Milli

  “April! Let’s go, you’re gonna be late!” I shout, snatching the car keys off the hook near the door. My backpack’s hanging off one shoulder, and I’m tapping my foot while checking the time on my phone for the third time in a minute.

  “I’m here!” April yells back, hopping down the stairs two at a time. Her shoes are still in her hands, hair slightly messy–typical.

  She scrambles past me, yanking open the front door, and I follow her out to the car. I get behind the wheel and pull away from the house, making the usual quick stop at the middle school to drop her off. April leaps out, shoes finally on her feet, slinging her backpack up as she waves goodbye.

  I roll my eyes affectionately and head toward my own destination: The high school. The parking lot is already packed, and if I’d left even five minutes later, I’d be circling for a spot on the street. I manage to squeeze into one of the last open spaces, kill the engine, lock the car, and jam the keys into my jacket pocket.

  The minute I step into the building, the chaos hits me like a wave. The one-minute warning bell rings, and the hallways explode into organized panic. Pages flutter through the air. Students sprint in every direction—upstairs, downstairs, weaving around one another with practiced urgency. Water bottles clatter to the floor. Backpacks slam into lockers. Somewhere, someone’s yelling.

  I duck past a couple dramatically clinging to each other like the world’s about to end, then weave through the crowd and dart up the west stairwell. I take the steps two at a time, slowing only as I approach my first class of the day: English.

  Just as the final bell rings, I slip into my seat near the window, letting my back slide to the floor. With a small, unnecessary flourish, I prop my chin in my hand and glance at the whiteboard, already scribbled with today’s journal prompt.

  Mrs. McKell begins roll call, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of notebooks opening and pens clicking.

  “Milli Brooks?”

  “Present,” I reply, my tone even, eyes on my notebook.

  She nods without looking up and moves down the list. “Landon Terry?”

  There’s a pause.

  The door swings open, and Landon jogs in, breathless, his brown hair sticking up in all directions like he just rolled out of bed. Honestly, he probably did.

  “Here,” he mutters, lifting his hand halfway.

  Mrs. McKell sighs but doesn’t say a word. Everyone knows it’s pointless to scold Landon. He’s late every single day, usually right as she hits his name. Sometimes he has a legitimate excuse—something about walking his younger siblings to school or helping his grandma—but most of the time, it just seems like he oversleeps and bolts out the door with a granola bar in hand.

  “Alright, class,” Mrs. McKell claps twice, drawing our attention. “Today, we’re starting a new unit—Shakespeare.”

  She begins passing out a stack of papers as a few students groan quietly.

  The bell rings and I exit the classroom, hustling to the theatre room for drama class. It’s my favorite class ever. Simply the most wonderful experiences I have in school is when it comes to theatre. I’m quite experienced in acting, and theatrics are my passion.

  Walking into the theatre room was like returning to the warmth of home after a walk outside in the winter air. It’s so lively with a welcoming atmosphere. An air of anticipation is quite palpable as I hear students chatter about a supposed special guest that will be coming in today. I shrug it off, and sit down in my assigned seat waiting for the bell to ring. Today is also when scripts and characters will be handed out, for a school show there’s going to be scenes acted out from different plays. Everyone in class hopes to get a big part, there’s plenty of extras, so everyone will be in the show, but there’s something different about being the main character on the stage. All eyes on you, it’s exhilarating. Adrenaline rushing through your veins as you feel the weight of the moment.

  My eyes lock on the door as it is pushed open, and a guy walks in, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, and some slacks. I raise an eyebrow. This doesn’t look like the typical guests we would receive. I hear whispering to my right.

  “Did you see that guy?”

  “He looks familiar.”

  “How would you know-”

  The room goes silent as he pulls down his hood revealing his face. It’s none other than…Jax. I blink multiple times, there’s no way it could be him…right?

  “Jax Everhart?!”

  “The famous ice skater?”

  “What is he doing in a high school?”

  “What is he doing in a drama class?”

  “He’s actually here?!”

  One girl actually faints. I quickly look away before his eyes meet mine. Focusing solely on my peers beside me and on the teacher while she takes attendance. Soon I notice him talking with Mrs. Petersen, discussing something unintelligible from the seats.

  Jax steps toward the front of the classroom, tugging off his hoodie to reveal the sleek black skating jacket beneath. “I know this isn’t a rink,” he says, voice softer than when I first saw him, “but movement and performance are connected no matter where you are. So let’s start with something simple: imagining your body is a character, and telling a story with just your movements.”

  “Alright,” he says. “For today, let’s do an exercise in storytelling through movement. Everyone pick a word, emotion, object, anything and tell a short story with only your body. I’ll demonstrate first, then you can take turns.”

  Jax moves with a fluidity that immediately draws attention. Even without skates, his body glides through the motions as if the ice were beneath him. Every gesture is deliberate, expressive, yet effortless. He twists, reaches, and spins, exaggerating emotions so the story of his “word”, something like longing is clear even without a single word spoken.

  I noticed the subtle precision in his posture, the way his shoulders tilt, how he uses his entire body to convey feeling. It’s impressive, undeniable.

  Some of the other students clap at the end of his demonstration, eyes wide. The teacher beams, clearly thrilled. His performance was exceptional, not that I would ever admit it though. Deciding to take matters into my own hands I take a deep breath.

  The room goes quiet as I step up onto the stage. My jacket lands on my seat with a soft thud, and for a moment, all eyes—including Jax’s—are on me. I can feel the weight of their attention, but I channel it, letting it fuel my performance instead of intimidating me.

  As I begin to move, each step and gesture is deliberate, flowing naturally. Starting with portraying the innocence of friendship, reaching out as if to hold someone’s hand, eyes sparkling with gentle warmth. Then transitioning smoothly to familial love, curling inward slightly, the tenderness radiating from my posture. Romantic love comes next—subtle, graceful movements, a soft arch of my back, a tilt of my head toward an imaginary partner, careful not to overdo it but enough to evoke emotion. Finally, a fleeting, unspoken love for oneself—spins and stretches that convey self-respect, confidence, and joy.

  Jax watches, eyes wide. His usual composure slips just a little; he tilts his head, fascinated, clearly impressed. He doesn’t clap immediately; he’s too caught up in watching every motion, every nuance.

  When I finish, the silence hangs for a beat before the room erupts into applause. My friends cheer the loudest, but even some of the quieter students can’t help but clap.

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  Jax steps forward, finally breaking the silence. His voice is calm but carries genuine respect. “That was incredible. You didn’t just act it, you lived it. Every single one of them. That’s rare.”

  He glances at me, not condescending, not challenging, just honestly impressed. “I thought I had a lot of experience with expression. But you…wow. You’re something else.”

  Bowing, I tilt my head up just enough for my eyes to meet his, “It’s called being a theatre kid. I experience expression firsthand, through conveying emotions according to my characters or otherwise. Why else would I be here?” My voice is low, only meant to be heard by Jax.

  Walking back up to my seat I got a lot of compliments from my classmates, they absolutely adored my performance, which honestly I was nervous the whole time. Not sure what to do to portray the word love, it was mostly instinctual.

  My gaze is trained on a senior girl who walks up to the front to act out a word. She steps gracefully onto the small stage area. Her blonde hair shimmers faintly under the warm classroom lights, and her soft blue eyes already carry the melancholy of her chosen word. “Wistful,” She murmurs, almost to herself, before she begins.

  Her movements are slow, delicate like ripples over still water. She raises a hand as if reaching for something just out of reach, then lets it fall, shoulders sinking, her expression distant. Each step across the stage tells a quiet story of longing and memory. She twirls once, her skirt catching the air like a sigh, before pausing center stage eyes unfocused, looking past everyone and everything. The air feels heavier now. Even the gigglers in the back of the room are still, watching. Jax’s expression is thoughtful, he’s studying her, not critically but attentively. Perhaps recognizing how much feeling can exist without a single word spoken.

  When she finishes, she doesn’t bow immediately. She stands still for a moment, eyes on the floor, then takes a soft step back and lowers her head. The applause that follows is quiet but sincere.

  “Beautiful,” the teacher says softly, clapping her hands together once. “Truly beautiful. I think that captured the essence of wistful perfectly.”

  Jax nods in agreement, turning to me briefly. “She’s got something, too. That kind of quiet power. Reminds me of how the best skaters move when they’re not trying to impress anyone.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him, “Since when did you migrate to the seat on the right of mine?”

  “Shh. The next student is starting.” He says holding a finger to his lips. I look away for a moment and he’s back standing near the stage to watch the next volunteer. For a moment I’m convinced he wasn’t near me at all, but I can still faintly feel his whispered remarks.

  Aurelia steps up next, her auburn hair catching the warm sunlight from the windows like fire under glass. She moves with a kind of soft confidence, the way leaves drift before they fall. Her performance begins gently, each motion fluid and cyclical–arms sweeping like wind through trees, fingers fluttering like falling leaves. She twirls once, and sinks to one knee, tracing an invisible spiral in the air, as if showing the slow, inevitable change that autumn brings. The word Autumn takes shape through her movements: beauty, transformation, melancholy, and peace. Every breath she takes seems to echo the season itself.

  As I watch it from my seat the rhythm seems mesmerizing. There’s a quiet serenity to her interpretation, less dramatic than mine, but deeply emotional in its stillness. The class erupts into gentle applause full of appreciation. Her blue eyes flick between the teacher and the students.

  “Beautiful, Aurelia. That was poetry in motion.” Mrs. Peterson says, as the girl gives a shy smile and a small curtsy, heading back to her seat, her cheeks pinker than before.

  The next student, a junior with a quiet confidence, steps up onto the theatre stage. He has curly black hair that bounces as he moves, and his brown eyes scan the room before inward, preparing himself.

  He takes a slow breath and begins. His performance is different from the previous–less fluid, more deliberate. His movements are strong, deliberate gestures that build a story: a bow of acknowledgement, a hand extended to help an unseen person, a firm stance that conveys boundaries without aggression. Each motion carries weight, precision, and meaning. The room is silent again, completely drawn in. He doesn’t just show respect–he embodies it. Respect for others, for himself, for something larger. When he finishes, he straightens and places a hand over his heart before bowing his head slightly.

  A beat of silence, then applause warm and sincere. Even Jax claps, nodding in approval. “That was solid,” he says softly. “Grounded. You made the word feel strong without even needing to force it.”

  The teacher beams. “Beautifully done. See how very different approaches can tell powerful stories?”

  I can’t help but admire the performance–it’s not flashy like others, but it’s centered, confident, real. The boy glances in your direction as he leaves the stage, giving a small, respectful nod, as if acknowledging the shared artistry between us.

  Jax’s eyes flick between me and the boy, something unreadable in his expression, maybe curiosity, maybe a spark of competitiveness.

  One of my friends besides me elbows my side, “He’s looking at you again.” She says obviously referring to Jax.

  Another friend snickers under her breath. “Seriously, did you see his face when you were performing? That wasn’t the look of a guy watching just another student.”

  I raise an eyebrow unimpressed, though the warmth creeping into my cheeks betrays me for just a second. “You’re all imagining things,” I mutter, crossing my arms and focusing my gaze back toward the stage.

  Jax, coincidentally, happens to glance my way at that exact moment. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away immediately this time; instead just gives a small, polite half-smile before returning his attention to the next student preparing to perform.

  My friends lose it quietly, muffling giggles behind their hands. “Oh yeah,” one of them whispers, “definitely imagining things.”

  Mrs. Peterson claps her hands again. “Alright! Let’s move on to our next volunteer! Who’s feeling brave?”

  Jax steps back, folding his arms, clearly back in mentor mode–but every so often, his eyes flick in my direction, as if he’s still thinking about something I did or said.

  Avery continues giggling so I shove her. She lets out an undignified “Hey!” as she stumbles forward from my shove, nearly tripping over her own bag. The class bursts into laughter, the tension breaking instantly.

  Mrs Peterson blinks, clearly amused. “Ah! Wonderful enthusiasm!” she says brightly. “Thank you for volunteering!”

  Avery shoots me a betrayed glare over her shoulder, cheeks flushed pink as the room continues to chuckle. “You’re so dead after class,” she hisses, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  Jax chuckles quietly from his spot near the stage. “Guess we found our next brave soul,” he says with a teasing lilt, folding his arms. His tone isn’t mocking, he’s genuinely enjoying the class now.

  Avery groans dramatically but steps up to the stage anyway. “Alright, fine,” she sighs. “My word is chaos–because that’s exactly what my so-called friend just caused.” She throws a playful glare to me as she starts her exaggerated, chaotic performance, flailing in mock frustration and spinning around like she’s trapped in a hurricane. The class laughs and cheers her on, and even I crack up.

  By the end, she bows deeply, pointing directly at me. “And that,” she says with theatrical flair, “is how revenge will feel.”

  Mrs. Peterson claps enthusiastically. “That was delightful! So much energy!”

  I’m still laughing when I notice Jax watching, smiling–not his usual reserved grin, but a real, genuine one. He seems lighter than before, almost like a normal teenager, not the famous prodigy everyone whispers about. As my friend returns to her seat and flicks my shoulder muttering, “You owe me,” the bell rings, signaling the end of class.

  Everyone begins gathering their things, still chatting animatedly. Jax speaks briefly with the teacher, but before leaving, his gaze drifts toward you once more.

  He hesitates–then walks over.

  I focus on zipping my bag, taking my time with it–meticulously tucking in notebooks and smoothing out my jacket, pretending I didn’t notice the soft sound of footsteps approaching. The chatter in the room fades as students file out, leaving behind only a handful of people–my friends whispering by the door and the faint echo of the teacher’s heels as she exits to fetch something from the prop room.

  A quiet voice breaks the silence. “Hey.” Jax says from just behind me.

  I pause mid-movement, my hand still gripping the zipper. He’s close enough that I can hear the faint rustle of his jacket as he shifts his weight. His tone isn’t cocky or teasing, it’s careful, almost unsure.

  “I just wanted to say…” he hesitates, “you were right. Last week.”

  I glance up and he meets my eyes. “I’ve been skating my whole life because I had to. I forgot what it was like to do something just because you want to. Watching you perform today,” He trails off, searching for words. “It reminded me.” I remember faintly one of the times when I was on the ice, flailing my arms like an amateur, I questioned him about ice skating,

  He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, a faint flush visible on his cheeks, “So thanks. For that.”

  My friends, lingering by the door still, are absolutely dying trying not to giggle. Alice mouths to me, ‘He’s totally into you.’

  “Ok…your welcome.” I hold up a thumbs up.

  Jax blinks at my simple response catching him off guard. For a second, he almost laughs, softly, like he didn’t expect me to be so casual after his mini heartfelt speech.

  “Yeah,” he murmurs, watching me walk away, a small amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cool.”

  I sling my bag over my shoulder and rejoin my friends, who immediately start whispering the moment I’m within reach. “Oh my gosh,” Emery hisses, grinning. “Did he just confess his emotional awakening and you hit him with a thumbs-up?”

  Avery nearly doubles over laughing. “Iconic. He’s probably never been brushed off like that in his entire famous life.”

  I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitch upward. “I wasn’t trying to brush him off. I just didn’t know what to say.”

  “Uh-huh,” Alice says with a grin. “Sure, sure. Anyway, you totally broke him.”

  I glance over my shoulder as I head out the classroom door. Jax is still there, standing beside the teacher’s desk. He catches my eye for a moment and gives a tiny, knowing smile—one that says he’s not insulted. More like intrigued.