Estevan McGavern|| School Shananagins||First meet

(Senerio 1)

"You don’t belong here."

The words weren’t even directed at Estevan, just some kid at the next table tossing them casually like trash into a conversation. But they stuck anyway, lodged in his ribs like a splinter. He pushed his tray away, the smell of overcooked pizza suddenly nauseating.

Stanstun High’s cafeteria was too bright—fluorescent lights buzzing, laughter sharp as broken glass. Three weeks in, and he still didn’t know where to look. Back home, he’d have been crammed into a corner with Marco and Javi, arguing over grades or whose mom packed the best empanadas. Here, the tables were islands, and he hadn’t figured out how to swim.

His phone buzzed—Mom, probably. Again. Did you eat? Did you talk to anyone? He thumbed the screen off without reading. The transfer letter folded neatly in his backpack, the one that called this opportunity "unparalleled, a stepping stone to extraordinary futures." Extraordinary futures required extraordinary sacrifices, apparently. Like trading the familiar hum of his old neighborhood for this sterile maze of strangers who glanced at him like he was a mislabeled specimen.

Across the room, a group of kids erupted into laughter. Estevan exhaled, slow, through his nose. He could list every reason this was worth it: the scholarship, the labs, the fact that Dad’s hands had shook when he signed the papers. But right now, with his lukewarm soda sweating onto the table, all he could think was I don’t know how to do this.

He traced the edge of his tray—plastic, warped from too many dishwashers. Back home, the cafeteria trays had been chipped metal, initials scratched deep by generations of bored kids. Here, everything felt temporary, like the school expected them to bolt at any second. Maybe he should. Just walk out, catch the first bus heading south. But then what? Show up at his old school with his tail between his legs, explain that the golden opportunity tasted like aluminum and loneliness?

His fingers twitched toward his backpack, where his notebook was buried under textbooks. Writing always helped, but pulling it out here felt like admitting defeat. Like he needed the crutch. Still—he unzipped the bag halfway, just enough to slip his hand inside and feel the familiar texture of the cover. Rough, from the time he’d spilled coffee on it. Real.

The bell rang, sudden and shrill. Around him, chairs screeched, backpacks thudded onto shoulders. Estevan lingered, watching the room empty. For a second, he imagined staying put, letting the next period start without him. See how long it took for anyone to notice. But then he stood, adjusting the straps of his backpack until they dug into his shoulders just right. One step, then another. The hallway swallowed him whole.

Lockers slammed in uneven rhythms, voices bouncing off the linoleum. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, but his peripheral vision caught glimpses—girls whispering behind hands, a guy dribbling a basketball between classes like he was already warming up for some invisible game. Estevan’s throat tightened. At his old school, he’d known the rhythm of these halls, the way the air changed before a fight broke out near the bathrooms, which teachers would let you slide if you were late. Here, every corner was a blind curve.

He slowed near a drinking fountain, pretending to check his phone. The screen stayed black. Three weeks in, and his camera roll was still just blurry shots of his old bedroom ceiling, a half-finished poem in his notes app. You’re here to learn, not to belong, he reminded himself. But the thought fizzed out like a weak battery. What was the point of learning if it all just stacked up inside you with nowhere to go?

A teacher’s voice cut through the noise—Mr. Hayes, let’s move it. Estevan startled, then realized the name wasn’t his. He exhaled, sharp. This place didn’t even know him enough to yell at him correctly. The classroom door loomed ahead, half-open. Inside, desks formed a perfect U, students already slouched in their seats. He hesitated on the threshold. Back home, he’d have slid into his usual spot by the window, where the sun hit just right for doodling in the margins of his notebook. Here, every seat was a gamble.

His fingers curled around the strap of his bag. One breath. Then he stepped forward, into the room’s quiet hum of conversations he wasn’t part of. The teacher glanced up, nodded toward an empty desk. Estevan sat. The chair was cold.

Someone had carved "W + S" into the desktop, the letters jagged and deep. He ran his thumb over them. Back home, the desks had been covered in layers of old gum and marker, years of rebellion pressed into the grain. This one felt like a museum piece—preserved, untouched. Like whoever sat here before had left no real mark at all.

The teacher began roll call, names bouncing off the walls in a rhythm Estevan still couldn’t predict. When his turn came—"Estevan McGavern?"—the pause afterward stretched too long. Eyes flicked toward him, curious, then away. He clenched his jaw. It wasn’t hostility, just... nothingness. The indifference stung worse than anger ever could.

Outside, rain started pattering against the windows. Back home, storms rolled in heavy and fast, turning the streets into rivers within minutes. Here, the rain was hesitant, as unsure as he was. He pressed his palm flat against the desktop, the carved initials biting into his skin. Maybe he should add his own. E + ? The question mark lingered in his mind. Who’d even notice?

His notebook sat heavy in his backpack. Half-finished equations from physics, a sketch of the sycamore tree outside his old apartment—things that belonged to someone else now. The teacher droned on about quadratic formulas, but Estevan’s attention snagged on the kid two seats over, drumming a pencil against his knee in a rhythm that almost matched the rain. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap. For a stupid second, he wanted to ask: What song is that? But his tongue stayed glued to the roof of his mouth.

[Senerio 2]

"Just pick someone, Estevan," Mr. Brenner sighed, rubbing his temple like he'd already lost patience with the class period and it hadn't even been ten minutes. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the half-hearted posters of rhetorical devices peeling off the walls. Estevan's fingers twitched against the edge of his notebook, already indented from where he'd pressed too hard during last week's essay draft.

He scanned the room without turning his head. Most people had paired off already—laughter, shuffling chairs, the occasional dramatic groan. Then there was you. Sitting too straight, staring at the whiteboard like it held answers. Or maybe you were just avoiding eye contact too.

Mr. Brenner cleared his throat. "Clock's ticking."

Estevan exhaled through his nose and grabbed his bag before he could overthink it. The legs of his chair screeched as he stood, drawing glances. He ignored them. His pulse thudded dully in his ears as he slid into the empty seat beside you. "Guess we're partners," he muttered, more to his own knees than to you.

The assignment sheet crinkled under his palms when he flattened it on the desk. Analyze the motif of isolation in The Catcher in the Rye. Typical. He could’ve written it in his sleep. But now there was the weight of someone else’s presence, the unspoken question of who would speak first, who would cave and take the lead. Estevan tapped his pen against the paper—once, twice—then stopped himself. Overcompensating would be worse. Silence was safer. He knew how to work alone.

[Scenario 3]

The plastic bench under Estevan was still warm from yesterday’s sun, the kind of heat that lingered stubbornly in the seams. He dug his fingers into the gap between the seat and the backrest, feeling the grit of sand and the ghost of someone else’s gum. Stanstun’s park wasn’t much—just a patch of grass, a rusted swing set, and this bench that faced the road—but it was the only place where the town’s noise didn’t feel like it was pressing against his temples.

He exhaled, slow, watching his breath curl in the crisp air. It was stupid, maybe, to find comfort here. Back home, parks meant crowds, laughter tangled with the hum of traffic, the constant press of bodies moving. Here, the silence was a thing you could hold. It unnerved him. Made his skin itch. But he kept coming back anyway, because the alternative was his house, with its too-white walls and the way the fridge faintly groaned like something alive in the middle of the night.

A leaf skittered across the pavement, catching on the toe of his sneaker. Estevan nudged it away, then immediately regretted it. The motion felt too sharp, too loud in the quiet. He slumped further into the bench, letting his head tip back. The sky was that particular shade of blue that made everything beneath it feel staged, unreal. Like none of this was supposed to be his life.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it. It would just be his grandmother’s weekly check-in, the same hesitant questions about school, about his mother, about whether he’d “settled in yet.” As if settling was something you could choose. The park’s sprinklers kicked on with a sputtering hiss, and Estevan watched the water arc over the grass in uneven streaks. He wondered, distantly, if he’d ever stop counting the days until graduation. If this town would ever feel like anything more than a pause.

I hope nothing ruins this.. He thought to himself..