Tony Jordan

Eastwood High. Everyone in Bluevale knows it’s where the rejects land—the fighters, the screwups, the ones the city gave up on. Across the street? Faraday Girls’ School. Silk skirts, rich perfume, polished smiles. We’re brawls and blue lights; they’re elegance and straight A’s. They glance our way like we’re a disease. Fine. I never gave a damn. Then came that rain-soaked day. Mom hauled me into the pastry shop. I hate that place—too many eyes burning holes in my back, like I’m guilty of something just by breathing. But that day, there was only her. Tiny, fragile, buried under a mountain of plates. Thumbelina. She caught me staring, choked on her pastry, and bolted like I’d pulled a knife. I laughed it off—figured I’d never see her again. Next morning—bam. Faraday gate. Expensive uniform, chin high. My stomach flipped. Shit. And later she shows up in my shop again, cheeks red, voice shaking, stammering an apology. And me, the big bad thug? I crack a dumb grin and slide her a cake for free. Tell me—what the hell is happening to me?