The Naughty List - 6. Nice Boys

7:15 am. Alarm beeping. Still experiencing a terrible headache from having to wake up two hours earlier than I’d like. The second Monday of my final semester in high school didn’t feel all too different from last week. Except in many ways, it totally was.

I yawn while walking over to the bathroom sink, waist deep in thoughts about everything that transpired the week prior. There were a lot of notable events that took place— my very first sexual experience with another boy, the unexpected “spring fling” arrangement with Ernesto, and the close call I had with my dad potentially outing myself. Even individually, all of these were a lot to take in. But the one thing that kept lingering in my head was the very existence of the Naughty List, and the apprehensive feelings I couldn’t quite shake off about it.

At this point, I’ve accepted the list’s supposed magical qualities; I won’t question that part anymore. And perhaps, maybe a part of me is even a little grateful for the possibilities it’s opened up between me and Ernesto. But that left me with a big, looming question: what now? What exactly did I want to do from here? Did I even want to do more with it? And if so… was the risk of possibly outing myself in the process worth it?

The more I thought about it that way, the more I felt that the Naughty List posed more liabilities than opportunities, at its core. After all, my wish was to simply graduate from high school in peace, away from any unnecessary drama. The last thing I wanted was to bring the entire school’s attention towards myself, by making eight more guys suddenly fall in love with me.

As I bring my toothbrush to my mouth, the pajama sleeve around my wrist collapses, revealing the remaining names engraved on my wrist.

• 1. Zayn Nassif Johnson
• 2. Aiden Takahiro Parker
• 3̶.̶ ̶E̶r̶n̶e̶s̶t̶o̶ ̶A̶l̶v̶a̶r̶e̶z̶-̶C̶r̶u̶z̶
• 4. Ryan Johnson
• 5. Hunter Emory
• 6. Terrance Campbell
• 7. Peter Kim
• 8. Dean Smith
• 9. Diego Garcia

I let out a frustrated sigh, wanting to facepalm myself right then and there. Why did I have to write down these names, of all people? Like Ernesto, each of these popular guys were the center of the school’s attention in their own way. Reading over them, I’m reminded of just how disruptive and consequential this magic could be, if I wasn’t careful about it.

I spit out my toothpaste into the sink, and look up into the mirror. The face reflecting back at me is firm with conviction. Although I still couldn’t tell whether the Naughty List was ultimately a blessing or a curse, one thing was for certain— I had to make sure I didn’t activate its magic any further.

Slapping my cheeks a couple times, I amp myself up while getting ready to leave for school— completely oblivious to the mysterious little object that slipped inside my backpack, while I wasn’t looking.

~ * ~ * ~

My heart thumps loudly as I stand outside the Spanish classroom. For some reason, the door felt bigger and more intimidating than usual, especially knowing who— or what— awaited me on the other side.

To be fair, it’s not that I felt awkward around Ernesto or anything. But we were navigating a new kind of relationship, and despite discussing things openly with him, a part of me still wasn’t quite sure how things would actually pan out in person.

Right then, an unexpected thought crosses my mind: what if word had gotten out about us somehow? Or someone had seen us yesterday? Oh god, was this ‘secret’ spring fling between us really going to work out??

I linger there for a moment, unsure if I was really ready to walk in. But then an impatient voice behind me urges me to act decisively.

“Um, can you move?” Amanda and her group of IRL Bratz Doll friends were standing behind me, with an unamused scowl.

I freeze, and then step aside.

“S-Sorry about that…” I apologize. As the squad of mean girls brush past me, the pungent smell of their perfume punches my nose like a boxer’s fist. Although it wasn’t pleasant, the smell thankfully snapped me back to my senses.

I reorient myself, taking a deep breath. You got this Q, I repeat to myself, pushing my feet to march on after them.

Despite my own imagination bracing me for the worst, the scenery inside the classroom that entered my line of vision seemed… normal. Anticlimactic, even. Until a familiar Spanish accent chirps from behind.

“Hola. Cómo andás?”

I turn my head, and there he was.

Ernesto. Alvarez. Cruz. Looking tall, handsome and dreamy as he always does. He shoots me a warm smile as the fresh smell of his cologne wafts in the air, rushing heat towards my cheeks.

Damn, I still couldn’t believe that this South American dreamboat was actually in love with me. Heart beating loudly, I open my mouth to respond… but Amanda’s white-girl accent beats me by a second.

“Oh my god, Ernesto! Estoy bueno,” she replies, standing up to slap his shoulder while battering her fake lashes. “Y tu? Umm, mi nino… bonita?”

Wow. The way she butchered the pronunciation with total confidence was almost astonishing. Ernesto and I glance at each other. He scratches his cheeks, and then flashes her the most patient, customer-service smile.

“... It’s ‘mi niño bonit-o’. We went over this in chapter three, Amanda,” he says, tapping the textbook on her desk. “Remember: in Spanish, masculine nouns are paired with masculine adjectives.”

Amanda swoons at the sudden private lesson from Ernesto, but he does a small bow and brushes past her, before she could rope him in with further questions.

Without a word, I clear my throat and follow him to our shared desk. We’ve established a protocol for situations like this. I pull out my phone from my pocket. After tapping the screen with my fingers, his phone dings from across the desk.

I don’t think Amanda really got the hint from your last statement there. Haha.

I hear a quiet snort from beside me. And then, it was my phone’s turn to light up.

I know… it’s unfortunate. But I suppose I should be grateful *someone* understood my subtlety.

We glance at each other, and he giggles.

By the way, I was greeting *you* earlier, not her. Good morning again. You look cute.

A kissing emoji is tacked on at the end. When I glance towards him again, the corner of his lips tip into a timid half-smile, and his cheeks tint a rosy pink. It was enough to turn mine into toasted marshmallows.

Fuck, a part of me was tempted to kiss Ernesto right then and there. I never thought in a million years that I’d ever exchange flirty texts with another boy like this, especially not somebody like Ernesto. Each one made my heart feel more complete. And a small part of me longed to be able to do more with him.

I feel my conviction wavering. Would it be easier for both of us, if I just… came out of the closet already? And selfishly proclaimed to the world that this gorgeous boy was all mine?

I pause, and reel myself in. Think about the consequences, Quentin. If people found out about us, we’d become the target of the most vicious, high school witchhunt in San Nicholas history. There was no way people would believe someone like me deserved to date someone like Ernesto. Questions asked about me would go from “Quentin-who?” to “Quentin-where” real quick.

Oh god… The thought alone is enough to make me shudder. Our last year of high school would turn into a living nightmare.

Right then, Ms Mendoza claps her hands to begin the class.

“Okay chicos, turn to page 75 in your textbooks.”

I exhale slowly, gathering myself. Get it together, Q. I remind myself of the firm resolution I made earlier in the morning. I had to stay laser-focused if I wanted to keep this fling with Ernesto on the downlow. Nobody could know about this. And that would be for our own good.

I unzip my backpack to grab my textbook. Only to find a familiar-looking parchment paper staring back at me, sandwiched between my school supplies.

I blink. It was the Naughty List.

Wait. What?

“Mr. Noel, why don’t you read the first passage in Chapter 5, por favor.”

And of course I get called on right now.

I look up, then down, and notice the Naughty List now trying to wiggle itself free. Hold up, this thing moves??

I zip my backpack at lightning speed, and shove it underneath the table, between my legs.

“Mr. Noel?”

Ms Mendoza’s stern eyes hone in on me, causing a few heads to turn my way. Fuck, here we go again.

“P-Perdóname, I think I forgot my textbook in my locker...” I laugh nervously, pretending everything was okay. Everything was not okay.

“Here, take mine,” Ernesto whispers, sliding his open textbook towards me. Thank the lord for this boy. To say I owed him my entire life at that moment was an understatement.

“A-Actually, I’ll just share with Ernesto!” I add, frantically peering over. His finger points to where I should be reading.

“C-Capítulo 15: Qué regalo…”

I start reciting the paragraph. But I feel an intense jerk between my feet. And then another. Evidently, the thing inside my backpack was resisting its own captivity. And it was strong.

I slam my foot onto my backpack’s shoulder strap, before it manages to escape.

“... Mr. Noel?”

Right then, it dawns on me that I had stopped reading.

“... S-So the simple past tense, sometimes-called-the-preterit-describes-completed-actions-in-the-past. Gracias!”

In one rapid breath, I finish up the section and sit back down. Crickets overtake the entire classroom. “May I also go use the restroom, please?” I then hear myself blurt out loud.

Ms. Mendoza stares at me blankly. I force out an awkward smile, until she eventually shoos me to excuse myself, albeit in clear confusion. Ernesto also shoots me a curious look, but I truthfully couldn’t care less. Because right now, the more pressing question was: what the hell was the Naughty List doing here?? Did it follow me from home? Why was it moving? Is this magical piece of parchment paper alive??

My heart beats frantically, as I realize that this list, quite literally, contains the names of all of my crushes. Signed very legibly, by yours truly. Internally, I scream.

I grab the hall pass and run out of the classroom, panting like a madman while squeezing my navy blue backpack tightly between my arms.

What the hell is going on??

~ * ~ * ~

Approximately three minutes later, I’m setting a world record as the fastest sprinter on the planet, as I hurtle myself across one corner of the campus to another. Actually no, a better description is that I became the world’s fastest football player, running with my biggest secret secured tightly between my armpits, like my life depended on scoring this touchdown.

Now, I’m no athlete by any means, but l feel strangely unstoppable, deftly dodging any oncoming human traffic in the hallway, left and right. Running towards my secret lunch spot, hidden behind the music room bushes, where I’d finally have a moment to catch my breath and make sense of everything that’s going on.

Touchdown is close. At least… it was, until the interior of my backpack flares a sudden blast of gold. A bright light spills from inside the zippers. And then out of nowhere, my body is jerked in a completely different direction.

“Huh?”

The sudden kinetic force exerted on my body is so intense, I’m instantly swept off my feet. My supercharged backpack is now dragging my entire body around the corner of the hallway, like an excited dog on a leash that also snorted an entire pound of cocaine.

“W-Wait! Naughty List, please stop—…”

I barely manage to avoid tripping over myself, when suddenly—…

“Ow! What the fuck!”

…. I crash into someone, and land chest-to-chest on top of them. My stomach sinks, when I look down.

“R-Ryan…!” My voice squeaks.

The most terrifying pair of furrowed, dark chestnut eyes look up at me.

“I-I’m so sorry about that…!” I inhale, scrambling to peel myself off from the cobbled unevenness of his hard, upper body.

Our belongings are scattered all around us. As I frantically look around, I notice my deflated backpack a couple feet away. It seems the Naughty List used up its energy from that sudden power surge just now. Like a newborn turtle, it tries to crawl away from me in small, feeble lurches. My hands lunge forward and grab it— you are not going anywhere.

Right then, I hear a loud crunch underneath my shoe. When I remove my foot, I find a delicate, golden locket underneath it, with a photo of an older woman inside. And to my horror, the glass was cracked.

Oh. Ohhhh no.

“Ryan? Please don’t tell me that’s yours—…”

He snatches the locket from the floor.

“Fuck, there it was...”

I freeze. Shit. So this fragile piece of accessory was his.

I cry internally. Perhaps now was the time for me to bid my front teeth goodbye. I raise both my palms in the air, emphasizing that I come in peace.

“I-I’m really sorry…!” I apologize, praying my sincerity shines through in my voice. “I really, truly, didn’t mean to do that—…”

“It’s fine,” he sighs. “It was always broken.”

Ryan clicks the locket shut, and stuffs it inside the back pocket of his ripped jeans. His voice sounded tamer than usual. And oddly enough, his eyes looked slightly puffy, and wet. He looks down at his feet, and I think I hear a restrained sniff. I study his face. Was he… crying?

“Hey, are you okay—…”

“Ryan!”

Right then, the two of us are interrupted by another voice. The soft hazel eyes and curly raven hair that entered my line of vision when I turned around was immediate, and recognizable.

My chest contracts. It was Zayn Nassif Johnson.

It’s funny how the world around you suddenly slows down when you’re in the presence of undeniable beauty. Otherworldly, almost ethereal beauty. And the noises around you gradually sweeps away, until all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat, thumping loudly inside your chest.

Maybe it was his warm Levantine complexion, and how they made him look like a real-life Arabian prince, ripped straight out of a fairy tale. Or maybe it was his humble but dignified demeanor, cultivated from years of serving as our student body president. Whatever it was, there was an arresting air to the way Zayn Nassif Johnson carried himself; a poetic majesty that always captured the attention of others, wherever he was.

When he notices me on the side, Zayn tosses me a gentle, accessible smile.

"Hey," he politely greets me. He probably doesn’t even remember my name— we’ve only interacted once before— but my heart rate nonetheless rises. I open my mouth to respond, but then shift my gaze downwards, unable to maintain direct eye contact. This stunning Middle Eastern boy was basically San Nicolas royalty; the most venerated name on campus. Meanwhile, I was a nobody. I didn't feel worthy of his acknowledgement.

Ryan, on the other hand, casts him a hostile glare. Evidently, the Ultimate Bad Boi™ of San Nicolas was immune to our student president’s magnetism.

“The hell do you want,” he growls, his combative attitude on full display, like a set of feral fangs.

Zayn pauses, and shoots him a concerned look.

“I’m allowed to be worried about you Ryan. After all, today is—...”

“Cut it. I don’t need your fucking pity, alright?” Ryan dismisses him, brushing his shoulders against the student president’s as he stalked past him.

At first, Zayn appears to bite back further words. But then he turned around, and grabbed Ryan’s shoulder.

“No, Ryan. Let’s talk—...”

The hand is slapped away, immediately.

“Touch me one more time. Your face won’t look the same.”

The stillness in Ryan’s chilly remark would normally be enough to get anyone shitting their pants. But Zayn is unfazed.

"No," he refuses, asserting himself by maintaining direct eye contact.

A tense moment of silence washes over us. Without a word, the student president cracks his necks and rolls up his sleeves, seemingly in preparation for the worst. His tanned arms are toned from years of playing baseball, and they hinted at a certain level of disciplined athleticism… one that could easily dispute any assumption that our student president was nothing more than a goody-two-shoes, with a pretty face.

“Zayn! You good?”

Right then, two other guys walk into the hallway. The larger of the pair slams the cardboard box he was carrying onto the floor, and places himself between the two clashing forces of nature.

“There a problem here, Ryan?”

It was Dean Smith, the school’s quarterback. He crosses his large ebony arms, looking down at Ryan with unflinching posture. His dauntless attitude is reinforced by his broad shoulders and fortress-like stature. His handsome face and chiseled jawline are tense and alert, like he was on the field, ready to tackle an oncoming opponent.

I gulp. Damn, Dean really had balls of steel to be confronting Ryan head-on like that. But when you’re the star player on a nationally-recognized football team, I suppose knowing how to act tough is part of the job.

Without a word, Ryan stares right back at Dean, sizing him up. At this point, I had no idea who would win if a fight broke out. Sure, Dean had an edge in terms of size… but Ryan’s physique wasn’t to be contended with, either. If anything, Dean had more to lose by involving himself in a fight— a violent incident on his school record would surely jeopardize the many athletic scholarships he had lined up for college.

Surprisingly, however, Ryan backs off.

“Nah, we’re good Dean,” he says. He flicks his chin towards the third figure, hanging back in silence up until now. “You lucked out. Good thing one of you’s got a brain.”

With all eyes on him, Peter Kim looks up from his phone. With his long legs crossed, and his tall, athletic frame leaned aesthetically against the wall, it almost felt like we were interrupting a photoshoot for a Korean Samsung commercial.

“That’s a shame,” Peter replies, righting himself. He pauses his screen, and the sound of his video recorder dings quietly. “I could’ve made you famous again, Ryan.”

It turns out, Peter was quietly recording the exchange on his phone. The entire time. Ryan thins his eyes, clearly unamused by the covert counterattack.

“... Sneaky little rat,” he growls.

“Sure, whatever,” Peter yawns, as if words couldn’t hurt him, and he was already getting bored of this conversation. Ryan walks up to him, and it’s now Peter’s turn to get sized up by the ticking time bomb.

“You wanna go, shithead?” Ryan snarls, cracking his neck and knuckles. “Cause I’d be happy to oblige.”

I wince in the background. Damn, I wasn’t quite sure who’d I’d place my bets on in this situation, either. Peter Kim is our class valedictorian— someone who’d also never get into a physical fight. And yet, something about his sharp intellect and demeanor made him somebody you didn't want to mess with, either. Nor did his physique— as our school’s swim captain, Peter Kim's well-built frame was certainly on par with that of Ryan and the others.

For a split second, Peter’s gaze turns ice cold. He rolls his broad shoulders backwards, and rests both hands on his high waist. Although relaxed, the posture pronounces the sculpted ridges on his forearms. The valedictorian looks dead into Ryan’s eyes.

“You sure about that, Ryan?” he asks, taking a step closer to him. “I guess Senator Johnson wouldn’t mind seeing his name plastered on headlines again… all because of you.”

At that, the lone rebel immediately falls silent. My eyes widen in amusement. Damn! Ten points to Peter. Evidently, he was edging out Ryan in this verbal sparring match.

Ryan stares into the swim captain’s eyes for another prolonged moment, before clicking his tongue and finally backing off. His gaze sharpens into a daggered glare as he spins on his heels. It appears the Bad Boy of San Nicolas has decided to throw in the towel… at least for now.

“Ryan, wait—...” Zayn tries to stop him, but the defiant tyrant ignores him. And he walks towards me, instead.

“Don’t ever touch my shit again.”

He scowls at me as he picks up his backpack, before stalking away for good. It isn’t until Ryan disappeared completely from our line of vision, that the rest of us collectively exhale.

“Alright. That dude is officially unhinged,” Dean declares, shaking his head in utter disbelief.

“Zayn, you alright?” Peter turns to ask, but the student president is no longer standing behind him. Instead, he’s walking towards me, too.

“Hey. Quentin, right? Let me help,” Zayn sticks his arm out.

I feel my eyes widen. Fuck, I didn’t think he remembered my name. The realization prompts my heart to hammer. Did he also remember the incident from a few years ago? Oh god, I hope not.

I shake the thoughts away.

“T-Thanks,” I barely manage to stammer. I reach my hands out— about to grab Zayn’s— when his lips fall into a frown.

“I’m really sorry about my brother. I hope you don’t think badly of him.”

I pause my hand, midair. Yep. As shocking as this was, Zayn Nassif Johnson and Ryan Johnson are actually brothers. Cousins who became adopted siblings, to be exact.

The story goes that Zayn’s father was Senator Johnson’s younger brother, another prominent lawmaker who met and fell in love with a young Iraqi activist during a diplomatic visit, almost two decades ago. The two eventually got married, and started a family... until they both passed away in a tragic car accident, when Zayn was still a baby.

Senator Johnson adopted Zayn shortly afterwards, and brought him to America. This was a well-known story in the political world— one frequently brought up by pundits to defend the Senator’s tough stance on foreign policy, especially surrounding immigration.

I let out a nervous laugh, trying my best to look okay.

“N-No worries! I’m fine. It’s not like Ryan was going after me personally or anything…”

Which wasn’t a false statement, really. Ryan was an indiscriminate asshole to everybody. I wasn’t particularly special in that regard.

Zayn’s frown deepens. “Hey. Please don't feel pressured to forgive my brother out of obligation. Honestly, Ryan deserves to be held accountable for his actions.”

The student president dusts some dirt off my shoulders, and offers me a gentle smile.

“That said, I also hope you don’t think badly of him… permanently, I mean. Maybe I’m just naive… but I want to believe redemption is always possible, even for somebody like Ryan.”

His hazel eyes glisten with a mix of emotions. Shame, sadness, and frustration towards his brother… but also compassion, longing, and hope. I can’t help but admire the beauty of it all, each swirl of emotion fluid, and yet still distinct. The complexity within Zayn’s eyes was breathtaking, and for a moment, I pondered how those gorgeous streaks of green and brown saw the rest of the world, in all of its ambiguity and nuance.

Dean, however, lets out an unsure sigh. “I don’t know Zayn, this is Ryan we’re talking about. He’s always been the problem child in your family, no?” he says, scratching his cleanly buzzed head.

The president’s expression tightens again. “I know, Dean. But I can’t help but feel like today was a particularly tough day for Ryan. After all, it’s the day that his mom—…”

Zayn stops himself, and looks down at the floor. Strangely enough, the sadness that welled his gaze almost mirrored that of Ryan’s, from earlier.

Peter glances at him, with a curious look.

“Zayn?”

For a moment, our student president remains quiet. But he quickly shakes his head, and hides himself behind another smile.

“Sorry, I’m good. Forget everything I said earlier. We should start heading back, yeah?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Dean curses, looking down at his watch.

Zayn turns to me. “Alright. Well, it was nice bumping into you, Quentin. You still need help getting up?”

Shit. Hearing him say my name out loud— a second time, too— somehow makes my insides flutter again.

“I’m good. Thanks,” I finally reply, feigning nonchalance. But contrary to my wishes, my legs wobble as I stand up, betraying my jitteriness.

Zayn pauses, and then giggles softly.

“Here. Let me,” he says. Without hesitation, he wraps his arm around my shoulder. The sudden physical contact is enough to stir immediate panic. Without thinking, I push him away— a bit more strongly than I should.

“I said I’m good!!”

Dean and Peter turn their heads, as Zayn looks at me with big, confused eyes. Those damn, hazel eyes. Instant guilt washes over me.

I wish I could stop and explain to him why I did that just now. But I realize Zayn simply has no idea about anything— about me... about the incident from a few years back… about how I feel towards him.

“S-Sorry. I have to go!”

I barely manage to croak. Before I embarrass myself any further, I grab my backpack from the floor, and scurry away.

Zayn Nassif Johnson simply has no idea— that he’s secretly my biggest school crush, ever.