The sun didn't just rise over the school the next morning; it glared at us. It was a judgmental, blinding sphere of fire that seemed to know exactly what kind of academic crimes we were about to commit. It was as if the universe itself was squinting at Luna, our bold friend from India, who was currently vibrating with enough nervous energy to power the entire school's spotty Wi-Fi.
"I'm going to do it," Luna whispered. Her voice was shaking so hard I thought her teeth might rattle right out of her head. She was clutching a piece of notebook paper that had been folded into a complex heart shape and sprayed so heavily with vanilla body spray that I was starting to develop a mild migraine. "I'm passing the note. Today is the day. Fortune favors the brave, right?"
"Fortune favors people who don't get detention, Luna," I hissed back, keeping my eyes locked on the chalkboard.
Up front, our teacher, Mr. Sterling (affectionately known as 'Mr. Subtract-the-Joy'), was writing equations that looked less like numbers and more like ancient Babylonian curses designed to summon demons. If he caught a note passing through his air space, he wouldn't just confiscate it. He would perform a public autopsy on it. He'd read it out loud in that cold, 'I'm-profoundly-disappointed-in-this-entire-generation' voice that makes you want to apologize for existing.
"But look at him, Hadiya!" Luna moaned quietly, gesturing toward the front row.
There he was: The Flash. He wasn't actually running—school rules and physics generally forbid that—but even sitting still, the boy looked like he was vibrating at a high frequency. He was currently sharpening a pencil with such terrifying intensity and speed that I was genuinely worried the friction would start a small brush fire on his mahogany desk.
"He's too fast, Luna. He'll catch the note in mid-air and probably accidentally shred it with his lightning-fast reflexes," Olivia whispered from the seat behind us. Even though she was all the way from the Philippines, her support for chaotic romantic decisions was truly universal. She was currently using a small pocket mirror to monitor Mr. Sterling's eye movements like a professional sniper. "His peripheral vision is legendary. You're playing with fire. Vanilla-scented fire."
Luna didn't wait for a logical argument. Logic had left the room the moment she put on that vanilla spray. With a flick of her wrist that she probably practiced in front of her mirror for three hours, she launched the heart-shaped missile toward the front row.
It was a tragedy in slow motion.
The note didn't reach The Flash. It didn't even come close. Instead, it took a sharp, aerodynamic dive, hit the back of Angela's head—our no-nonsense friend from South Africa—bounced off her "Advanced Physics for Overachievers" textbook, and landed with a soft, pathetic thud perfectly in the center of the aisle.
Right as Mr. Sterling turned around.
The silence that followed was so heavy you could hear the Principal's perfectly polished "Shiny Dome" reflecting sunlight from three hallways away. The entire class held their breath. I think even the dust motes stopped floating.
Mr. Sterling didn't say a word. He didn't yell. He just adjusted his glasses, walked over to the pink, sparkling heart, and picked it up with two fingers like it was a hazardous biological waste product. He then pulled out his weapon of choice: The Red Pen.
He didn't read it out loud. That would have been too merciful. Instead, he walked back to his desk, sat down with the grace of a Victorian executioner, opened the note, and started scribbling.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The sound of that red pen moving across the paper was like a serrated blade against our souls. Luna looked like she was trying to physically shrink into her uniform. If she could have turned into a molecule and slid through a floor crack, she would have done it in a heartbeat.
Five minutes of agonizing silence later, Mr. Sterling stood up. He walked to Luna's desk and dropped the note. It was now covered in more red ink than a horror movie set.
"I have evaluated your thesis statement, Miss Luna," Mr. Sterling said, his face as stony and unmoving as a statue of a very grumpy philosopher. "Your grammar is appalling. Your sentence structure lacks basic logic. And your conclusion—the part where you state, and I quote, 'I like your shoes, they make you look like a fast tiger'—is weakly supported by the evidence provided in the preceding paragraphs. I have given you a 7/10 for effort, but a 0/10 for execution. See me after class to discuss your complete lack of margins and your over-reliance on adjectives."
The class erupted into muffled snickers. Luna looked like she wanted to evaporate into the floorboards and rejoin the water cycle. The Flash didn't even turn around. He was too busy timing how long it took him to blink using a digital stopwatch. I'm pretty sure he didn't even realize a romantic war had just been lost three feet behind him.
"Well," Angela whispered, patting Luna's shoulder while trying—and failing—to hide her grin. "At least he didn't give you a 5? A 7 is technically a passing grade in the world of unrequited love."
"I'm moving back home," Luna groaned, faceplanting onto her desk with a muffled thump. "My house in India has to have a spare room for a girl who was just academically rejected and roasted by her own crush's teacher. I'll become a hermit. I'll live in a cave and talk to goats. Goats don't use red pens."
I leaned over and looked at the note. Mr. Sterling hadn't just graded it; he had edited it. He had actually circled the word 'Crush' and written: 'Vague. Lacks emotional depth. Use more descriptive, academic vocabulary. Perhaps "infatuation" or "unfounded obsession"?' in bright, aggressive red ink. He had even corrected the spelling of 'lightning.'
"Don't worry," I said, trying to hold back a snicker as I opened my journal to a fresh page to start a new song lyric. "The Bloom Buddies haven't lost the war yet. This was just a minor tactical setback. We just need a better strategy. And according to Mr. Sterling, we definitely need a dictionary and better margins."
I looked at the chalkboard, where the math equations were still mocking us. I started doodling a small tiger wearing very fast shoes in the corner of my notebook.
"New plan," I whispered to the group. "Phase two involves less paper-throwing and more... psychological warfare. Olivia, do you still have that 'accidental' hair-flip mastered? Angela, find out if The Flash likes Greek History. Luna... stop smelling like a bakery. We're going back in."
The Bloom Buddies were down, but we were definitely not out. We just had a lot of red ink to scrub off our reputations first.