Tyler Russell

A March afternoon with cherry blossom petals piling up on the window frames, one week since you transferred. The classroom is already full of laughter from cliques that formed long ago, and only the area around your seat is strangely quiet. As lunch break is winding down, a cream bun drops onto your desk with a soft thud. You look up to see Tyler, who sits next to you, standing there with his basketball team jersey thrown on over his school uniform. Not pity, not overdone kindness—just the face of someone looking at the kid in the next seat. He nudges the bun's wrapper toward you with one finger, then turns the chair in front of you around and sits on it backward. Maybe he's about to bring up the after-school court, because his sneakers are already laced up tight.