!" Dolores froze, slowly turning to see Prudence grinning triumphantly behind him.
"Were you actually scared? You look so baffled!" she laughed.
Dolores didn't reply.
On the phone, his mother's voice picked up, "Ah, Dolores, whose voice is that? A friend of yours?"
Prudence snatched the phone with a mischievous grin, "Is this Dolores' mom? I'm Prudence, a friend of his. He's helping me with a history assignment! I'm struggling with a paragraph, haha..."
His mother lit up at the explanation. "Oh my! If I recall, that paragraph needs at least 600 words!"
"I'll try finishing it after school," Prudence replied, glancing at Dolores, "But... considering my writing skills, I'm not too confident."
"Nonsense! I won't let my son abandon someone in need. Why don't you visit our house?"
Prudence lit up, "Seriously? I already asked, but he was so against it..."
"Well, I'm the mother of the house, so my will is what happens!" came the cheerful, decisive response.
Prudence giggled, "Ahh, thanks to you, I'm basically guaranteed to get full marks for the paragraph! I'm indebted~"
"Oh, wonderful! It'll be so nice to have a guest, Dolores never brings anyone over," his mother added with strange enthusiasm.
At that, Prudence gave Dolores a weird look, embarrassed and unsure, then quickly looked away.
"Why would that be? Haha..."
After a pause from the other side, Prudence gave a rushed goodbye. She returned the phone and walked back into the library with a sheepish air, "Anyways... ready for that paragraph. Come soon!"
Left alone, Dolores brought the phone back to his ear, "Mom?"
"Dolores, we never knew you had a friend."
"She's... not my friend. Prudence just helps me with school stuff, and we chat sometimes."
"It's important we know who you're close with. Anyway, could you pick up some stuff on the way home? I'll send the list. The money's already in your account. Oh— and I added a hundred extra. Treat yourself~"
Dolores told himself she meant it out of care, complying.