Narratives can bite back.
At lunch, the gym doors are indeed propped open.
A crowd has formed, loose and electric. You almost keep walking. The smartest thing would be to ignore it. Let the joke rot in its own oxygen. But then you hear Brad’s voice from inside.
“Guess Detroit girl’s all bark.”
And something in you decides you are done letting idiots write scenes for your life.
You hand your tray to Tasha.
“Hold this.”
Her eyes light with dangerous delight. “With pleasure.”
You walk into the gym.
The crowd parts with that eerie smoothness people only manage when they are collectively very aware something memorable is about to happen. Brad stands near the center court in sneakers and a smug expression, like he thinks setting a stage means he owns the outcome. Kyle is filming. Of course Kyle is filming.
Brad spreads his arms. “There she is.”
You stop several feet away.
“What do you want?” you ask.
