Ben Katongole's fingers shook as he held the crumpled paper, his knuckles tightening white against the dark skin. The words he'd typed out three weeks before seemed to sear through the thin paper, blistering the palm of his hand with their risky truth.
"You're going to sit there all day staring at it, or actually do something?" David Musoke prodded him with an elbow, smiling. "Chemistry begins in five minutes."
"I'm thinking," Ben complained.
"You're always thinking. That's your problem." David opened his textbook. "Sometimes you have to take the leap."
But Ben couldn't jump. Jumping took courage he lacked. On the other side of the courtyard, Sheila Nalwanga was giggling at something her friend Peace had just said, and the laughter floated as music in the heat of the afternoon. She stood under a beam of sunlight that picked out her school uniform, and Ben's chest tightened with fear and desire in equal measure.
*Dear Sheila, I've wanted to tell you this for three months now-*
The note had grown heavier with each passing second. He'd practiced writing it out seventeen times, each trying to capture what he felt when she sang in chapel, when her hand brushed against his by mistake in the library, when she smiled at him in the corridor like he was someone worthy of regard.
"Ben!" David's voice snapped him out of his ramble. "Hurry up. We're going to be late."
Ben's legs carried him forward before his head could catch up to order them to stop. One step, and another. The distance between him and Sheila narrowed-twenty meters, fifteen, ten-
"Well, well. Science Boy has somewhere important to be."
Mark Okello stepped directly into his path, arms crossed over his broad chest. At eighteen, Mark stood six inches taller than Ben, with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been denied anything. Behind him, his usual followers materialized like hyenas scenting blood.
"Excuse me," Ben said, trying to step around him.
Mark mirrored his movement, blocking him again. "What's the hurry? And what's that in your hand?"
Ben's fist clenched on the note. "Nothing. Homework."
"Homework?" Mark's eyes flashed predatory interest. "You're nervous, Science Boy. Why are you so nervous about homework?"
"I'm not nervous."
"You're sweating."
It was true. Sweat trickled down Ben's back despite the fact that he was under the mango tree's canopy. His heart was beating so wildly that he was certain everyone could hear it.
"Let me see." Mark's hand shot out.
"No-" But Ben's cry came too late. Mark's fingers opened him up with expert ease, snatching the note like a hawk swooping on a mouse.
"Give it back!" Ben's voice broke embarrassingly.
Mark danced backward, brandishing the paper above his head. "What's this? A love letter?" He unfolded it with slow, histrionic deliberation. "Oh, this is good. This is perfect."
"Please." The word was bitter, a taste like ash. "It's private."
"Nothing is private at St. Jude's." Mark's voice thundered through the courtyard, drawing people like a drumbeat. "Hey, everybody! Science Boy writes poetry!"
Students began to gather, a circle that seemed to narrow like a noose. Ben caught sight of David fighting his way into the crowd, caught sight of Margaret Akello's pitiful smile, caught-God forgive him-sight of Sheila looking in the direction of the commotion.
"'Dear Sheila,'" Mark mimicked in mocking falsetto, "'I've been wanting to say to you for three months now that you're the prettiest person I've ever met-'"
There was laughter. Not pleasant laughter. The snickering, hard laughter of teenagers witnessing another's humiliation.
Ben froze, his own cowardice a physical weight holding him to his shoulders. He should defend himself. Should demand the note. Should do *something* other than stand there like a statue while Mark publicized his personal feelings.
"'-Not just physically, but the way you think, the way you see the world-'" Mark clutched the note to his chest dramatically. "How romantic!"
"Stop it."
Ben's voice was barely a whisper.
"What was that?" Mark held his ear. "Speak louder, Science Boy."
"I said stop." Louder, but still pathetic.
"Or what?" Mark leaned in closer, and Ben could smell the expensive cologne he was wearing. "What are you going to do about it?"
The crowd inched forward, their breaths collectively held for Ben's response. This was it. The moment when he found his backbone or went through with all the cowardly traits that had driven his seventeen years.
He looked past Mark to where Sheila stood, her face pale, her eyes locked on his with an expression unreadable. Their eyes locked through the crowd of students, and for an instant the world froze.
Then Ben did what he always did when confronted-
He ran.
Pushed aside, Mark ignored the new laughter, sprinted across the courtyard to the science building. Over his shoulder, Mark's voice: "Guess that answers that question!"
Ben didn't catch his breath until he careened into the small courtyard at the rear of the laboratory, where stray equipment went to meet its demise and nobody ever came. Only then did he permit himself to lean against the brick wall, his chest heaving, shame racing through him like acid.
The note was gone. His feelings exposed. And Sheila-beautiful, confident Sheila-now knew the quiet kid in chemistry class had had impossible feelings for her.
Even better, she'd seen him run. Seen him show her every awful thing Mark now accused him of.
Ben rested his forehead against the cold brick and tried to imagine how he would face her tomorrow. How he would walk into chemistry class and sit two rows behind her, knowing that she was aware, knowing everyone was aware.
The sun beat down from the afternoon sky mercilessly, and in the distance, the bell clanged for classes to start. But Ben stood still, his cowardice finally satisfied.
He had been on the verge of courage and jumped-straight into embarrassment.