The Rumor

By Monday, the air at school had changed.

I didn’t notice it at first. Everything started out normal—class began, Mrs. Carter talked about fractions, and Jamie and I exchanged a quiet nod when we sat down. But by lunchtime, something was off. Lena kept glancing at me with a smirk. Maya whispered something behind her hand. Even Ethan, who usually didn’t talk to me unless it was about homework, looked at me and grinned like he knew a secret.

Something was definitely up.

When I slid my tray across the lunch counter, Lena bounced up beside me. “Sooo,” she said, drawing the word out. “Anything you want to tell me?”

I frowned. “No. Why?”

Maya wiggled her eyebrows. “Heard you got a birthday gift.”

I stiffened. “So?”

“And a note,” Lena added, nudging me. “From a boy.”

“Guys, stop,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

Maya leaned closer. “Emma likes Jamie,” she sang in a quiet, teasing voice.

My heart dropped.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how they knew—or who told them—but the worst part wasn’t that they were right. It was that now everyone knew.

Word spread faster than a sneeze in flu season. By the end of lunch, people were giggling behind hands and throwing not-so-subtle looks at me and Jamie. I tried to ignore it, but when I passed Ethan near the lockers, he whispered, “You two gonna get married or what?”

“Grow up,” I snapped.

Still, it didn’t stop.

By the time I got back to class, Jamie was already in his seat, doodling in his notebook. I slid into mine without looking at him.

We didn’t talk that afternoon. Not during reading time, not during science, not even when we got paired up again to finish the last part of our catapult presentation.

It wasn’t just awkward—it was like a door had quietly closed between us.

After school, I lingered by my locker, hoping Jamie might say something. But he didn’t. He just walked past with his backpack slung low, eyes on the floor.

I wanted to call out to him. To explain. To say that I did like him, but not in the way everyone was joking about. That I liked how quiet he was, how kind, how he never tried to be anyone but himself. That I liked the way he drew raccoons in rain boots and wrote me birthday notes when he couldn’t find the words out loud.

But I didn’t say any of it.

Instead, I just stood there as he walked away.

That night, I sat on my bed with the sketchbook he gave me. I flipped through the pages slowly, half-hoping a new drawing had magically appeared. Something that would tell me what he was thinking. Something that would fix the mess I didn’t mean to make.

There wasn’t anything new.

Just that one picture of me, sitting under the tree.

And suddenly, I wished I could go back to the beginning—before the science fair, before the rumors, before I knew what it felt like to care about someone who might not care back in the same way.

Because caring? That part was easy.

But being known?

That part was scary.

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