Frequencies of Us Chapter 12: Wires and a Whisper

Noah POV

I’m in the AV room, the air thick with dust and the buzz of old gear, my hands messing with a pile of cables on the table. The lights flicker overhead, weak and yellow, throwing shadows that twitch on the walls, and my chest feels tight, like it’s been since yesterday on the track. Mateo’s voice keeps playing in my head—gruff, alive, “Ortiz can shove it!”—cutting through the quiet like a shout. I can still see him, pacing, kicking dirt, all fire and fight, and that look he gave me—sharp, mad, but stuck somehow. My fingers twist a wire, bending it too hard, and my stomach flips, warm and fast, because I don’t get why he’s there, stuck in my skull, making me jumpy.

My screwdriver clatters on the table, loud in the stillness, and I lean back, scrubbing my face with my hands. They’re sweaty, cold, and my heart’s thumping, steady but too fast. I keep hearing him—“What’s it to you?”—rough, like he wanted to push me off, but then he stayed, talked, and that grin I gave him—dumb, shy—felt right. My face heats up, sudden and stupid, and I shake my head, trying to shove it down. He’s just some guy—loud, angry, not my type—but my gut twists anyway, like it knows something I don’t.

I grab my bag, needing to move, and sling it over my shoulder, the straps digging in. The halls are next—gotta swap some cables in the gym—and I step out, the door banging shut behind me. The corridor’s loud, kids yelling, lockers slamming, and my sneakers squeak on the tile, keeping time with my pulse. My eyes dart around, half-looking for him, half-hoping I don’t, and then I see him—Mateo, near the end of the hall, leaning on a locker, talking to some track kid. His hoodie’s up, jaw tight, and my throat goes dry, a lump I can’t swallow.

I slow down, hands fidgeting in my pockets, and my chest jumps, like it’s daring me. “Hey,” I say, casual, voice cracking a little as I get closer. He turns, fast, eyes hitting mine—dark, sharp—and my stomach drops, quick and dumb. His mouth twists, not a smile, and he brushes past me, shoulder bumping mine, hard enough to make me stumble. “Watch it,” he mutters, low, and keeps going, not looking back.

I stand there, frozen, heat rushing up my neck, my face burning like I got slapped. My hands ball up, shaky, and I stare after him—his back stiff, steps fast, disappearing around the corner. My chest’s tight, tighter now, and I don’t get it—don’t get why it stings, why I care that he didn’t stop. I mutter, “Jerk,” under my breath, but it’s weak, and my legs feel wobbly, like they’re mad at me for trying. I turn away, fast, heading for the gym, my head buzzing loud—his voice, his bump, his eyes—messing me up worse than before.

The gym’s empty when I get there, just echoes and the smell of sweat hanging heavy. I drop my bag by the sound booth, hands still shaky, and start pulling cables, needing something to do. My fingers fumble, slipping, and I curse, low and sharp, because I can’t focus—keep seeing him storming off yesterday, that dust flying, and now this, brushing me off like I’m nothing. My gut twists again, cold and hot at once, and I hate it—hate how it digs in, hate how I’m wondering what he’s thinking, why he’s mad, why I want him to look at me.

I yank a cable too hard, and it snaps, the end whipping back, stinging my hand. I hiss, shaking it out, and slump onto the bench, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. My chest’s heaving, breath uneven, and my head’s a mess—Mateo, Ortiz, that car last night, headlights pinning us both. My phone’s in my bag, buzzing yesterday with that text—“He’s watching you”—and my stomach sinks, heavy and sour, because it’s still there, lurking, but right now it’s him—Mateo—that’s louder, sharper, cutting through.

I dig into my bag, grabbing a new cable, and my hand brushes something—paper, folded, shoved in the side pocket. My heart jumps, fast and loud, and I pull it out, slow, fingers trembling a little. It’s small, crumpled, black ink scrawled messy: “Fixer boy’s got a crush.” My breath stops, stuck in my throat, and my eyes lock on it, the words sinking in, mean and sharp. My hands shake, bad now, crinkling the paper, and my chest locks up, panic clawing up my spine. Who saw? Who wrote this? My head snaps up, eyes darting around the gym—empty, quiet—but it feels wrong, like someone’s here, watching, laughing.

I shove the note back in my bag, deep, like it’ll disappear, but my hands won’t stop shaking, my pulse slamming in my ears. My face burns, hot and sweaty, because it’s dumb—I don’t have a crush, not on him, not on anyone—but my gut twists anyway, warm and scared, like it’s calling me out. I think of him yesterday—“Rough day?”—my grin, his stare—and my throat tightens, a knot I can’t undo. Did someone see that? The track, us talking, me smiling like an idiot? My legs bounce, jittery, and I stand fast, pacing, needing to move, needing to breathe.

The booth’s small, walls close, and I lean on the table, staring at the cables, my breath loud and ragged. My head’s spinning—who knows, who cares?—and I hate how it’s messing with me, how he’s messing with me. I don’t even know him—not really—just some track kid with a temper, but my chest won’t settle, won’t let it go. I grab my phone, hands sweaty, thinking maybe I’ll text him—“What’s your deal?”—but my fingers freeze, stuck, because what if he laughs? What if he doesn’t answer?

I shove it back, shaking my head, and focus on the cables, twisting them hard, trying to push him out. My heart’s still thumping, loud and fast, and the gym’s too quiet—just my breath, the hum of the lights, ticking in my ears. I’m almost done, hands steadying a little, when I hear it—a low creak, sharp, from the far door. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and I squint, eyes darting to the shadows. Nothing—just the bleachers, the mats, still and dark—but my gut twists, cold and tight, like it knows something’s off.

The creak comes again—slow, steady—and my legs tense, ready to bolt. My breath’s short, chest heaving, and I step back, bumping the table, cables rattling loud. “Who’s there?” I call, voice cracking, shaky, but no answer—just quiet, thick and heavy, pressing in. My eyes flick to my bag—the note, “Fixer boy’s got a crush”—and my stomach drops, icy and fast. Did they follow me? Are they here? I grab my stuff, hands trembling, ready to run, when a shadow shifts—quick, tall—by the door, and a voice whispers, low and mean, “He knows.”

My heart stops, slamming back hard, and my phone buzzes in my pocket, loud and sudden, making me jump. I fumble it out, hands shaking bad, and the screen glows—unknown number, one line: “Look behind you.” My breath catches, sharp and loud, and I spin, eyes wide, but the gym’s empty—shadows stretching, lights flickering, silence screaming. The whisper laughs—soft, close, right in my ear—and my legs buckle, panic choking me, because they’re here, they see, and I’m caught, alone, with nowhere to hide.