Frequencies of Us Chapter 11: Dust and a Grin

Mateo POV

I’m on the track, alone, the red dirt crunching under my sneakers, sun burning my neck. My legs feel heavy, like they’re stuck in mud, and my chest’s tight—tight since Ortiz hauled me into his office this morning, voice sharp, “You’re suspended, Vargas. No track till I say.” All because of that scuffle with Caleb—me grabbing his collar, yelling, him squirming like a rat. Now I’m out, kicked off my own turf, and it’s eating me up. I kick the ground hard, dust flying, and mutter, “Ortiz can shove it!” My voice bounces off the empty bleachers, loud and mad, but it doesn’t fix anything—just makes my throat hurt.

Sweat’s dripping down my face, stinging my eyes, and I wipe it with my sleeve, pacing fast. My fists clench, nails digging in, and I can still see Caleb’s scared eyes, hear his shaky, “I bailed, man!” He’s hiding something—Lena, the prank, all that crap—and it’s on me now, heavy like a rock in my gut. I stop, chest heaving, and kick the dirt again, harder, wanting to scream, to run, to shake this off. The track’s my place—always has been—and now it’s gone, snatched away, leaving me spinning.

A noise cuts through—low, a clank, metal on metal—and I spin around, heart jumping. It’s coming from the edge of the field, near the old speaker pole, rusted and leaning like it’s tired. Some kid’s there, hunched over, messing with wires—skinny, hair messy, jacket too big for him. I squint, stepping closer, my sneakers scuffing loud. He’s got a screwdriver, twisting at something, and I freeze when I see his face—Noah, the AV guy, the one always fiddling with stuff. My stomach twists, quick and weird, because I’ve seen him around—quiet, always alone—but never this close.

He looks up, catching my eye, and I stiffen, fists still balled up. His hands stop, screwdriver dangling, and he tilts his head, like he’s sizing me up. “Rough day?” he says, voice soft, a little shy, cutting through the quiet. His mouth quirks up—just a bit, a half-grin—and it’s so calm, so out of place, it throws me off.

I blink, heat creeping up my neck, and my jaw locks tight. “What’s it to you?” I snap, sharper than I mean, stepping back like he’s too close, even though he’s yards away. My voice is rough, scratched from yelling, and I hate how it sounds—mean, shaky, like I’m some kid who can’t handle it.

He shrugs, easy, like I didn’t just bite his head off, and goes back to the speaker, twisting the screwdriver again. “Heard you,” he says, not looking up, “about Ortiz. Sounds like a jerk.” His voice stays low, steady, and that grin’s still there, faint but real, like he’s not scared of me—or anything.

My chest tightens more, but different now—hot, jittery, like his words poked something I didn’t expect. I don’t know him, don’t get why he’s talking to me, why he’s not walking away like everyone else. “Yeah, he is,” I mutter, kicking the dirt again, softer this time. My eyes flick to him—his hands moving quick, sure, like he’s got it all figured out—and my gut flips, fast and dumb. I don’t like it, don’t like how he’s just sitting there, calm, while I’m a mess.

“You don’t gotta act like you care,” I say, voice hard, stepping closer now, fists unclenching but still twitchy. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie—my legs are screaming, my head’s pounding—but I say it anyway, daring him to call me out.

He looks up again, eyes dark, steady, locking on mine, and that grin fades a little, but not all the way. “Didn’t say you weren’t,” he says, simple, like it’s no big deal. He holds my stare, too long, and my face burns, hot and sudden, like I’m caught. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I don’t know what to say—don’t know why I’m still standing here, why his voice is sticking in my head.

“Whatever,” I grunt, turning fast, my sneakers kicking up more dust. My heart’s banging, loud and fast, and I storm off, needing distance, needing air. My hands shove into my pockets, shoulders hunching, and I don’t look back—don’t want to see him watching me, don’t want to feel that grin digging in. I’m halfway across the field, legs moving quick, when I realize it’s still there—his face, quiet and steady, stuck in my skull like a splinter. My chest twists, mad and confused, because I don’t get it—don’t get him, don’t get why I care.

The bleachers loom up, gray and empty, and I slow down, breath ragged, wiping sweat off my forehead with a shaky hand. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, and I think about texting Caleb—yelling at him, making him spill—but my fingers won’t move. Instead, I hear it—Noah’s voice, “Rough day?”—soft, replaying like a dumb song I can’t shake. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding, and I kick the bleacher rail, metal rattling loud. It doesn’t help—just makes my foot throb, makes me madder, because I’m not supposed to feel this, not about some random guy.

I slump onto the bench, elbows on my knees, staring at the track stretching out, red and endless. My chest’s still tight, my hands fidgeting, and I hate it—hate Ortiz, hate Caleb, hate how everything’s slipping away. But that grin—Noah’s grin—keeps cutting through, quiet, like it’s laughing at me. My stomach flips again, warm and weird, and I shove it down, hard, telling myself it’s nothing, just some kid being nosy. But my head’s buzzing, loud and messy, and I can’t sit still—need to move, need to run, need to figure out why he’s stuck with me.

I’m up fast, pacing again, the dirt crunching under me, my shadow stretching long as the sun dips low. My breath’s uneven, chest heaving, and I stop by the fence, gripping it tight, knuckles white. The field’s quiet now—just crickets starting up, a low hum—but it feels off, too still, like something’s waiting. My eyes flick back to the speaker pole—he’s still there, head down, working like nothing happened. My heart jumps, dumb and fast, and I turn away quick, face hot, mad at myself for looking.

Then I hear it—a low rumble, faint at first, growing louder, cutting through the crickets. My head snaps up, eyes darting, and I see it—headlights, far off, bouncing across the lot near the school. My gut twists, cold and sharp, and my hands grip the fence harder, metal biting my skin. The rumble gets closer—engine growling, tires crunching gravel—and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. The lights swing toward the track, bright and sudden, pinning me where I stand, and I squint, heart slamming, trying to see past them.

A shadow moves—quick, dark—behind the wheel, and my legs tense, ready to bolt. My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud and sharp, and I jump, fumbling it out with shaky hands. The screen lights up—unknown number, one line: “He’s watching you.” My blood runs cold, ice in my veins, and the car slows, engine idling, lights still on me. A laugh rolls out—low, mean, warped like it’s through a speaker—and my chest locks up, breath gone. I spin, eyes darting to Noah—he’s standing now, staring back, face pale, caught in the glow—and the car revs hard, peeling off into the dark, leaving dust and silence, but it’s not over, not even close.