This Thing Between Us

CW: Strong language, an on-page panic attack, racial microaggressions, themes of class disparity, and financial hardships.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” Noah says as I walk in, those forest green eyes of his piercing. Noah Price is a teacher’s pet. He’s got the good grades, the perfect personality, the perfectly styled hair, and the perfectly palatable face. He had sun-touched white skin—the type of tan that was acceptable in a place like this. The type of tan that had the boys taking notes and the girls swooning. While my brown skin was viewed with scrutiny and saddled with rumors. His voice was lyrical, and mine was “exotic” because sometimes there’d be a Spanish lilt to the end of certain words.

So, honestly, he’s cookie-cutter. Just like the rest of them.

Except for one thing. He never asked if I was black.

I shrug, brushing curls out of my face, while he scans me from head to toe. “Nineteen minutes, actually.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“Then why mention it?”

He sighs, long and deep. “You’re. Late.” He emphasizes it as if it means something still.

“So? I’m here, aren’t I?” I ask, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Noah pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mateo,” he stresses.

“Yep. That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I reply with a crooked grin as I walk past him. He catches up easily.

“Stop. I’m talking to you.”

“Gotta get to class, man.”

Noah gives me a side-eye. “We both know that’s not true,” he replies, and I grin wider. “Fix your uniform, at least.”

Rock Ridge Academy is a highly rated, prestigious institution. Only the finest get in. Or the richest. It means something to be here. That’s what everyone says, anyway. I find it absolutely boring.

I got in because my test scores were perfect, and my teachers at Greenhale thought it would be the best environment to foster my young mind.

It wasn’t.

It hasn’t been for the last two years.

And, I’ve been wanting to go back since my first month here.

But…I can’t.

The papers are there. I’d just need to sign and then—

I shove the thought away before it turns into something I can’t afford to think about.

My eyes roll. “They’re just clothes,” I say, our shoes clicking on the tile.

“This school has a strict dress code,” Noah reminds me. He really doesn’t need to. I know the rule well. I can hear Headmistress McAfree’s voice in my head.

“At Rock Ridge, we pride ourselves on looking our best and putting out an air of excellence at all times. So, to adhere to that expectation, all students must wear the school’s uniform with steamed, pressed edges, polished dress shoes, shirts tucked in, and jackets always on. Along with that, students must maintain neat grooming of their hair and face.”

I hated that speech almost as much as Noah loved it.

“Like I care,” I say airily as we come up to the main office. I need a late slip. I push open the door, and he follows behind me. Like a dog.

“You’re in the best school there is. Show some appreciation,” Noah snaps.

I ignore him. “Mrs. Jackie, I need a pass for my physics class,” I say, leaning on the desk.

She’s frowning already. “Third time this week, Mateo.” Seventeenth this month. I’m going for a record.

“Be careful, you might get kicked out,” she warns, handing me the pass.

I grin devilishly. “They’d never get rid of this pretty face,” I joke.

Noah scoffs behind me.

“Mhm. Go on then.” She waves me away.

I leave the office with a shadow. “You gonna follow me all day or…?” I ask, tossing him a look over my shoulder.

Noah crosses his arms. “Just until we get to your class.”

Great. “Fine.”

Five minutes later, we stand outside Mr. Johnson’s physics class. The classroom doors are all the same—dark wood with a brushed bronze metal frame and no window.

I turn to him. “We’re here. You can go now,” I say, shooing him away with my hands.

He levels a deadpan face at me. “Yeah, like I’m gonna leave before you get inside that room,” he states, knocking on the door.

Bitch.

The door opens while Mr. Johnson is still talking to the class over his shoulder. The smell of books and paper wafts over me.

He tells the class to wait a moment, and that’s when he looks at us. I see the disappointment cloud his eyes. “Finally joining us, Mr. Hernandaz,” he says. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

Mr. Johnson is tall, in that lanky kind of way. He wears collared shirts under sweaters, tailored blazers, button-downs with ties, and they’re always paired with the same black slacks and penny loafers. He accessorizes with a watch on his left wrist and a simple chain necklace with a ring on it.

I hear some senior girls find him attractive. I don’t see the appeal.

“I wasn’t, truthfully,” I say, giving him the pass. Beside me, I can feel Noah’s eyes burning a hole into my skull.

Mr. Johnson scoffs as he accepts the pass. “Thank you for being honest, at least.”

I grin and enter the room, eyes are drawn to me immediately, whispers falling from lips. I let myself imagine that they’re crush confessions.

* * *

At noon, students are crowding around the bulletin board. Some of them pump their fists in triumph while others sulk.

Every two weeks, we all gather in the cafeteria and take a test. This school doesn’t believe in laptops, so everything is done on paper. They say it’s to promote less cheating.

Right.

Anyway, the test isn’t state-required. The school thought it up, so they could track who was at the top. The scores are posted publicly to encourage you to do better. All it does is create stress and feelings of failure.

I don’t check the board often. I don’t care about it. But, today, my feet carry me into the crowd, and my arms push people out of the way.

I get to the front and search for my name. I find it at the top next to another student’s name.

No. 1 Noah Price / Mateo Hernandaz.

My name being second is supposed to make me feel slighted.

It used to.

I’m over it now.

“I don’t know how you do it,” his voice rings out beside me.

“Pure skill,” I reply, looking at Noah, an amused glint in my eye.

He scowls. It makes his face look real. “You hardly show up to class, and yet, you’re on the same level as me. Me—who comes to school every day, participates, and studies.”

“Who said I’m not studying?” I ask, weaving past students. He follows.

“Oh, come on. You expect me to believe that between skipping class and wasting time on the roof, you’re studying?” He laughs. It’s all sharp and arrogant and entitled.

It grates on my nerves, and I’m reminded of who he is.

Noah is the son of millionaire Bill Price, who acts progressive and Earth-conscious. But no one can have that much wealth and be clean at the same time. Yet, people love him because he supported his pansexual son, which apparently makes him Father of the Year. As if it’s award-worthy to love your kid unconditionally.

“Careful, your asshole-y is showing,” I grind out.

He smirks. “Oh? Are the claws finally coming out?” He taunts.

I bite my tongue. The worst thing about Noah isn’t that he’s perfect at everything or that my name will always be second to his.

It’s that he gets under my skin in a way that baffles me. I’m not quick to anger, and most things roll off my back. But Noah…

Noah does the impossible thing of needling deep into my bone marrow and disrupting my system.

And, he does the whole thing while looking like that. It’s so infuriating. I wish I could rip out my heart and ask it why it’s pounding for such a copy-and-paste boy.

“Why are you following me?” I ask after the noise in my head settles.

“I’m not. Lunch is this way, dumbass,” he says, tapping his watch.

I make it a point not to look at the watch. The thing irritates me as much as he does. “Can’t call me that since I’m tied with you.”

“I can say whatever I want,” he shoots back.

Ain’t that the truth.

There’s a group of girls up ahead, their jackets are gray. Sophomores. The second the group sees Noah, they erupt into giggles, hands waving frantically in the air.

“Hi, Noah!” they say in unison.

“Hi, girls,” he replies with a practiced smile. They giggle more, blushing with hearts in their eyes.

Ugh. Gag me.

“Don’t let me keep you from your girlfriends,” I mumble once out of earshot.

“First of all, they’re Sophomores,” he says. “Second of all, ew.”

“Good to know you’re not a creep,” I say as the noise of the cafeteria reaches us.

“Did you think I was?”

I sneer. “Rich people like them young, I hear,” I jab, loving the way his eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack. It’s the best look for him.

I head over to the lunch line while he’s still processing.

The cafeteria used to be intimidating to me with its high ceilings, arched entryways, and tall windows that let in too much soft light. Everything about it is designed to make you feel small, like you’ve stepped into a fantasy.

Then you get to the food—pizza, chicken sandwiches, salads, and cheeseburgers sitting on heated metal. And, since today is Tuesday, there are tacos.

The food is where the magic kind of wears off.

The lunch ladies eye me as I grab a tray. The question is obvious. It’s the same question every Tuesday.

Is he gonna have tacos today?

The answer is the same.

No. No, I am not.

I grab a slice of cheese pizza and watch the slight disappointment flicker over their faces. I’m not their Mexican trope entertainment.

Chips and chocolate milk make it onto my tray as well before I leave the line. One good thing about this school is that lunch is free for everyone.

“You can’t just say something like that to me,” Noah says, nearly making me drop my tray.

“Jesus—you need a bell or something. And, I can say whatever I want,” I reply, throwing his words back at him.

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping. I berate myself for staring at it. “You need to get a filter,” he states, walking beside me.

“I find filters dumb. It’s best to be honest,” I reason, sliding into a seat. Another good thing about this place is that the lunch tables have actual chairs. Not like the stools back at Greenhale.

He sits across from me, arms crossed on the table. “That can hurt someone’s feelings.”

A smile works itself onto my face. “That’s the point.”

Noah stares at me, like I’m a trigonometry equation he can’t crack.

“Are you gonna say something, or can you get out of my face?” I ask.

Noah exhales heavily. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, getting up and leaving.

I bite into my pizza and eat in peace.

* * *

“What?” Noah asks, his voice echoing in the empty classroom as he stares at our English Literature teacher. Today is the day that we find out who our partners are for the project—an essay about a historical author, a hand-done presentation with something to pass out, and then a reflection essay on the whole experience.

“You heard me,” Ms. Tiggs says, shuffling papers. “You and Mateo are partners.”

“No. That’s not right,” he argues.

I’m not thrilled about it either. Apparently, the universe looked at my life and realized I wasn’t suffering enough.

Noah continues, “I’m not doing it if he’s my partner.”

Ms. Tiggs looks down her nose at him. “Then, you’ll get a zero.”

He steps back from her desk as if he’d been slapped. “You’d ruin my perfect record over this?”

She blinks at him, and I wonder if she’s sick and tired of these rich kids yet. “I’m not ruining anything. If you don’t do it, then you get a zero. That’s policy, sweetie.”

He looks so offended that it chases my anger away.

A laugh escapes me, and those green eyes of his land on me.

“This isn’t funny, Hernandaz,” he spits out.

“Oh, but it so is,” I reply, a shit-eating grin on my face. “Your meltdown is top-tier entertainment.”

Ms. Tiggs holds out a folder for Noah. “Instructions are in here. Do the project or fail. Your choice,” she says, her tone uncaring.

He glances at her and groans, throwing his arms up as he stomps out of the room.

I take the folder from her. “He’s such a baby,” I whisper.

“Tell me about it,” Ms. Tiggs agrees tiredly.

We share a look, our lips tugging up as some sort of understanding settles between us.

I think she just became my favorite teacher.

* * *

The library smells like old paper and spilled ink. It’s an old, gothic building with three stories and stained glass windows, sitting in the center of campus. The interior is a maze of dark wood pillars and arches—this school is obsessed with its wood—and black painted walls. The shelves are tall and packed with books, with rolling ladders attached to them.

I set the heavy books down with a huff. “Why did I have to get the books?” I ask, spreading them out on the table as Noah reads through the requirements, pencil in hand, open notebook next to him.

“Because I’m strategizing,” he answers, writing something down. His handwriting is all neat and flow-y. It’s annoying. It’s pretty.

I squint at him. “I could’ve done that.”

He looks at me through his lashes, and my heart stutters in that stupid way. “I’m in control here, got it?”

Oh god. Kill me right now. Why did I like that?

I click my tongue. “Sure, you are,” I reply sarcastically, dropping into my seat.

“Can you try not to be insufferable for five minutes?” Noah asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Can you?”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” he says, leaning forward. “You’re unnecessarily bratty and take nothing seriously.”

I balk at that. “I am not bratty,” I defend myself.

“But you are,” he bites out. “People try to talk to you, but you ignore them or make them upset. Teachers give you chances to be present, but you throw them away by skipping. Why are you so determined to get people to hate you? I don’t get it.”

And, why would he? Those peer conversations aren’t innocent at all. It’s all: So, where did you come from originally? Say something in Spanish for me. Do your people have TV back in your country?

I just want to scream every time.

I was born here, goddamnit!

Even the teachers do it.

No, he wouldn’t get it at all. I’m not a person to them. So I’ve stopped responding.

“Why does it bother you so much? If I want to be alone, that’s my prerogative,” I say.

“Because you act like this place is beneath you, and it pisses me off.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Then why are you still here?” Noah snaps.

The tangled limbs of thoughts snag on it—hungry and determined to make me choke.

Mom’s tired smile at the dinner table.

The bills she hid.

Nights spent hungry because I gave my portion to my sisters.

Paloma and Sofía’s cries for Mamá when she had to work late.

The scholarship burning a hole in my hand.

How her hands shook as she read it.

A full ride. Room and board covered.

The thorns tear at the seams.

“Well?” Noah prompts, and I can’t hold myself together anymore.

“Because I don’t have the things you do!” My voice echoes in the quiet, and I feel a million pairs of eyes lock onto me.

Noah’s eyes have gone wide.

There’s cotton in my throat and a tornado in my stomach, stirring up my guts.

“Mateo, I—”

“I need air,” I rush out, my chair scraping hard against the wood as I run away.

I don’t stop until I reach the courtyard.

Air. I need air.

My hands land on my knees as I bend forward, lungs dragging in breath like they forgot how to work.

The tie suddenly feels too tight. I tug at it, fingers fumbling until it loosens.

It’s not enough.

I yank my jacket off and throw it down, sucking in another breath.

It stings on the way down.

“Get it together,” I rasp. “Get it together.”

But the world is spinning, and I’m lost in my head.

I’m gonna die.

And then, I’m being pulled, my face crashing into something solid, arms wrapping tightly—squeezing.

A beating in my ear.

The smell of ocean spray in my nose.

“Just do what I’m doing,” Noah says softly, taking in a slow, deep breath.

My body takes a second, but soon it mimics his, and my bones stop jittering.

I melt into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

“How’d you know to do this?” I mumble, my hands clutching his back, wrinkling his perfect jacket.

“My mom’s a psychiatrist.”

“Oh.”

He holds me like that for a few more seconds before letting me go.

“You good?” Noah asks, his tone still so soft. It’s the best sound ever.

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He picks up my jacket, dusts it off, and lays it over his arm. “Let’s get back inside.” He takes my hand like it’s a normal thing, his grip is strong and warm.

Noah pulls me along.

And I follow. Like a dog.