There's people in this school who hide in the darkest corners with their heads hung low to the blue and white tiles below them. And then there's people like Taylor, who stands out in a crowd, towering over most students at 5 foot 9 in her grey Balenciaga sneakers, and shoulder length hair box dyed Burgundy for the fall season. 

Taylor and her friends take turns dying their hair exotic colors, it makes the boys stare at them a bit longer than they usually do, though none of their boyfriends go to WOHS. Somehow box dyed hair puts extra power in the struts of these girls down the school hallways as they stride hand in hand with each-other. They all rant about how someday in the distant future they'll be laughing at all of these "broke hoes" 10 times more then they're laughing now. 

She lives in a sort of bubble, Taylor, disclosed from the rest of her school and draped into a 2003 Paris Hilton- Gossip Girl watching-esque vibe that not many can live by. Somehow they aspire to look like Aaliyah and Paris Hilton at the same time, but they all end up looking like the average, heavily glorified light skin girl with curly hair that Black boys prefer over any other girl.

Most of her friends resemble her in a way: light skin with a deep appreciation for the Y2K fashion, a yearning to marry an Italian boy, a serious wealth superiority complex and curly hair. 

See these girls live at the top of the hill, as their homes tower over most neighborhoods looking proudly over the New York City skyline. Friday nights are often spent here, ranting about their extremely negligent parents who let them host friends over every weekend killing their lungs with gallons of Vodka and Hennessy. 

Sometimes Taylor likes to escape the dreadful reality of West OakHigh by imagining her future as a model, living out on in city of Paris, far away from her family and so called friends, falling in love with a sweet Italian boy and sipping wine on his mother's balcony on a weekend trip to Venice. 

For now, the mediocre environment of her highschool will suffice, but it helps to live out her dreams through her fashion. It's either low cut Levi jeans custom made by their friend KC or no jeans at all. If they ever dare wear a bag to school, it has to be the large tote Telfar bag or they'll simply have to hold all of their books in their hands, when they even bring their books to school that is. Either way all eyes are on them, glossed with a hint of desire, other times with jealousy, sometimes with both. 

Cristano watches these three girls as they breeze past him into the Tarnoff Cafe. It’s like he’s invisible, but he prefers it that way. 

"What's the wave for this weekend? I refuse to stay in my house," the light skinned, green eyed girl named Taylor in the middle says.

"Don't look at me," Lyric, the straight-haired, dark skinned girl on the right of her says. "The last time I threw a party at my place, someone stole my juul . I was in withdrawal for a week without it."

"I'm busy. I have debutant training this weekend." Says the third, brown skinned girl named Kayla twirling her curly red-rinsed hair around her finger.

This was perfect timing to tune out the useless conversation of his peers as he headed toward the hot lunch line.  

In the Senior cafe, Taylor says hesitantly:

“Are we going to Mr. Q’s room today?” she digs into her metallic Telfar bag to find her Fenty “flossy” gloss. 

“Of course” Lyric tugs her hair behind her ears, “why?” 

“He gives me creepy vibes. He’s always staring at me” Taylor says

“Girl, you always think someone is looking at you.” 

“Word,” Kayla agrees, “The world does not revolve around you.” It does, but Taylor laughs this off. 

It's 10:30 am and as the lunch bell rings throughout the building, Cristano storms through his highschool halls blasting music in his Airpods, a clear signal to all that no one is to approach or talk to him. Perhaps it may even be a signal of power, a sense of superiority over the wired headphones wearing heathens that shamelessly roam the halls of West OakHigh School with every waking day of their pathetic adolescent lives.

At his pleasure, he can block out all the people at school while listening to his own Garage band self produced violin songs. He speeds by the band kids all sitting down with their faces glued to their phones, and their stress over the winter concert ringing throughout the hall. Up the stairs and past the chemistry classrooms, he almost gags as he first smells a whiff of the egg-like smell of sulphate from Dr. Duarte's class; and again when he catches a glimpse of the freshmen couple sucking each other's faces off just outside his locker. His eyes dart past the ROTC kids drilling out on the track, past the french fry smeared white and blue tiles, past the long cafeteria line and dreadfully soggy chocolate chip cookies and beelines his way up to room 3206: Mr. Q's English 12 classroom.

His name is Mr. Q, but nobody knows exactly what the G stands for. They do know, however, that he's 1 year fresh out of college, comes from a super Italian family and vibes really well with his students. He's the cool teacher of West OakHigh. Everyday he pushes through the classroom doors with a huge cup of Dunkin Donuts hazelnut iced coffee with  precisely three packs of Splenda and a toasted Everything Bagel because (his words not mine), "What dumb*** buys Starbucks coffee unless you're a 13-year-old girl from California?"

Mr. Q and his grandiose connection to his childlike sense has caught the attention of all the older teachers here at West OakHigh. To be frank, they think he's a childish pr*ck who can't ever seem to take his job seriously, but he's heavily glorified amongst the students. He's cool and relatable and so even if he does wear Vans to school every day with jeans and a $10 dress shirt from H&M, you respect him because you like him. You don't fear him because he isn't above you, in a way you're almost equal. You could complain about your chemistry teachers right in front of him and he'd jokingly recall when he had walked by them in the teachers cafeteria and asked with phony curiosity, "How do you get your kids to love you so much Dr. Duarte?" That is, of course, on the days when he'd even dare to step out of his classroom for lunch and socialize with the teachers for a change.

Lunch was a very particular time for Mr. Q where he could spend it ordering Ubereats from Panera Bread or Fortismoos, or he could spend it grading and gossiping about bad students with the other English teachers, but Mr. Q wasn't your ordinary teacher. To the students, he was a companion. And for people like Cristano, everyday during the lunch period, he was somebody to talk to out of the 4,000 students in the building, the one person that wasn't was a pathetic, self-absorbed pr*ck.

Cristano storms through the door with a dramatic flair. It's time for their daily rant.

"So what's on your plate today Cris," Mr. Q folds his hands across his head and props up his legs onto the messy desk before him. Stacks of ungraded papers and unfinished lesson plans pile up and tumble onto his 2017 Macbook Pro, a college graduation gift from his grandparents.

Cristano plops down into the desk, sending one of his curls to brush against his face and sighs, "Just thinking about how incredibly pathetic everyone at this school is. I feel like I'm in another universe."

"No I quite literally meant what's on your plate, Cris."

Cristano looked down at the styrofoam plate and laughed, "Oh Mr. Q you know I don't do school lunch here. I hate American food, it's so f***ing unhealthy. But I just take it because it's free and my mom always says some s*** about how I'd be ungrateful not to take advantage of this free lunch I get cause you know how it is when you come from an immigrant family." 

He brings his desk closer to Mr. Q and leans in using his hands for extra emphasis on today's tangent, "As soon as you show a drip of ungratefulness to her she's like, 'back in the Philippines you didn't have this privilege.' She just doesn't get it you know?" he says this in between bites of his extremely American so-called 'burger' and fries, "free or not free the s*** is still disgusting."

"Hey." Mr. Q says in a mockingly serious tone, "For some kids, school lunch is their only meal all day. You've got to know how ungrateful you sound kid."

"You're like 12, I mean come on are you actually trying to lecture me right now?"

But that's the thing, when your teacher is your friend, you don't really take them seriously. Even when they seem a little more friendly than they should be, even when they might lean in a little too close, laugh a little too hard, smile a little too earnestly, you shake it off because he's just being a nice teacher right?

Is he still being a nice teacher when after coming to class 30 minutes late, he takes a long look at your shirt gripping every curve and crevice on your body and says "Is it your birthday today, is that why you're late? You look very beautiful." Is he still being a nice teacher when he looks a little too long at Kayla's chest when she bends down to grab her pencil? Is he still being the cool, relatable, Vans wearing teacher when he holds your hand a little too tight when he says "Where’s your head today Taylor? Don't worry, high school boys are stupid. Everything will be alright. '' Where exactly is the line crossed here?

That was for Cristano to worry about some other time. Today's lunch also meant that he could finally show Mr. Q his latest garage band project, a cacophony of his very own self recorded violin music. A summer program in the city had given Cristano knowledge on self-recording songs that had boosted his confidence from becoming a mediocre soundcloud artist to being a teenage musical genius that would go on to study music at Berklee. But somehow this renewed self image was distorted. Though Critstiano thought that he truly was the first musical prodigy of his family, maybe even of the West OakHighschool population, other people (including Mr. Q) thought otherwise.

See, Cristano used to hang out with the theatre kids (who absolutely worshiped fellow thespian Taylor); he had all the dramatic flair and musical talent that one needed to really thrive there. He dreamed of directing beautiful symphonies of the high school orchestra and band and incorporating them into the school plays. 

The difference between Mr. Q and the theatre kids is that the theatre kids had the nerve to tell Cristano that his music was horrible and needed some serious work because they weren't friends, they were acquaintances. Mr. Q had trust that he didn't want to break, but is he still being the nice teacher if he doesn't tell the truth to his students?

Cristano didn't care. He just needed validation, because underneath all that talk about hating every single soul that lurks around West OakHigh, he simply was a fragile boy who looked toward others for security. From the surface, he seems shallow and egotistical, but Mr. Q was often the very source of that ego, pumping up his confidence to become a successful musical artist with each and every lunch period. 

As Cristano shoves his phone onto the desk, Mr. Q hesitates, quickly trying to find another excuse to kick him out and save him the embarrassment. But before he can stop Cristano from playing his music, 3 skinny shadows overstep him. The room suddenly smells like “Carolina Herrera Good Girl” perfume, Juul, and bubblegum. They’ve arrived.

Kayla casually stands at the doorway with a bright smile. Lyric shudders in disgust as she sets her bag onto the desk adjacent from him, hearing Cristano’s music blast from his phone. 

Taylor suddenly becomes quiet, staring out into space, which was strange for her because she usually would bring the most attention to herself in the company of mediocre artists like Cristano, with her it’s-my-world-and-you're-just-living-in-it attitude. 

Before they could make any further conversation, the 5th period bell rang, signaling both the end of lunch, and Cristano’s only time of socialization during school. As he quickly tossed his styrofoam lunch plate into the overflowing garbage, Cristano irresponsibly forgot his left airpod on the desk and waved goodbye to Mr. Q. Kayla and Lyric both shuffled away to their free period while Taylor was left alone in the classroom with Mr. Q, who was glad for the short 5 minute passing period with her.  

“I’ve been waiting all day for this class Taylor” He smirked, adjusted his shirt and scooted his desk chair closer to her. “Why so quiet today, your boy found out about our little secret?”

“No” she answered quietly, looking down at her Air Force One sneakers, which tapped furiously against the dirty tiles stained with Dunkin Donuts coffee. 

Cristano briskly walked  back to room 3206 to retrieve his Airpod and peeped into a smudged window on the door, which- strangely enough- was locked already. He leaned in forward closer to the door to see Mr. Q towering over Taylor, he almost looked unrecognizable the way his kind glance disappeared. This is it, he thought, the key to his retrieval of power in the WOHS drama department. If they only knew this information, Taylor would never be praised again, they’d have no choice but to settle for his supremacy. Scheming, Cristano walked away, smiling ear to ear. 

The terrible memory of last month shadowed over Taylor like a dark cloud. His friendly voice, how quickly it turned grim, his kind eyes turned to stone, staring her down until she was too afraid to look away. A friendly talk during lunch went wrong. A step too close, so close she could hear his heartbeat increasing. Her hands began to tremble with the memory of his dirty hands grabbing her body.

“You know if he did I could take care of it right” He whispered harshly and put his hands on her shoulders, “I’m here for you Taylor.” 

Taylor looked to the side, ashamed, and quickly shook away from his strong grasp, somehow that beautiful voice went silent with his invasive touch.

Just as Mr. Q collects himself and unlocks the door, a river of adolescent, 12th graders, fuming of sweat, Bath and Body Works Cherry Blossom body spray, and utter boredom, begin to trickle into the classroom. Taylor rushes to her seat and plugs in her Airpods, tuning out his lesson on The Great Gatsby.

It seemed as if her little secret dimmed her light. With everyday, her strut became more of sulking dragging of the feet with her head hung low. Slowly, she fell behind the forceful strides of her friends right and slipped away to the school guidance counselor.

Ms. Johnson’s office always carried a welcoming vibe. Electric candles sat in a row on her desk, accompanied by a tray of incense filling the room with a warm scent. 

“Nice to see you Taylor.” Johnson looks up from her computer and adjusts her clear, square rim blue light glasses, “Schedule change again?” 

“I was um,” Taylor looks down, “I was hoping we could just talk?”

Suddenly her whole diva persona melted away, and tears smudged her full face of Fenty Beauty makeup down as she recalled the forceful grip of Mr. Q.

---

The thing about high school is that news travels fast, as expected with the gossip-obsessed adolescents who have Instagram and Twitter accounts to stay informed of the social atmosphere. With one meeting between Taylor and Ms. Johnson, somehow the entire Mr. Q supremacy came to a stand still. Suddenly, beneath the glittering surface of his Mr. Nice Guy persona, the truth was revealed. He never was the nice teacher, just one who couldn’t speak his truth (or in Cristano’s case) tell his true opinions, keep his hands to himself or his attraction within an appropriate age range. 

Everyone found out within minutes when Ms. Johnson called him to her office, while Mr. Q nervously shuffled out of the classroom swearing to Cristano that it was just a quick meeting about lesson plans. 

On the other side of the classroom sat Kayla, Lyric and Taylor whispering quietly. 

“Yeah I heard that he’s not coming back next semester.”

“Word?”

“Yeah” Kayla shook her head, “Someone posted yesterday that apparently some girl confessed he sexually assaulted her.”

“I told y’all he was a creep.” Taylor laughed nervously, glad to be settling back into herself again, unbeknownst to her friends that she was the mystery girl.

Cristano, who saw Mr. Q leave from the corner of his eye, curiously pulled his airpods to eavesdrop and monitor the progression of his plan. In his hand lay his phone, prepared with another Instagram post draft from an anonymous account that revealed Taylor as Mr. Q’s “mystery woman”. 

And just like that, Cristano turned invisible again in his high school bubble to the tune of his own music, without his single companion, full of secret gossip that could bring him to the very top of the WOHS theater hierarchy. Just one click away from supremacy of the social atmosphere he both loathed and desired.