Chapter 3 Aslan
Aslan
I called my best friend Kate that night because if I didn’t, my brain was going to eat itself alive.
She picked up on the second ring. “Tell me everything.”
I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. “Okay, so. Day two at Crownwell and I’m already public enemy number one.”
She gasped theatrically. “I knew it. You stood up to someone, didn’t you?”
“To several someones,” I corrected. “There’s this elite group—the Constellation. Think rich, untouchable, allergic to consequences.”
“And you poked them.”
“I may have shoved my entire arm into the lion’s mouth, yes.”
She laughed. “I’m so proud of you I could cry.”
I told her about James. About the diary. About how they read it out loud and laughed like cruelty was a group sport—and she was so outraged I thought she might show up the next day with her baseball bat. When I mentioned the leader—Garrett—snapping that he was straight and disgusted by the idea of a guy calling him “hot,” Kate went quiet for half a second.
“…Okay,” she said carefully. “But be honest. Is he?”
“Is he what?”
“Hot! Is he hot?”
I groaned. “That is not the point.”
“So he is.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t deny it either,” she sang. “Ohhh, Aslan.”
I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow. “He’s irrelevant.”
“Uh-huh.”
I moved on quickly, telling her about the locker, the destroyed books, the photo. My voice tightened despite myself. Then I told her about almost getting baptized by a bucket of water outside class.
“But,” I added, “this other constellation—Aitor—threw a basketball and knocked the door open before I stepped in.”
Kate squealed. “WAIT. HE SAVED YOU?”
“Sort of. Accidentally. Intentionally. I don’t know.”
“Okay, but important question,” she said. “Is he hot?”
“Oh my God, what is wrong with you?”
She laughed. “What? It’s like in the movies! The hot bully and the quiet, sexy hero.”
“I am literally being emotionally destroyed,” I said flatly.
“And still pulling the whole cast,” she shot back. “I love this for you.”
There was movement by the door then. James slipped into the room, quiet as a ghost, avoiding my eyes.
“Riiight,” I muttered. “Okay. I should sleep. I’ll message you tomorrow.”
“Don’t let them break you,” Kate said softly. “You’ve got this.”
I hung up and turned to James. “So,” I said, sitting up. “If you’re gonna be gone until I fall asleep and gone again before I wake up, you might as well move into the hallway.”
He flinched.
“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “You really don’t get how it is here. It’s my last year. I can’t ruin it for myself.”
I stared at him. “I think you already did. When you traded actual friendship for… whatever this shit is.”
James looked down at his hands. “I never asked you to do that for me,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t answer. I just lay back down and turned toward the wall.
My mind wouldn’t shut up.
The truth was, I hadn’t really done it just for James. Not completely. I’d done it because the whole thing was goddamn depressing.
But now I was angry. Not at James—he’d betrayed me, yeah, and given in to them—but his position reminded me too much of the person I used to be… trapped in darkness, scared and alone. I knew that pain too well to judge him for choosing survival. My anger was at this place; at the privileged, naive, careless cruelty of kids who’d never had to make that choice, who’d never known what it was to be broken down until you had nothing left to give.
And Crownwell was clearly just getting started.
The next morning, I found myself back in the dean’s office.
Different chair. Same smile.
He listened while I explained what had happened to my locker, nodding slowly, fingers steepled like he was considering something very complex instead of a very obvious problem.
“It could’ve been anyone,” he said finally. “Pranks happen.”
I stared at him. “Someone forced it open. Destroyed my books. Ripped personal items.”
“Yes, well,” he replied smoothly, “we can’t assume intent. Or assign blame without proof. Crownwell prefers not to jump to conclusions.”
My jaw tightened. “One of those items was irreplaceable, and I can't afford new books.”
He softened, just a little. “The school will cover the cost of your textbooks. As for the rest… I’d recommend letting the incident go. Dwelling on it will only make your adjustment harder.”
Let it go.
Sure.
As I stood to leave, he added, “Given your financial situation, you might be interested in our on-campus work opportunities. Light duties. Plenty of downtime to study.”
That was how I ended up working in the library.
I guessed it ran in the family, right?
I kinda got what my mom loved about it. Peace and quiet, something rare here, and a million ways to escape… at least in my head.
It was pretty cool. Smelled like old paper and leather. Familiar in a way that almost hurt.
After shelving returns and checking a few things off a clipboard, I finally relaxed enough to browse.
I reached for a book.
Someone grabbed it first.
I blinked and tried another.
Gone.
A third.
Same thing.
I stood there for a moment, hands hovering uselessly, before it clicked. This wasn’t coincidence. It was more like a choreography.
I stepped back, pulse ticking louder than the room allowed.
Then Evan appeared at the desk with a stack of books—the exact ones I’d been circling. He smiled like he’d just solved a puzzle.
“Checking these out,” he said pleasantly. “Garrett needs them.”
“For what?” I asked flatly.
“To prop up his desk corner,” he said. “Uneven legs.”
My hands curled into fists. “Tell Garrett if he wants books, he can come here himself.”
That was when I felt it.
I glanced up.
Aitor sat in the corner by the window, violin case at his feet, sheet music spread across the table. He wasn’t looking at Evan. He was looking at me.
Our eyes met—and just for a second, he shook his head. Barely noticeable. A warning.
I exhaled slowly.
“You know what?” I said, pushing the books toward Evan. “On second thought—take them. The farther, the better.”
Evan’s smile widened. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Smart choice.”
As he turned to leave, he slid a folded note onto the counter.
Knowledge requires appropriate pedigree.
I watched him go, then looked back at Aitor. He had already dropped his gaze to the page, bow tapping softly against the table as if none of it concerned him.
But his jaw was tight.
I continued my work, trying to stay invisible, and by the end of my shift, just as I was about to take off my tag, footsteps approached.
Aitor.
He stopped at the desk, close enough now that I could see the faint crease between his brows, the careful way he kept his expression neutral. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a book, setting it down between us.
A second copy of one of the books I'd tried checking out before.
The Art of War.
“I already read it,” he said quietly.
He nudged it toward me—not accidentally. Not casually.
“It was a good one,” he added. “I highly recommend.”
Something loosened in my chest.
I looked up at him and smiled, small but real. “Thanks.”
He nodded once, like that was all he’d come to say, then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just crossed an invisible line.
I watched him go.
Then I glanced toward the tall windows overlooking the quad.
Garrett stood outside, arms crossed, posture rigid. His gaze was locked on the library, on us—or maybe just on me. His expression was dark, unmistakably angry.
And beneath it…
Something else.
Something sharp and unsettled that I couldn’t quite name yet.
I swallowed, fingers curling around the book Aitor had left behind.
You trying to break me, Garrett?
Well, let’s see who breaks first.