Six

The classroom is a goddamn zoo.

Voices everywhere. Laughter bouncing off the walls. We're not in a place meant for learning but rehearsing a chaotic teen sitcom. The boys are doing their usual: turning paper into ammunition and the classroom into a warzone. One flies straight across the room and smacks into the whiteboard. The girls near the windows are whispering like the government might be listening—some drama about who broke up with who or who's secretly dating the new guy in chemistry. It's loud. Messy. Alive.

Typical.

Right in the center of the madness, Zoe sits with her knee propped up on her chair, sketchbook balanced. It's a piece of her soul. Her pencil moves like it's got a mission from God. The guy she's drawing isn't real—not technically. But damn, he looks real. Messy hair. Sad, dark eyes. A jawline so sharp it could emotionally damage me. He's the main lead of the book I'm reading—For You.

My current obsession. And possibly my lifelong trauma.

It's the kind of novel that picks your heart up gently and then chucks it off a twelve-story building just to see what sound it makes when it lands. Romance. Tragedy. Regret. The works.

I've read hundreds of stories—some that ripped me apart, some that stitched me back together. Some that made me question love, life, and whether I had the emotional stability to read another damn chapter. This one though… this one carved its name into my ribs.

And now Zoe's giving him a face.

"He needs a scar," I whisper, leaning over to look. Well, he said in the book that he has one.

Zoe glances up. "What kind of scar?"

"The kind that says I've loved too hard and paid for it."

She raises an eyebrow, then smirks. "That's oddly specific. You good?"

"Not remotely."

She laughs, but the pencil obeys. A small, thin scar just under his right eye. Perfect. Like he's seen pain and remembered it on purpose.

I rest my chin on my hand and stare at the pages of my book, rereading the same line over and over but not really seeing it. I'm imagining it—me, writing like this. Crafting lives out of nothing but words. Making people cry in the middle of the night with a single paragraph. Being hated. Or loved. Or both.

I want that.

I want to be the name someone whispers like a prayer or a curse after they finish reading the last page. The reason someone throws their book across the room and immediately picks it back up. The kind of author that ruins someone's day in the best possible way.

And sitting next to me, sketching fictional boys with haunted eyes and perfect sadness, Zoe is the only person who sees how real this dream feels to me. She never laughs when I say I want to write. She just asks, "What's next?"

Zoe finishes the scar with one last flick of her pencil, then leans back to admire her work like a painter standing in front of a Renaissance piece done in the middle of chaos. The class is still a mess—someone's arguing loudly over a missed football goal from yesterday, a chair screeches somewhere behind us, and there's a rising chorus of "shut up"s and "you shut up"s—but in our little bubble, it's just me, her, the sketch, and the heartbreakingly beautiful boy on the page.

She nudges me with her elbow. "So what's his name again? The guy from the book."

I grin like a dork. "Eliah."

Zoe whistles. "Damn. He looks like an Eliah."

"Right?" I whisper back. "The kind who'll love you like you're his last breath and then die in chapter fifty just to mess you up for life."

Zoe fake gasps. "He dies?!"

"I didn't say that," I smirk.

"You're evil."

"I learned from the best."

I close the book gently, almost reverently, like I'm tucking a sleeping child in for the night, and sigh. "I swear to God, if I ever write a story like this, I'll either give people therapy coupons with the final chapter or just disappear off the internet forever and let them suffer in silence."

Zoe's lips twitch. "If you ever write a story like this, I'll draw all your characters. Every broody boy, every sad girl, every morally grey mess of a love interest. Free of charge."

I smile at her. That comes from deep in the chest. "You'd really do that?"

She shrugs like it's no big deal, but I know it is. "Well yeah. Someone's got to immortalize your pain with proper cheekbones."

We fall quiet for a second. Just two girls in the back, clinging to books and dreams and pencils as if they're weapons.

And then Zoe adds, almost carelessly, "You know, you already write like that. Like the authors you talk about."

I freeze.

She doesn't look at me when she says it. Just keeps flipping through her sketchbook like she didn't just hand me the kind of compliment that could fuel me through five emotional breakdowns and a publishing rejection letter. My throat's tight, and my brain's running a hundred miles per hour trying to hold onto that moment. That belief.

I stare at Zoe for a moment. I'm trying to memorize her. Not her face exactly, but the feeling she just gave me. She's doodling something now—probably adding dramatic wind to Eliah's tragic hair—but I swear she knows exactly what she did.

"You mean that?" I ask, and it comes out smaller than I mean it to.

Zoe lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, like it's the most obvious truth in the world. "Why would I lie about something like that? I've read your stuff. Even your dumb vampire thing from last summer had lines that made me want to scream and cry and throw my phone."

I wince. "That was... dramatic."

"It was painfully romantic," she corrects, "and I had to lie down after reading chapter twenty. So yes, I mean it."

I want to joke. Say something like, damn, I peaked too early, or wait till you read the ghost love triangle thing I've got brewing. But the truth is, I don't want to joke. Not right now. Because this is one of those rare, real moments, and I want to sit in it. 

I open my mouth to say something back—something meaningful, hopefully—but the classroom door swings open, and our history teacher walks in, clapping his hands. He's trying to scare away pigeons. "Alright, alright, settle down!"

Groans rise like a wave. Paper balls disappear. Books shuffle open as everyone tries to pretend they weren't just plotting TikTok fame or debating the latest Marvel flop.

Zoe snaps her sketchbook shut, leans closer, and whispers, "If you ever publish that story, I want an author copy signed with something obnoxiously poetic."

I grin at her, already picturing it. The cover. My name in print. Her drawing of the main characters inside, maybe. And something obnoxiously poetic scrawled on the title page just for her.

"You got it," I whisper back. I suddenly feel like maybe the future isn't some blurry, unreachable thing. Maybe it's right here. Sitting beside me with a pencil, a big mouth, and a hell of a lot of faith.

"Good morning," Mr. Barnes says, in the voice of a man who already regrets speaking.

A couple of kids mumble a response. Someone yawns. Someone else coughs with enough dramatic flair to be cast in a period drama. Mr. Barnes sets his mug down with a little more force than necessary and flips open his planner like it personally betrayed him.

"Alright," he sighs, "today we are discussing imperialism. Again. Because history, like regret, tends to repeat itself."

He picks up a whiteboard marker like it personally offended him this morning and scrawls IMPERIALISM: THE FANCY WORD FOR TAKING STUFF THAT ISN'T YOURS in big, slanted letters.

Someone snorts. Probably Kyle. Kyle snorts at everything, even serious topics like the French Revolution or cafeteria tuna.

Mr. Barnes turns around, marker still in hand like a war relic. "That's not a direct quote from your textbook, but it should be. Write it down."

A shuffle of notebooks opens. Pens click. The room settles into that weird half-silence where everyone's pretending to care just enough not to get called on.

"Now," Mr. Barnes continues, stepping away from the board and into his usual pacing lane between desks, "imperialism isn't just about flags and guns. It's about economics. Culture. Power. Imagine going to someone's house, eating their food, stealing their dog, and then making them pay rent."

"Damn," Zoe mutters next to me. "That's dark."

"That's history," I whisper back.

Mr. Barnes hears the whisper but chooses to let it live. He's saving his energy today. You can see it in his eyes. Man looks like he barely slept and caffeine is the only thing keeping his limbs from giving out.

He goes on, voice rising and falling like a guy who's told this story a thousand times and still hasn't decided if anyone's listening. "Take British imperialism. Took over one-fourth of the world. That's... what? Like ordering fries and ending up with the whole damn menu. And then convincing the waiter you were doing them a favor."

A few people chuckle. A few look confused. One kid in the back is definitely asleep with his eyes open.

I actually like these moments—when Mr. Barnes stops sounding like a textbook and starts sounding like a tired old pirate who's seen too much. It makes the lesson less about memorizing dates and more about watching humanity trip over the same brick a thousand times in different shoes.

He clicks the projector on. A grainy map flickers to life, blotched with red. The British Empire, in all its bloody glory. "Look at this mess," he says, pointing. "All this red? That's not victory. That's centuries of people losing their language, land, identity. But sure, let's call it a 'civilizing mission.' Makes the guilt taste better."

I scribble that line down. Makes the guilt taste better. That's going in my quote book for sure.

Mr. Barnes pauses, then turns to face us. "Alright, can anyone tell me how imperialism still affects the world today? And no, saying 'tea exists' is not a valid answer."

Hands shoot up. A few don't. Mine hovers halfway. I kind of want to answer, but also don't want to get dragged into a debate with anyone.

Mr. Barnes squints, then points at Zoe. "You. Enlighten us."

Zoe straightens up like she's about to recite Shakespeare. "Well… imperialism created messed-up borders, led to a bunch of conflicts we still have now, and also—uh—like, global capitalism?"

Mr. Barnes raises a brow. "And?"

Zoe taps her pencil against the edge of her desk, thinking hard. "And… that means a few countries got rich off of stealing resources while the others are still trying to recover?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. He's fighting a smile but doesn't want to scare it off. "Not bad. A bit simplistic, but not bad. Go on."

Zoe glances at me like she just got shoved onstage at an open mic night.

I mouth, You've got this.

She clears her throat and straightens up. "I mean, you can still see it everywhere, right? Like, some countries are drowning in debt from stuff that was set up during colonization. And people act like it's their fault, like, 'Why don't they just fix it?' when it's literally centuries of damage. It's not something you just patch with duct tape and a motivational speech."

Now that gets a reaction. A few murmurs of agreement. Mr. Barnes leans back against his desk and folds his arms. "Exactly," he says, voice quieter now, like he's pulling us in. "The past didn't vanish. It rebranded. The systems we live in didn't just fall from the sky. They were built—on someone else's land, someone else's back."

The class falls into a thoughtful hush. Even Kyle's not snorting. Mr. Barnes lets the silence sit for a second longer. Then, casually, "So. If you're ever wondering why a country's struggling, or why some people have to fight twice as hard to get half as far—maybe don't start by blaming them. Start by asking who wrote the map."

I nod, scribbling that last line in my notebook like it's gold. Who wrote the map. I underline it twice.

Mr. Barnes claps his hands once, snapping us out of our brains. "Alright, back to your textbooks before we get too inspired and overthrow something."

Cue the shuffle of pages turning and pens getting uncapped like tiny swords. The vibe in the room shifts—less revolution, more resignation. Some kids are already halfway back into their half-hearted doodles, but most are writing, scribbling bullet points and dates. 

The next thirty minutes pass in that quiet, productive kind of chaos. The girls in the front row are comparing their notes and whispering in that suspiciously synchronized way only best friends and cults manage. I'm somewhere in the middle, copying down key points and occasionally glancing at Zoe, who's writing too, but also sketching Mr. Barnes with a villain cape and an exaggerated mustache in the margins.

And then, with the timing of a man who enjoys suffering—like truly gets a kick out of it—Mr. Barnes clears his throat and announces, "Before the bell rings, I've got something for you all."

There's a collective shift of unease. We know this tone. That's the "homework with a side of despair" tone.

"I've decided we're going to be doing a small group project," he says, and already, people are groaning like he said we had to sacrifice our firstborns. He lifts one hand. "Ah-ah. Save the drama. This is important. You'll be researching and presenting on a specific period of imperialism, but with a twist—focus on how it still impacts those regions today. Make it real. Make it relevant. Use your brains for something other than social media trends."

The bell's about to ring, and he knows it, which means whatever bomb he's about to drop is going to ruin someone's lunch mood.

"Oh, and one more thing," he says casually, flipping through a paper like it's no big deal, like he hasn't been plotting this since the dawn of time, "I'll be choosing your groups."

And there it is.

The room explodes in groans, curses whispered just quiet enough not to earn detention, and at least one dramatic thud of someone's head hitting their desk. Zoe mouths he's a tyrant at me.

I whisper back, "A very organized tyrant."

Mr. Barnes just smiles like he's feeding off our collective agony. "Lists will be on the board tomorrow morning. You'll have two weeks. Good luck."

We already know—somewhere in that cursed list, chaos is waiting for us.