BRIANNA

7. SHE WASN'T TRYING TO FIT IN

JC'S POV

"Come on, dude, it's not like we'll be gone for a week. It's just for today, and I don't think your father will make a big deal out of it." Callum's voice had a coaxing quality to it, laced with the kind of reckless confidence that came from a lifetime of skating by without consequences.

He leaned back casually, as if skipping out on classes was the most natural thing in the world, a simple decision with no real repercussions.

His easygoing demeanor made it seem so straightforward, as if the rules that governed the rest of us simply didn't apply.

And maybe, for Callum, they didn't. His parents were the kind who believed in freedom, who encouraged him to find his own path and make his own choices, regardless of societal expectations.

They trusted him to handle himself, to know his limits, and they rarely intervened unless absolutely necessary. It was a stark contrast to my own situation, where every move I made was scrutinized, every action weighed against the family name.

Callum's nonchalance, his carefree attitude towards something that felt monumental to me, was both enviable and frustrating. He made it sound so easy, like it was just a minor rebellion, a harmless bit of fun.

"Have you met my father? Callum, in case you haven't noticed, my father makes a big deal out of everything, and you know how he feels about me bunking school." My voice carried a note of exasperation, a sharp edge that I couldn't quite dull.

The reality of my situation was a constant pressure, a weight that bore down on me with every decision I made. It wasn't just about skipping a couple of classes; it was about the expectations, the standards that had been set for me long before I was even born.

My father wasn't just a regular parent—he was the owner of the school, the man who set the rules, who enforced them with an iron fist.

To him, the school was more than a business; it was a reflection of his values, his beliefs, his life's work. And as his son, I was an extension of that, a living testament to his success or failure as a father.

My actions weren't just my own; they were a reflection on him, on our family, on the legacy he was building. It was a responsibility I had never asked for, but one that I couldn't escape.

Every time I even considered stepping out of line, I could see the disappointment in his eyes, hear the reprimand in his voice, the inevitable lecture about duty and reputation. It was a script we had played out so many times that I could recite it from memory.

"He owns this school, remember? And as his son, I should be a perfect example of what a student should be like, nothing less." The words felt heavy as they left my mouth, a bitter truth that I had come to accept, albeit reluctantly.

My father's vision of a perfect student was clear: diligent, respectful, ambitious, and above all, obedient. It was a standard that left little room for personal expression, for any deviation from the expected path.

While other students could afford to be carefree, to make mistakes and learn from them, I had to tread carefully, always mindful of the consequences.

My every action was under a microscope, not just from my father but from the entire school community.

Teachers, staff, even other students—all watched me, some with admiration, others with the hope that I would stumble, proving that even the owner's son wasn't immune to the pressures of adolescence.

It was an exhausting performance, one that left little space for my own desires, my own mistakes. I couldn't afford to be reckless like Callum or carefree like Kyle.

My father's expectations were a constant shadow, shaping my actions and decisions, reminding me of the ever-present need to uphold the family name.

I hate that, but there's really nothing I can do. My dad and I get along really well, but when it comes to school, we always fight, and I don't want to do that.

The thought of another argument with my father was a daunting prospect, a battle I was tired of fighting. Our relationship was a complicated dance of mutual respect and underlying tension.

Outside of school, we could talk for hours about almost anything—sports, politics, even the latest movies. He was supportive, encouraging, proud of my achievements in sports and academics.

But when it came to school, our conversations became minefields, fraught with unspoken expectations and the looming specter of disappointment.

My father had worked hard to build this institution, pouring his life into making it a beacon of excellence. He saw it as a legacy, something that would last long after he was gone.

And he expected me to carry that legacy forward, to be the model student, the shining example for others to follow. It was a burden I had accepted, if not willingly, then out of a sense of duty. But that didn't make it any easier to bear.

The constant pressure to be perfect, to never make a misstep, was suffocating. It left little room for normal teenage mistakes, for the kind of carefree fun that my friends took for granted.

And while part of me resented it, another part understood that this was my reality, a responsibility I couldn't shirk. So, as much as I wanted to take Leah's offer, to escape the confines of the school for even a few hours, I knew I couldn't.

The risk was too great, the potential fallout too severe. I had to play the part, uphold the image, and that meant staying put, enduring the classes, and keeping my father's trust intact.

So instead, I have decided that I will disappoint him for as long as I can and attend school every day and never skip any class. It's a strange form of rebellion, one that involves adhering strictly to the rules, but it feels like the only power I have.

If my father expects me to slip up, to rebel in the ways most teenagers do, then perhaps my most defiant act is to deny him that satisfaction.

By becoming the model student, the perfect son, I carve out a space where I can assert control over my own life, even if it means suffocating under the weight of expectations.

It's a quiet rebellion, one that no one else sees or understands, but it gives me a sense of agency. Attending every class, participating in every activity, never giving anyone a reason to doubt my commitment—it's all part of my unspoken plan to maintain a semblance of freedom.

It's a twisted logic, perhaps, but in a world where every action is scrutinized, sometimes the best way to assert independence is to play the game so perfectly that it becomes your own.

"Okay, suit yourself. I'm leaving. Noah?" Callum's voice was casual, but there was a hint of disappointment, as if he couldn't quite understand my reluctance.

He slung his bag over his shoulder with a practiced ease, a guy who's used to coming and going as he pleases. The freedom he has is something I envy, even if I wouldn't admit it out loud.

He lives his life without the constant shadow of family expectations looming over him, and while he might not excel in everything, he seems genuinely happy. It's a kind of contentment I rarely feel, tied as I am to the rigid structure my father has imposed.

"Nah, you guys can leave." Noah's response was more subdued, lacking the enthusiasm that usually colored his voice. He stayed behind with me, a quiet solidarity that I appreciated more than I could express.

As Callum left, I could sense his unspoken judgment, the subtle suggestion that I was missing out on life, that I was too wrapped up in my own concerns to see the bigger picture.

But I couldn't explain to him the complexities of my situation, the tangled web of duty and expectation that dictated my every move.

So, I let him go without protest, watching as he made his way down the hallway, disappearing into the throng of students who were still milling about.

Noah was different from Callum in many ways—more thoughtful, more grounded. He understood the pressures I faced, even if he didn't always agree with how I handled them.

It was a comfort to have him by my side, a reminder that not everyone expected me to conform to a single narrative. Noah's presence was a grounding force, a steadying hand that kept me from feeling completely isolated.

The girls who had been lingering nearby took their cue to leave as well. Their departure was a relief, a lifting of the superficial social pressure that often accompanied their presence. I could finally breathe easier, free from the need to maintain a facade of effortless cool that I didn't feel.

"You really hate being around them." Noah's observation was quiet, devoid of judgment, just a simple statement of fact.

He knew me better than most, and his words often cut through the noise of my thoughts with a clarity that was both comforting and unsettling. His comment made me pause, the honesty of it catching me off guard.

It was true, though I rarely admitted it even to myself. Being around the girls, especially Lydia, felt like a performance, a role I had to play.

They expected a certain version of me—confident, charming, always in control—and it was exhausting to maintain that image. I didn't hate them, exactly, but I resented the pressure to be someone I wasn't.

It wasn't their fault, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

"What are you talking about?" I decided to pretend, falling back on the familiar habit of deflection. It was easier than facing the truth, easier than admitting that Noah was right.

I plastered a nonchalant smile on my face, hoping to diffuse the tension with a bit of humor. It was a tactic I'd perfected over the years, a way to keep people at arm's length without outright lying.

"Come on, JC, I'm your best friend and I know you. You were okay before they came and as soon as they came here, you tensed up and I could see it." Noah's voice was gentle but insistent, a mix of concern and curiosity.

He wasn't pushing too hard, but he was probing just enough to make me uncomfortable. It was one of the things that made him a good friend, his ability to notice the subtle shifts in my demeanor that others missed.

He was right, of course. There was a noticeable change in my mood when Lydia and her friends showed up, a tightening of my chest and a forced smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

It wasn't that I disliked them personally—Lydia could be sweet when she wasn't being overbearing—but their presence reminded me of the suffocating expectations I was constantly trying to escape.

They represented a world of superficial social games and unspoken rules that I had never been comfortable navigating.

It was exhausting trying to keep up with their conversations, their endless gossip and the thinly veiled competitions for attention.

"I wanted to go too you know but then I knew that as soon as I left, Lydia would take that as an opportunity to be close to you. She thinks you belong to her."

His comment about Lydia stung a bit, not because it was untrue, but because it highlighted a truth I was reluctant to acknowledge.

Lydia's possessiveness was something I had been avoiding dealing with, hoping that by keeping a polite distance, she would eventually get the hint.

But Noah's words brought into sharp focus the reality of the situation. Lydia's interest in me wasn't just a passing fancy; it was a determined effort to claim me as her own.

She had been increasingly bold in her advances, always finding excuses to touch my arm, to stand a little too close, to laugh a little too loudly at my jokes.

It was flattering in a way, but it also felt like a trap. The more I interacted with her, the more I felt the walls closing in, as if I was being cornered into a role I had no interest in playing.

"I don't belong to anybody and you know that. I'm not gonna lie, and I don't mind the company of girls—I do, but it is different. I'm not looking for a relationship and I don't think Lydia understands that."

I enjoyed the attention, the flirting, the thrill of the chase, but the idea of settling into something more serious was suffocating. Lydia's attention, however, felt less like a flirtation and more like an attempt to lock me into a predefined role.

She was beautiful, yes, but she also had a way of making me feel like a possession rather than a person. Her constant need for validation, her expectations of exclusivity, all felt like a prelude to a relationship I had no interest in.

"Like you said, she thinks I belong to her and if I give her that satisfaction, I will never be able to escape her clutches. I like my freedom too much."

"Are you sure you don't want a relationship or you just don't want to be in a relationship with Lydia?" Noah's question was direct, his tone casual, but I could sense the underlying curiosity.

As I opened my mouth to respond, my attention was suddenly drawn away, caught by a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.

There she was, the new girl, walking alongside Sarah, her head held high, her expression one of quiet confidence. They were heading toward our next class, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

The world seemed to narrow to just that hallway, the two of them moving in slow motion, a scene out of some movie that I wasn't sure I was a part of. She was striking in a way that was difficult to ignore, her presence commanding attention without demanding it.

There was an effortless grace about her, a natural beauty that didn't seem to require the elaborate efforts that so many others in our school resorted to. She was, in a word, captivating.

"What if it is with her?" Noah's voice brought me back to the present, his tone almost teasing as he nodded toward them. His question hung in the air, loaded with implications.

It was as if he could read my thoughts, see the intrigue that I hadn't even fully acknowledged myself. My chest tightened, a mix of annoyance and something else—something less easily defined.

I wasn't sure why Noah's question bothered me so much. Maybe it was the presumption that I could be interested in the new girl, or maybe it was the realization that, on some level, he might be right.

The truth was, there was something about her that had caught my attention, something beyond just her appearance.

She wasn't trying to fit in, and that made her stand out even more.

Why did I even look at them? f**k! Did she have to be so f*****g beautiful?! It wasn't fair, this unexpected and uninvited interest that had started to creep into my mind. I had been so sure of myself, so certain that I was above these kinds of distractions.

Relationships, crushes, infatuations—these were all things I had deliberately avoided, preferring to keep my life uncomplicated and free from emotional entanglements.

And yet, here I was, my attention snagged by a girl I didn't even know, a girl who had somehow managed to bypass all the defenses I had carefully constructed.

I wanted to know more about her, to understand what made her tick, what had brought her here in the final year of school.

I quickly averted my gaze, hoping that Noah hadn't noticed the intensity of the moment. But knowing him, he probably had. He always seemed to notice the things I tried to keep hidden.

I felt a flush creep up my neck, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. Why did I let her get to me like this? She was just another girl, after all.

Or at least, that's what I tried to tell myself. But deep down, I knew she was different. And that difference was precisely what scared me the most.