The hallway was a flood of flip-flops, sunburnt shoulders, and that sticky coconut-sweat smell that clung to island schools in midsummer. Someone had spilled juice by the lockers. The ceiling fan was losing a war with the humidity.

You walked fast, trying to keep up with Jenny, who looked like she’d just committed a federal crime.

“Okay,” she hissed, clinging to her tote bag like it had secrets, “so I may have accidentally given a fish the ability to talk.”

You blinked. “…Come again?”

“A parrotfish. At Luca’s Fish Market. I touched the tank and whispered a little calming spell because they looked stressed and now—now one of them speaks fluent English and said his name was Gregory and that he has dreams.”

You turned slowly. “You made a fish sentient?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” she snapped. “It was a light enchantment! Barely even a spell. Like, shimmer-level. I just wanted them to stop fighting over the filter.”

Tommy caught up, laughing. “Let me guess. Now Gregory wants to unionize?”

“Don’t joke,” Jenny whispered. “There were people in the shop. I had to fake a coughing fit so they wouldn’t hear.”

Bella looked pale. “Did anyone see it?”

“I don’t know,” Jenny said. “There was a tourist. And this guy with a bun. He might’ve heard something. He looked at me like I’d grown another head.”

Matt deadpanned: “Did you?”

“NO.”

You tried not to laugh. The chaos was so normal now it barely registered. Accidental telepathy? Tuesday. Living fish with trauma? Classic Jenny.

“We’ll go after school,” you said. “Check on Gregory. Maybe Bella can—”

“Reverse it? Undo what Jenny did to a now emotionally aware parrotfish?” Bella looked stressed. “Yeah. Sure. Let me just google that.”

The bell rang, loud enough to startle a seagull through the open window. You broke off—some to Chem, others to History—still whispering about Gregory and whether he now dreams in color.

⸻

🌊 After school. Beach road. Breeze warm, sunlight hitting like honey.

The five of you walked the cracked path near the beach wall, sea foam hissing somewhere down below. It was that soft, golden hour time where everything felt like it was glowing from the inside out.

Tommy had Gregory-related memes pulled up already. Jenny kept swatting his phone away.

And then Bella said: “Don’t look.”

Which obviously meant: look.

You followed her gaze.

Wes Stanford.

Perched on the seawall like he owned the tide. Shirt open, salt-wind in his hair, sunglasses pushed back into a wild mess of dark strands. He laughed at something one of his friends said, sharp and cruel, like glass cracking in the sun.

It didn’t matter what he was talking about. He was always laughing at someone. And the people around him—those loud, empty boys with perfect tans and sharp tongues—they always laughed too.

“Ugh,” Jenny muttered. “Captain Narcissist and his army of morons.”

Tommy whistled low. “His hair’s doing that ‘I don’t care but I still look hot’ thing again. Hate him for that.”

You said nothing.

Wes hadn’t seen you. Probably. But you always got the sense he sensed things, even if he didn’t understand them. The way his eyes would track you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he’d pause mid-sentence when you walked by. Like he was waiting for something.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Matt glanced over his shoulder. “Can we throw sand in his eyes? Just once?”

Bella grinned. “Maybe Gregory can do it.”

You all laughed. But your heart still beat too loud. Because under the sun, under the sea, you had secrets Wes Stanford could never know.

And he was the kind of boy who broke things just to see what they looked like shattered.