Chapter 18: Orbiting the Moon

Samara p.o.v

PE is a social experiment disguised as cardio.

Today we're in the indoor gym, which means fluorescent lighting, echoing whistles, and the faint smell of rubber mats and old ambition.

We start by watching the boys play first.

Coach says something about "observing technique."

I assume that means "stand around and judge."

I sit cross-legged on the bleachers next to Casey and Megan while the boys warm up on the court. The ball smacks sharply against palms. Sneakers squeal. Laughter ricochets off the high ceiling.

Warren's on one team.

Jesse's on the other.

Like two opposing knights, reading themselves for battle.

Warren looks awkward but enthusiastic, pushing his hair out of his face every time it falls into his eyes. He waves at me once when he notices I'm watching.

I give him a small salute.

Jesse doesn't wave. He doesn't smile.

He just plays. And he plays well.

There's something deliberate about the way he moves. Controlled. Efficient. Like he doesn't waste energy. Every serve is precise. Every jump calculated. His shoulders flex under his shirt when he spikes the ball and the entire gym reacts to it.

He lands lightly.

Looks up.

And finds me.

Every time.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a quick check.

Like he's looking for something.

Approval maybe?

I don't know why the thought makes my stomach feel strange.

Warren dives for a save and skids across the floor dramatically. The bleachers erupt in laughter. He grins from the ground like he meant to do it.

Jesse smirks.

Then he spikes again. Harder.

This time when he looks at me there's something sharper in his expression. Not pride. Challenge.

The ball flies past the other team and slams into the back wall.

Coach blows the whistle.

"Alright, ladies. Your turn."

Fantastic.

I have never played team sports.

Derrick taught me how to throw a decent punch. How to pivot my weight and block, incase I ever needed to defend myself. He taught me how to run long distances without burning out. Montreal mornings, cold air cutting into my lungs while he matched my pace without ever making me feel slow.

But volleyball?

No.

Team dynamics require coordination. And social awareness. And not being the person who accidentally injures someone with a misjudged swing.

I step onto the court feeling like I'm about to make a spectacle of myself.

Casey is in her element immediately. Calling plays. Clapping encouragement. Ponytail swinging like it has its own personality.

"Sam, you've got back left," she says.

"I have no idea what that means." I call back, but the whistle blows and the game starts.

The first serve arcs over gently and someone else takes it. I'm grateful. I shuffle awkwardly into position, trying to look like I know what I'm doing.

Across the net, the boys linger near the bleachers pretending not to watch.

Jesse however, is not pretending.

His arms are crossed, his eyes focused on me.

I pretend I don't notice.

The ball comes my way.

Instinct kicks in before thought does. I step forward, bump it up with my forearms like I've seen a thousand times on TV.

To my surprise, it works.

Casey sends it back over. The girls cheer.

"Okay!" Megan yells. "Look at you!"

I grin despite myself.

For a few minutes, it's almost fun.

Then the lights flicker. Three quick flickers causing a sharp pain to flair behind my eyes.

No one comments, the game continuing like nothing has happened.

Movement catches my eye under the bleachers. The shadow there is darker than the rest, moving in a serpentine way. Slithering across the floor towards—

Towards Jesse?

I freeze.

Just for half a second.

That's all it takes.

"Sam!"

The ball rockets toward me.

I look up just as it smacks square into my face.

Pain explodes. Bright and immediate.

I hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.

For a split second, the gym is silent.

Then chaos.

"Holy—"

"Oh my God!"

"Sam!"

Footsteps pound toward me.

I blink against the sting in my eyes. The ceiling swims above me.

Warren is there first, kneeling awkwardly beside me. "You alive?"

"Define alive," I croak.

Coach appears. So does Casey.

And, Jesse?

He's there too.

I didn't see him cross the floor but suddenly he's kneeling at my other side, jaw tight.

"Are you hurt?" he demands.

His voice is low. Controlled, with just a hint of panic.

"I lost a fight with a ball," I mumble.

My nose throbs. My lip tastes faintly metallic. I touch my face, my fingers coming away bloodied. The coach hands me a handkerchief, which I press lightly to my nose.

Humiliation rolls over me in waves.

"I'm fine," I insist, pushing myself up.

Jesse's hand hovers like he's about to grab my arm. He doesn't, but his eyes scan my face like he's cataloguing damage.

"Why did you freeze like that?" he asks quietly.

"I was contemplating my life choices," I reply.

Warren snorts.

Coach sighs in relief. "Sit out a minute."

"I don't need—"

"Sit."

I sit.

The shadow under the bleachers is gone.

Or pretending to be.

I don't look at it again.

From the bench, I feel Jesse's gaze on me even when he returns to the sidelines.

Not mocking or amused.

Concerned perhaps?

Like he's waiting for something else to happen.

I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the scuffed gym floor.

Normal day.

Normal accident.

Totally fine.

\--------------------------------------

Casey p.o.v

I don't know what it is about Sam.

Some days she's quiet and sarcastic and accidentally hilarious in that dry, blink-and-you'll-miss-it way. The kind of funny where you don't realize you're laughing until two seconds later.

Other days it feels like the universe rearranges itself around her.

Take today.

The volleyball thing? Fine. Accidents happen. I've taken worse hits during cheer practice and still had to smile through it.

But that wasn't what got me.

It was the way the entire gym shifted.

The second the ball hit her, everything stopped. Like someone hit pause. Coach practically sprinted. Warren slid across the floor. Even Jesse moved.

Jesse who doesn't seem to care about anyone but himself.

And yet there he was, kneeling next to her like she might break in half any second.

I know that sounds petty.

I don't mean it petty.

I just—

It felt like she absorbed all the oxygen in the room without even trying.

I work for attention. I cultivate it. You learn how to do that when you grow up competing. Smile brighter. Laugh louder. Stand taller. You make people look at you.

Sam doesn't even try.

She just stands there in ripped jeans and looks vaguely unimpressed with life and somehow people orbit her anyway.

Even Jesse.

Especially Jesse.

He watches her like she's a puzzle he hasn't solved yet. Not in a flirty way. Not even in a normal guy way.

It's sharper than that.

Focused.

And then there's Derrick.

God.

Derrick.

The way he looks at her sometimes is so intense. Protective in a way that makes my chest ache a little.

Like she's something rare and breakable and he's the only one who understands the weight of that.

No one has ever looked at me like that.

Boys look at me because I'm fun. Because I'm bright. Because I'm easy to understand.

Derrick looks at Sam like she's a responsibility he chose.

And I hate that I notice.

After PE, she brushes it off like nothing happened.

"I've had worse," she says when I ask her again if her face hurts.

Worse?

Worse how?

She says it casually. Like she's talking about paper cuts. But there's something underneath it. Something older than it should be.

Sometimes I think she leans into being fragile without meaning to. Like she's used to people stepping in for her, so she lets them.

But then I remember the look on her face when the lights flickered.

She froze before the ball hit her.

I saw it.

Her eyes fixed on the bleachers like she was looking at something only visible to her.

And that unsettled me more than anything.

Because for half a second, when she froze, I thought—

Is she doing this on purpose?

Is this one of those moments where she accidentally pulls attention again?

And the thought made me feel ugly.

But then she looked at me.

And she didn't look dramatic.

She looked like someone who had seen a ghost. Frightened but trying to mask it with her "tough guy" act.

And I don't know what's worse.

If she's pretending.

Or if she isn't.

At lunch she spun when we told her to. She laughed. She played along. But there was something tight in her shoulders. Like she was performing being normal.

I know that feeling.

You paste on confidence until it sticks.

But with Sam it's different. It's like she's not trying to be seen and still can't avoid it.

The new clothes. The boots.

The way she showed up today looking sharper. Part of me wondered if she was trying to be more like me.

And I liked the idea of her seeing me as a role model.

But then she goes quiet again. Retreats into herself like she's pulling curtains closed.

And I can't tell if she wants attention or if she's drowning in it.

I think about the sleepover.

About the way she stared at the photo of Derrick on my vision board.

She didn't say anything.

But I know she saw it.

And something flickered in her expression before she looked away.

Jealousy?

No.

That would be insane. He's her brother.

But still, there was something there.

And I can't decide if that makes me feel powerful or uneasy.

Because the truth is, she's starting to grow on me. She's different in a way that makes me feel bigger and smaller at the same time. Bigger because I shine brighter next to her. Smaller because I don't understand her.

I catch Jesse watching her again as she sits on the bench rubbing her nose.

His jaw is tight. Protective. Possessive.

And something about that makes my stomach twist.

Because I wanted that attention from him once.

And I still want it from Derrick.

But somehow it always angles toward her.

I feel awful thinking this.

She's my friend, right?

But sometimes when she walks into a room, it feels like she brings weather with her.

And I don't know if I'm imagining that.

Or if I'm the only one starting to notice.