Chapter 9 – I Might be a God?

I wake up feeling... actually pretty good? That's unexpected.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still sore. My legs feel like they've been through a medieval torture device, and my abs feel like someone used them as a punching bag. But it's less than yesterday. Marginally. Like going from "I've been hit by a truck" to "I've been hit by a really aggressive shopping cart."

I drag myself out of bed with all the grace of an obese cat and slap my hands against my cheeks. Hard. The sting helps wake me up and also makes me look like an idiot, but there's no one here to judge me. Except my system, I suppose, but it seems generally supportive.

I pick up my collection of skincare products and head over to the washroom. Then I shut the door and lock it.

"Okay," I say to my reflection in the mirror above the sink. "Today is the day. Today, Adam Gray will not be a complete social failure."

My reflection looks unconvinced. Rude, but fair.

"I WILL participate in class today," I continue, pointing at myself like some kind of deranged motivational speaker. "I WILL sit next to someone in computer science class and say hello. I WILL be a functional human being capable of basic social interaction."

The reflection still looks skeptical. I'm starting to think it knows me too well.

I look down at the lineup of skincare products I’ll use this morning. Just my cleanser and moisturizer. Simple enough, right? I mean, I just used them yesterday, but it still feels a bit weird. Like I'm pretending to be someone who has their life together.

I finish my morning skincare routine, then go back to my bedroom and hide my facial products. Don't judge me... I'm still a bit embarrassed that I'm doing all this.

Breakfast is its usual controlled chaos. Fiona sits calmly at the table, somehow looking amazingly awake for someone constantly running on only six hours of sleep after sixteen hours of work. Bianca shuffles in like the living dead, while Selene is, well, Selene: jumping around like a ball of uncontrollable energy.

I shovel some cereal into my face surrounded by idle chatter, then grab my backpack and head out. Time to face another day of crippling social anxiety.

First period: Math with Mrs. Henderson.

I slide into my usual seat in the back, and immediately my palms start sweating.

Today's the day. I have to ask a question, or answer one. Something. Anything. I realize that while I’m being motivated to do this through the promise of evolution points. I'm also doing this because I want to change. I'm doing this to either improve my social skills or learn something important that's not part of the curriculum, or, in the best case, both.

Okay, if I don't participate in this class, I think to myself, then I'm a little bitch and... and Selene will never love me.

I pause.

Oh no. These are high stakes.

Mrs. Henderson starts the lesson, launching into derivatives and integrals with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loves calculus. I can't relate, but I respect the energy. She's writing equations on the board at light speed, explaining concepts almost faster than I can process them.

The minutes tick by. My heart is pounding. My palms are sweaty. Knees weak, mom’s… Wait, no, focus.

Just raise your hand. Ask a question. It's not that hard. People do this every day. You're not being asked to defuse a bomb. You're just asking a clarifying question about math.

But my hand stays firmly planted on my desk, refusing to betray me by rising.

Ten minutes left in class. Mrs. Henderson hasn't even paused to ask if anyone has questions. She's just steamrolling through the material like she's trying to set a new world record for the category, most calculus taught in a single class.

Come on, Adam. Do it. Just do it.

Mrs. Henderson breezes over something, a detail about when to use a specific equation, and I realize I didn't actually fully understand it. Screw it.

I raise my hand. It's shaky and probably looks like I'm having some kind of medical episode, but it's up. It's happening.

Mrs. Henderson stops mid-sentence, her marker hovering over the whiteboard. She turns to look at me, and her eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

"Yes, Adam?"

She sounds surprised. No, more than surprised. Shocked. Like I just announced I'm actually three raccoons in a trench coat.

Every head in the classroom turns to stare at me. Great. Fantastic. This is fine. Everything is fine.

"Sorry..." I start, my voice barely above a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. "Sorry, um, you weren't being very... detailed? About when to use that equation? Could you... could you clarify?"

I stumble over the words, but I get them out. They're out there. In the world. No taking them back now.

Mrs. Henderson's expression shifts from shock to something that looks like... pride? "Of course! I apologize, I was getting a bit overeager to move on to the next concept." She turns back to the board and starts explaining the detail I missed, taking her time to make sure it's clear.

I'm a god! I scream internally.

On the outside, I just nod along like this is a totally normal thing I do all the time and not a monumental achievement worthy of a parade in my honor.

The rest of the class passes in a blur of dopamine and relief.

English with Mr. Adams is next. I'm still riding the high from math class, so when Mr. Adams asks for volunteers to read a passage from the book we're studying... I, respectfully, keep my hand down. I don't feel nearly ready for something like that.

Instead, he asks about the significance of a red shirt someone wears in one of the chapters, and I give a brief, and completely overthought, explanation about how it depicts the rage the main character is feeling.

Whew, two down. One more to go before I take on my next challenge.

Chemistry with Mrs. Reynolds is the final test. She's in the middle of explaining something obscure about molecular bonds, something not in the curriculum, and I ask for a more in-depth explanation.

She smiles warmly, Mrs. Reynolds is nice like that, and gives a sophisticated answer.

Three for three. I'm a participation champion. Give me a medal. Throw a party in my honor. I deserve it.

Fourth period: Computer Science with Mr. Zhao.

This is it. This is my Mount Everest. Not just participating but actually talking to another student. Initiating conversation. And maybe, just maybe, even making a friend.

The thought makes me want to throw up.

Okay, I tell myself as I walk into the computer lab, breathing in the familiar scent of expensive electronics. If I can't sit next to someone and say hi today... Then Bianca will never love me.

I pause mid-step.

I want to cry just imagining it.

The computer lab is my sanctuary. My safe space. The one classroom where I actually feel like I belong, because I know this stuff. I'm good at this. I might be the best at it, at least among the students. But right now, it feels like enemy territory because I'm about to do something that goes against every instinct I have: willingly interact with another human being.

I scan the room. Most of the usual suspects are already here, claiming their favorite computers. And there, hidden among the electronics, sitting alone at an isolated area near the back, is Luna.

Luna is... how do I even describe Luna? She's like if someone took the concept of "anti-social" and turned it into a person. Which, I suppose, is also how I'd describe myself. Anyways, she's tiny, even smaller than me, at a miniscule height of five feet. And she seems to exist in a perpetual state of trying to disappear into her oversized hoodie.

Today’s hoodie is a deep, sultry purple, matching her hair, which is this silky, hip-length cascade that’s less “hair” and more “enchanting curtain of seduction.” She hides behind it like it’s her personal cloaking device, letting it drape over her face like a waterfall. But when she flicks it back, usually to squint at a computer screen, damn. Her face is a delicate masterpiece: pale, sun-starved skin so flawless, it looks sculpted from marble. Her big, beautiful violet eyes could trigger heart attacks if she ever held eye contact for more than a nanosecond. They flare with this wondrous sparkle when Mr. Zhao drops some coding wisdom or someone mentions a new anime series.

Her nose is tiny, like, almost comically small, and her mouth is equally petite, she looks almost doll-like, so cute it’s borderline unfair. Yet her lips are pouty enough to look full and wonderfully soft. She has the kind of face that makes you want to protect her from the world, or maybe pinch her cheeks. Not in a weird way. More like the "you look like a sad puppy" way.

Her body, though? That's where the carefully-cultivated "don't perceive me" aesthetic breaks down a bit. The hoodie is huge and baggy, and she's wearing loose-fitting cargo pants that are at least two sizes too big, but they can't quite hide the fact that she's got... proportions.

The hoodie is baggy, sure, but it's also stretched tight across her chest in a way that seems physically impossible. I'm trying very hard not to stare, but it's like trying not to notice a car accident, your eyes just go there automatically. Her chest is... substantial. More than substantial. The fabric strains with every breath she takes, and I'm genuinely concerned that the hoodie is one deep breath away from admitting defeat. The outline is visible even through all those layers; they’re so big it makes my brain short-circuit trying to process the sheer audacity of it.

And then there's her lower half, which presents an entirely different architectural marvel. Her thighs are thick. Like, remarkably thick. The kind of thick that makes the cargo pants look like tights despite being objectively way too large. Her butt is equally breathtaking: round, perky, and so prominent it jiggles with every step, even through all those layers of fabric. Her body should look weird on someone so small, but it still somehow works. She looks incredible. And even though she finds a way to run from every social interaction, she still gets frequent looks from hormonal boys trying to stare at her with enough intensity to look through her layers.

If someone asked me to define the term "shortstack," I'd just point at Luna and say "exhibit A." She has a body that’s literally designed for sin. There's no other way to describe it. Everything about her proportions seems specifically engineered to short-circuit teenage boys' brains. The massive chest, the tiny waist, the thick thighs, and a backside that could inspire poetry, it's the kind of figure that artists draw when they want to create something intentionally provocative.

She smells nice, too. Not in an overpowering way, just... pleasant. Subtle. Like something warm wrapped in cotton candy that someone toned down to the point where you're not sure if you're actually smelling it or just imagining it. It's comforting, cozy, teasing, and, much like the rest of her, seems completely unintentional.

It's kind of sad, actually. Luna's clearly trying to disappear, wearing the most shapeless, oversized clothes possible, hiding behind her hair, hunching over to make herself smaller. But the universe apparently decided to make her existence a walking temptation, and now she's stuck being the center of attention for teenage boys everywhere, despite doing everything in her power to avoid it.

Right now, she's hunched over her keyboard, hair forming a protective curtain around her face, fingers flying across the keys. She's probably already done with the assignment we were given yesterday. She's always the first one to finish. Well, if you didn't count me, that is.

Okay. Deep breath, you can do this. She's just as nervous as you are, maybe even more nervous. This is fine. Just... walk over there. Sit down. Say hi. Three simple steps.

My legs feel like they're made of lead as I walk toward her desk. Each step is a monumental effort. I'm pretty sure I'm sweating through my shirt.

I pull out the chair next to her and sit down.

She doesn't look up. She's completely absorbed in whatever she's coding.

"...Hi," I manage, my voice coming out slightly strangled.