The Name

Gary slouched in his seat, tugging at the hem of his yellow sundress for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Every shift, every movement, reminded him that the fabric clung in ways he didn't want to think about. The thin straps itched against his shoulders, and the faint smell of whatever floral detergent his mom used clung to him, reminding him with every breath of the predicament he was in.

English Lit was always the longest class of the day, but now it felt like time itself had taken offence and slowed out of spite. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, pushing warm air in circles. Ms. Chambers was talking about something—symbolism, probably. Everything in this class was symbolism.

Gary tapped his pen against the edge of his notebook. He tried to listen, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

That spark.

It hadn't been normal.

He kept replaying the moment from lunch, the way Wyatt's hand had felt on his, the faint static pop that had run up his arm like electricity—and something behind it. Something deeper. A hum. A presence. It was like the spark wasn't just between them, but watching them. He'd never felt anything like it before.

He'd laughed it off at the time, but the memory lingered under his skin, hot and alive.

He shifted in his chair, trying to focus.

Wyatt.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her all day. It was infuriating. He didn't want to. He didn't want to notice the way she walked down the hallway, her hips swaying like she'd been doing it forever. He didn't want to think about her voice, softer now, melodic in a way that made him feel dizzy.

He didn't want to remember how, sitting across from her in the cafeteria, she'd smiled at him with that teasing little tilt of her lips.

But he did.

And the more he tried not to, the more the images came.

Wyatt, leaning closer. Laughing. Her eyes sparkling. The faint scent of perfume when she moved her hair back.

He imagined her reaching across the table again, fingertips brushing his hand. That same spark. But this time it didn't stop. It grew. It burned.

He imagined leaning forward, closing the distance between his lips and her own. They would kiss. He would taste her lips, her gloss, feel her breath. The spark, the energy, the connection would continue, would grow. It would draw them together. Soon they'd be on the table, food pushed aside, panting for air, **** for more...

"Lisa?"

Gary jerked upright, heart pounding.

The class was staring at him.

"Pardon?"

Ms. Chambers frowned, adjusting her glasses. "Gary. I said, are you listening?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry. What was the question again?"

"We were discussing Frankenstein. I asked whether you thought the creature's loneliness makes him sympathetic or dangerous."

Gary blinked. His mind was still half in that daydream. "Uh… both?"

A few kids laughed quietly.

Ms. Chambers gave him a long look that said she was too tired to care. "Fine. Moving on."

Gary sank lower in his seat, face burning.

The rest of the class blurred into meaningless sound. He tried to focus on the text, on anything, but his brain wouldn't settle. It buzzed faintly, like something inside him was trying to wake up.

When the bell finally rang, he realized he hadn't written a single proper note.

He looked down at his notebook and froze.

The pages were covered—not with doodles or half-scribbled quotes—but with a single name, written over and over in his handwriting.

Lisa.

Lisa.

Lisa.

Sometimes in cursive, sometimes in block letters. Sometimes small, sometimes large, looping across the lines. In the margins, he'd drawn hearts around it.

Gary stared, the blood draining from his face.

He flipped back a few pages, hoping it had been a trick of the light, a scribble that looked like a name. But no. Every inch of paper was filled with it.

Lisa.

He didn't even remember writing it.

This was new. It was one thing to have the world ignore the fact that he was wearing a dress. It was an entirely other thing to have suddenly gained the ability to do automatic writing, but only be able to write the name of the failed virtual woman he and Wyatt were trying to create the previous night.

He closed the notebook quickly and shoved it into his backpack.

The bell's echo faded, leaving the room strangely quiet. Gary sat there a moment longer, staring at the blank chalkboard, heart hammering in his chest.

That spark hadn't just been static. Something was happening.

And somehow, whatever it was—he was part of it.