Chapter 2: The Laws of Opposite Attraction

Chapter 2: The Laws of Opposite AttractionSixth period Computer Science should’ve been my sanctuary. It’s the one class where I actually know what I’m doing, where Mr. Peterson treats me like a human being instead of a walking disaster, and where the only drama is usually Tommy arguing with me about Python versus JavaScript frameworks. But today, even my safe space got contaminated by my lunch period performance. I slide into my usual seat next to Tommy, trying to ignore the fact that half the class is still snickering and showing each other videos on their phones. Oh great, my fifteen minutes of fame continues. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that sickly greenish tint that makes everyone look like they’re dying of radiation poisoning—which honestly would be an improvement for most of these people. The computer lab itself smells like disinfectant and the ghost of a thousand energy drinks, because nothing says "learning environment" like the aroma of broken dreams and Mountain Dew. "Dude, you’ve got marinara sauce in your hair," Tommy whispers, not looking up from his dual monitors where he’s got about fifteen browser tabs open and three different code editors running simultaneously. Because of course he does— Tommy’s the kind of guy who thinks productivity means having more windows open than a Best Buy display. "Yeah, well, you’ve got Cheeto dust permanently embedded under your fingernails, so we’re even," I mutter back, trying to discreetly pick the dried sauce out of my hoodie strings. "At least my stains are from today’s humiliation. Yours are geological formations at this point." That’s when I notice them. Sofia Delgado and Lea Martinez, sitting two rows ahead of us, and they’re both looking back in our direction. Not just glancing—actually turning around to stare. Fantastic. Just what my day needed. Sofia’s got this perfect cascade of dark hair that always smells like vanilla and coconut, probably from whatever expensive conditioner girls use that costs more than my entire wardrobe. She’s wearing Jack’s letterman jacket — way too big for her, drowning that impossibly small frame in navy and gold. The sleeves hang past her fingers, making her look fragile, like she wandered into someone else’s skin... but God, she wears it better than he ever could. One shoulder’s bare, like the jacket couldn’t cling to her tight enough, couldn’t keep her contained — and honestly, neither could Jack. The collarbone peeking out isn’t an accident. Neither is the way her shorts barely exist beneath the hem, just enough leg to drive the imagination crazy. "Mine, especially." I tell myself, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. But deep down, I know she does. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the lab chair like it’s a throne, headphones in, fingers absentmindedly twisting a strand of hair — like she’s not aware she’s making my blood slow and rush at the same time. She’s art in a hoodie. Lust in someone else’s name. A walking contradiction of soft lips and sharp eyes. I stare too long, then look away like it’ll erase what I’m thinking. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because in my head, she’s mine — not Jack’s. In my head, she leans across the keyboard and whispers my name, not his. But out here? She doesn’t even care I exist. And Lea... fuck, Lea’s something else entirely. She’s got this whole mysterious intellectual vibe going—wire-rimmed glasses, hair always in this messy bun that looks effortless but probably takes her twenty minutes to perfect, and she’s constantly surrounded by a fortress of textbooks like she’s building a wall between herself and the rest of humanity. Today she’s wearing an oversized sweater that makes her look soft and approachable, which is dangerous because it makes me forget that she’s literally too smart to waste time on someone like me. Or anyone, really. Pretty sure she’s planning to marry calculus and honeymoon with quantum physics. They’re whispering to each other, occasionally glancing back at us, and I can feel my face getting hot. Because apparently my body thinks embarrassment is a competitive sport and I’m going for the gold. "Tommy," I hiss, "stop and don’t dare do any weird shit... They’re looking at us." Tommy finally glances up from his screen, following my gaze to where the two girls are having what looks like an intense conversation. "Bro, they’re obviously laughing about what happened at lunch. Probably feeling sorry for you or something." "Thanks for the pep talk, asshole. Really appreciate the motivational speaking." "I’m just being realistic," he shrugs, going back to his code. "Look, I get why you’re obsessed with Sofia and others, you should stop, it will only get you in trouble...’ "But honestly? I don’t understand why someone like her would be with a guy like Jack in the first place." Guy’s an asshole. Tommy snorted. "Are you serious? Who wouldn’t love Jack Morrison? The guy’s literally perfect. He’s tall, built, smart enough to maintain a 3.8 GPA, star quarterback, comes from money, drives a fucking Tesla, and his biggest problem is probably choosing which college scholarship to accept. He’s basically what happens when the universe decides to show off." Tommy paused as if to considers this for a moment, then nods thoughtfully. "You know what? If I were a girl, I’d probably go for him too. Objectively speaking, the dude’s got everything." "Tough luck though," I continue, getting into it now. "Even if you were a girl, you’d still have that tragic hair situation and your face, plus you’d just be a round body with tits and nipples. So really, your dating prospects wouldn’t improve much. You’d just be disappointing a different demographic." Tommy flips me off without looking away from his screen. But something’s been bugging me, and my mouth starts moving before my brain can stop it. Because apparently today’s theme is "How Many Ways Can Peter Destroy His Own Life?" "Can I ask you something theoretical?" "Shoot." "Does Jack maybe have a small dick?" Tommy’s fingers froze over his keyboard. "What?" "Think about it," I said, warming to my theme like this is some kind of Nobel Prize-worthy hypothesis. "We’re supposed to be opposites, right? Look at my life, then look at his. It’s like the universe made us to be on completely different sides of everything. Good versus bad, popular versus outcast, success versus failure. It’s basic physics." "Okay, I’m following your logic so far..."