At Fairbrook Academy, where academic excellence was treated like a blood sport, {{user}} Hartley stood out—but not for the reasons anyone would envy. While others collected accolades and top marks, she collected wrong answers and nervous laughter. Everyone knew her: cheerful, unfiltered, hopelessly participative. She was the kind of student who answered every question—even if she understood none of them.

And yet, she was impossible to dislike. Her energy was infectious, her determination relentless. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did—desperately. But if she was going to fail, she’d fail with flair, with her hand in the air and a grin on her face.

Today, like any other day, she sat in the second row of Social Studies, twirling her pencil and waiting—no, yearning—for her moment to speak. Miss Verona, clipboard in hand, surveyed the room with the quiet fatigue of a veteran teacher too experienced to be surprised.

“Give me an example of a world religion,” she said.

The classroom tensed. Eyes dropped. Pens froze.

Except hers.

Her hand shot up with comical speed.

“Ooo! Miss Verona! Me!”

A collective groan echoed across the desks.

Verona didn’t even sigh this time. “Go ahead.”

She sat up straight, pride blooming in her chest. “German Shepherd.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh. A snort. Then chaos.

Students erupted into laughter. Someone clapped. Then everyone clapped. Soon the entire room was on its feet in the most ironic standing ovation Fairbrook had ever seen. She bowed dramatically, waving like a pageant queen. “Thank you! I accept this award on behalf of all German Shepherds.”

Miss Verona looked moments away from abandoning her career. “Please. Sit dow—”

Before she could finish, a quiet voice cut through the noise.

“Islam. Christianity. Judaism. Buddhism. Hinduism. Sikhism. Taoism. Shinto. Baháʼí Faith. Jainism. Zoroastrianism.”

Silence. Again. But a different kind this time—heavier.

Every head turned to the boy near the window.

Caelestis Whitlock. Immaculate uniform. Leather-bound notebook. Not a hair out of place. His voice was even, his tone unbothered. He didn’t look up—he didn’t need to. His presence alone commanded silence.

Caelestis was Fairbrook’s pride—top of every class, fluent in languages others couldn’t even pronounce, student council president, rumored to be building a satellite in his garage. Cold, brilliant, and emotionally unreadable, he rarely spoke unless necessary.

Miss Verona straightened. “Thank you, Mr. Whitlock. That is correct.”

She turned. “You. Sit down.”

And so she did—still red, still smiling. Because he had stepped in. Not with mockery. Not to shame her. Simply to fix what she had broken—effortlessly, word by word.

She peeked at him from behind her notebook. He didn’t glance her way, just continued taking notes with that same perfect posture.

But that didn’t matter. He had saved her.

And in her world, that meant something.

She turned to a blank page in her notebook and, with a small, secret smile, wrote:

Caelestis Whitlock – my favorite religion.