Frequencies of Us

Mateo POV

I’m running the track, feet slamming that worn-out red loop snaking through Lincoln High’s dusty field. Dusk is crashing over New Mexico, splashing the sky with oranges and reds—like someone flicked a lighter and set the whole horizon ablaze. My sneakers smack down hard, thud-thud, thud-thud, keeping time. Breathing’s steady, but my brain? Total chaos. Can’t shake the crap they’ve been whispering all week—“Vargas the Vandal,” that’s me now, apparently. Like I’m the jerk who smashed up Principal Ortiz’s office just for laughs. Didn’t do it, but good luck getting them to shut up about it.

Sweat’s dripping, stinging my eyes. I dig in, legs screaming, trying to leave the noise behind. It’s not just their dumb rumors, though—it’s Noah, too. Last week’s stuck on repeat up here, some glitchy little scene I can’t mute. We were holed up in the AV room, just us, wrestling with the sound system for some pointless assembly. Wires all over, a snarl of red and black, and me muttering curses because I suck at that junk. Noah was right there, crouched close, hands darting quick and sure—like he came out of the womb clutching tools. Long fingers, pale against the tangle, and then—bam—his hand grazed mine. Barely a second, skin brushing skin, but my heart flipped out, racing like I’d just bolted a mile. I locked up, staring at that stupid wire, acting like nothing happened. He didn’t say squat either, just kept messing with the cables, but I’d bet anything he was sneaking looks. That tiny moment’s been rattling around my skull ever since, louder than all their garbage talk.

I swing around the track’s curve, chest squeezing tight. Bleachers loom up ahead, gray, deserted—except, wait, not quite. Someone’s there, slouched against the metal, arms folded. I ease off, squinting through the dimming light. It’s Noah. Hair’s a mess, sticking up like he’s been raking his hands through it, and he’s got that ratty jacket on, the one he lives in. He’s just… watching me, quiet, like he’s been posted up forever. My gut does a flip—hate that feeling. I don’t stop yet, just drop to a jog, sucking in air to steady myself. He doesn’t budge, eyes tracking me, calm, like he’s got all night.

I hit the straight stretch and finally pull up, hands on my knees, gasping. Crickets are starting to hum, cutting through the stillness. I stand, swipe sweat off my face, and head his way. Legs feel like lead now, but it’s not the running—it’s him, standing there, staring like that. I stop a few feet off, close enough to catch the twitch in his jaw, like he’s biting back something.

“You alright?” he says, voice low, that half-smile creeping up—just enough to knot my chest again.

I jerk a nod, too quick, throat dry as hell. “Yeah. You?”

He shrugs, hands jamming deeper into his pockets. “Been better, I guess.”

The air’s heavy between us, buzzing like a busted radio signal. I wanna ask what he’s doing here, why he’s eyeballing me like some weirdo, but my mouth stays shut. I just rock on my feet, trying not to fixate on how that jacket hangs off him. He’s all sharp edges, skinny as hell, but there’s this… solidness to him that makes me wanna step in closer. I don’t, though.

“Didn’t have to wait around,” I mumble, scuffing my sneaker in the dirt.

“Didn’t,” he says. “Just… wound up here.”

I huff a laugh—bullshit, and we both know it. But I let it go. Sky’s gone dark now, the fire draining out, night sneaking in fast. Should head out, hit the shower, ditch this day. But my feet won’t move. Neither will he. We’re stuck there—him by the bleachers, me at the track’s edge, the gap between us screaming with stuff we won’t say.

“Catch you tomorrow,” I grumble, turning off. My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been shouting, not running.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet. I don’t look back, but I feel his eyes on me all the way to the locker room.

Gym’s dead when I get there—lights low, just the AC groaning to life. My bag’s slumped on the bench where I ditched it. I flop down, yank out my water, and chug. Heart’s still hammering, and it’s not the laps anymore—it’s Noah, that dumb half-smile, the way he just plants himself in my orbit. I scrub my face, trying to ditch the thought, and unzip my bag for my towel.

Something’s weird. There’s this rustle, a crumpled paper poking out of the side pocket. I frown, fish it out. It’s mashed up, like someone jammed it in there fast. I flatten it, and my gut sinks. Black marker, sloppy but dead clear: “Watch your back, fairy.”

My jaw clamps shut. I glare at it, fingers digging into the edges, the word searing into me. Fairy. That’s what they’ve been hissing—the jocks, the loudmouths who run this dump. Ever since that prank—spray paint on Ortiz’s walls, files trashed—they’ve been side-eyeing me, like I’m the culprit. And now this crap. I ball the note up, breath hissing out sharp. Someone’s close—close enough to mess with my stuff, to know I’m not just the fast kid.

I’m up quick, snatching my bag. Locker room feels tighter now, shadows stretching too long. Pulse is pounding as I bolt for the door. Noah pops into my head—him at the bleachers, waiting, quiet. Did he see something? Know something? Nah, he wouldn’t. But someone does. Someone’s out there, and they’re not done screwing with me yet.