Later that afternoon, Anthony sat at the cafeteria table with his usual group of friends. "Friends" was a generous term. They were more like placeholders, the people who happened to fill the empty seats around him every day. Their conversations rarely deviated from a predictable mix of sports highlights and exaggerated retellings of minor weekend escapades.
"Earth to Tone," Rebecca said, waving a manicured hand in front of his face. Her voice had the practiced edge of someone used to commanding attention. She tilted her head, blonde hair cascading over her shoulder like something out of a shampoo commercial. "You good? You've been staring at that sandwich for, like, five minutes."
"Yeah," he mumbled, pushing the unwrapped ham-and-cheese further away. "Just thinking."
"About what?" Jeremy asked through a mouthful of fries, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Let me guess: another one of those existential crises? You've been weirdly broody lately, man."
"Maybe he's finally cracking under the pressure of being perfect," Rebecca teased, though there was a sharpness beneath her playful tone.
"Leave him alone," Nathan said, ever the peacemaker. He nudged Anthony's shoulder. "You okay, dude? Seriously."
"I'm fine," Anthony replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
But he wasn't fine, not really. For the first time in years, something had disrupted the monotony. It wasn't a big thing, just a fleeting moment of tension and defiance in someone else's life. Yet it had stuck with him. Why?
The group lapsed back into their usual rhythm, voices overlapping in a cascade of shallow banter. Anthony let their words wash over him without really listening, his gaze drifting across the cafeteria.
And there he was, Anderson.
He sat alone at a corner table, hunched over a beat-up notebook. A half-eaten slice of pizza sat untouched on his tray, and his pen moved furiously across the page. Every so often, he'd glance around, his eyes sharp, wary, like he was expecting someone to call him out or take something from him.
Anthony felt that strange pull again. It wasn't pity—Anderson didn't look like someone who wanted pity. It was more like curiosity. A need to understand the storm swirling around him.
"Yo, Tone." Jeremy's voice broke through his thoughts. "You're zoning out again. What's up with you today?"
"Nothing," Anthony said quickly, standing up. "I'll be back."
He ignored the puzzled looks from his friends and made his way across the cafeteria, weaving between tables until he reached Anderson's corner. The other boy didn't notice him at first, too absorbed in whatever he was scribbling. Up close, Anthony could see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the tension in his jaw as he worked.
"Hey," Anthony said, standing beside the table.
Anderson's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Anthony. For a moment, he looked like a cornered animal, ready to lash out or bolt. But then his expression shifted to one of guarded indifference.
"What do you want?" Anderson asked, his voice low and even.
Anthony hesitated for a moment, then held out his hand. "I'm Anthony. My friends call me Tone."
Anderson stared at him, unmoving. His eyes flicked to the outstretched hand but didn't take it.
"And?" Anderson finally said, his tone flat.
Anthony let his hand drop. "Just thought I'd say hi."
Anderson returned to what he was writing, his pen scratching against the paper as if Anthony wasn't even there.
Anthony didn't leave. Instead, he pulled out the chair across from Anderson and sat down, ignoring the boy's raised eyebrow.
"Ms. Foster really gave you a hard time, didn't she?" Anthony said, his voice light and accompanied by the kind of welcoming smile he gave out daily.
Anderson paused, then slowly looked up from his notebook, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. For the first time, he looked Anthony directly in the eyes, and there was an intensity there—sharp, piercing, and impossible to pin down.
"You've got those eyes," Anderson said quietly, his smile fading. His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade hidden beneath a soft sheath. "I've seen them my whole life. You're the worst kind of person, you know that? Not a genuine human being. A monster."
Anthony blinked, caught completely off guard. "What do you mean?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "I just… I just wanted to know you."
"Why?" Anderson's voice was clipped, but his expression stayed unreadable.
Anthony hesitated, the words caught in his throat. "I… I don't know," he finally said, his voice quiet, the hesitation in his tone betraying the confusion even he couldn't explain.
He shifted uncomfortably under Anderson's gaze. For a moment, he felt like Anderson was peeling away the layers of his carefully constructed mask, seeing something he himself wasn't sure he understood.
"I don't know why," Anthony repeated, quieter this time. "You're... different."
Anderson let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh but without humor. He leaned back in his chair, his posture radiating a mix of exhaustion and tension, like he was always on guard. His hand drifted to his notebook, fingers tracing the edge absentmindedly.
Anthony's eyes dropped to Anderson's hand. That's when he noticed it—bruised knuckles, the skin rough and swollen, faint streaks of red where the wounds hadn't fully healed. The contrast was startling against Anderson's otherwise composed demeanor.
Anderson's fingers curled slightly, almost instinctively, as he glanced down at them. For a moment, he didn't say anything, his jaw tightening.
"Just work," Anderson muttered, his voice clipped, as if that was all the explanation needed.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Work? What kind of work leaves you with knuckles like that?"
Anderson's eyes flicked up to meet Anthony's, sharp and guarded. "The kind that pays," he said, his tone carrying a note of finality.
Anthony's eyes lit up like he had finally found what he was looking for. "Let's play a game," he said, leaning forward slightly. "If I can guess what happened to your hands, you'll be my friend."
Anderson didn't look up, his silence heavy.
Anthony took it as an opening. "Fresh bruises. Late to class. Exhausted. Sounds like you had a rough night. Let me guess—you got into a fight. Maybe it was for work, something that required... persuasion?"
Anderson slowly raised his head, his expression unreadable. "You've got a wild imagination."
"Am I wrong?" Anthony pressed, his voice steady.
Anderson didn't answer for a moment, but the look in his eyes said enough.
Anderson's gaze lingered on Anthony for a beat longer before grabbing his notebook and leaving. "You've got too much time on your hands, Tone."
Anthony's face lit up with an excitement he hadn't felt in a long time as Anderson walked away, his retreating figure heavy with the same air of mystery that had first drawn Anthony in.
He returned to his usual table, sliding into his seat with a renewed energy. Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you friends with Anderson?"
Anthony shrugged, still grinning. "Who said we're friends?"
Rebecca, sitting across from him, leaned in with a sly smirk. "Anderson, huh? I've had my eye on him for a while. Quiet, brooding—he's got that whole 'bad boy with a heart of gold' vibe. Maybe I should—"
"Leave him alone," Anthony cut her off, his tone sharper than he intended.
Rebecca blinked, surprised. "What? Why do you care?"
Anthony hesitated, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. "I don't," he said finally, forcing a casual shrug. "I just think he's not someone you mess with."
Rebecca raised an eyebrow, but before she could press further, Anthony turned his attention back to his tray, his thoughts already drifting back to
Anderson. The bruised knuckles. The guarded look in his eyes. The tension in his voice.
And that undeniable spark of something real, something different, that Anthony couldn't quite let go of.