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Algebra was supposed to be tedious. Predictable. A pattern of numbers, variables, and formulas I could solve without really thinking, without even letting it take up much space in my brain. The teacher liked to drone on about how these equations would be useful "one day," as if plotting x against y was going to save us from financial ruin or heartbreak. For me, algebra was background noise—a hum I could tune in or out depending on whether anyone nearby was whispering about who kissed who behind the bleachers, who failed their English quiz, or which senior mysteriously took a day off for "family reasons" (translation: hangover).
Usually, I floated through this class on autopilot. But today, my attention had stubbornly lodged itself two seats away.
Lucas Astratides, the new Lockwood boy.
Beacon Hills' newest import. He'd only arrived just a week ago, and yet his presence had already traveled further than most seniors managed in four years. Whispers trailed behind him between hallways: Who is he? Where did he come from? Did you see those eyes? Whispered speculations, a handful of rumors already sprouted—even without fuel.
He didn't exactly blend in. The hair, for one thing—curly black that somehow looked both artfully messy and completely natural, like he had rolled out of bed already styled. His eyes were worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. A storm-grey shade that didn't belong in a sixteen-year-old boy sitting under flickering fluorescent lights. They belonged to someone older, someone who had already seen too much. And then, of course, there was his height: he stood taller than most of the boys here, though not in a way that felt lanky or awkward. He carried himself differently, with a quiet certainty that didn't demand attention— which only made people notice him more.
But it wasn't just the looks, though God knows that was part of it. It was the fact that I couldn't read him.
People were easy for me. A glance, a posture, the way they laughed too loud or not enough—my radar always picked them apart. But Lucas? He was a blank wall, unreadable, and it was maddening.
And even more maddening was who he chose to associate with.
Not the popular crowd, not the athletes or the student council elites. Not even the artsy kids with their film club and poetry journals. No—he gravitated to Malia Hale and Isaac Lahey, both of whom had a reputation for being the kind of people who sat at the edge of the cafeteria not because they weren't welcome elsewhere, but because they didn't care to be. Loners. Brooding, rough-around-the-edges types. And recently, I'd seen Lucas with Erica Reyes of all people—fragile, soft-spoken Erica, who everyone knew had spent more time out of school than in it because of her seizures.
It didn't make any sense. Lucas could've walked in here and had his pick of any social circle. The girls would've killed to have him at their lunch table. The guys would've fallen over themselves to recruit him to their teams. And yet—he chose the outskirts. Purposefully. As if popularity bored him.
And that, of course, made me all the more interested.
My pencil tapped against the desk. Still no answer. And then there was last night. Isaac and Lucas were invited to my house party—a almost personal invitation, no less—and neither of them showed up. I had specifically made the effort. And the effort was ignored. The nerve.
"Martin. Astratides." The teacher's sharp voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "Board. Now."
I recovered instantly, smoothing any trace of irritation, rising with practiced ease, aware of the eyes that inevitably followed me when I moved. Lucas stood as well, though his pace was calmer, slower, like he couldn't be bothered by the sea of gazes that swept toward him.
The teacher scrawled two problems on the board. I got the harder one—naturally—but it barely took me a glance to know the steps. As I wrote, I tilted my head slightly toward him. "So," I said lightly, "why didn't you and Isaac show up last night?"
Lucas didn't even pause in his work. His voice was calm, unbothered. "We had something to do. We'll try to make the next one."
That was it. No excuse. No apology. Just simple dismissal. I arched a brow, a small smile tugging at my lips. Interesting.
"Next time," I told him, making my tone silky, teasing, deliberately loaded, "you don't get to say no. I don't take rejection well."
He glanced at me briefly, lips curving into a smile that matched mine in tone but not in intent. "Then I'll try not to reject you. Doesn't mean I'll say yes."
I blinked, caught off guard for a second. He wasn't biting, not the way boys usually did. Normally, a little teasing was all it took to have them trying to prove themselves. But Lucas? He matched me, mirrored me, and then brushed me off with a wall so solid I almost wanted to throw something at it.
We both finished our problems at nearly the same time, our answers neat and exact. The teacher gave a brisk nod, and we returned to our seats.
But I couldn't stop glancing at him.
Lucas sat back down like nothing had happened, opening his notebook and continuing as though he hadn't just ignored the most sought-after girl in Beacon Hills High. My lips pressed together, a smirk forming despite myself. He intrigued me. The mystery, the restraint, the unreadable walls—it wasn't just refreshing. It was a challenge.
And when I let my gaze shift across the room, I caught Jackson watching me. My boyfriend, arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at Lucas like the boy had just stolen something from him.
I hid my amusement behind my hair. If Lucas noticed Jackson's stare, he gave no sign. That unreadable wall again.
Oh yes. Lucas was going to be fun.