Frequencies of Us Chapter 7: Dust and Threats

Mateo POV

I’m at practice, the track stretching out under my feet, red and dusty, the sun beating down hard. Sweat’s dripping off me, soaking my shirt, stinging my eyes, but I don’t care—I’m pushing, legs burning, trying to outrun the mess in my head. That basement crash yesterday—the headlights, the voice, “Time’s up, boys”—it’s stuck with me, clawing at my gut. My chest’s still tight from it, from Noah grabbing my arm, his fingers digging in like he was scared I’d bolt. I can still feel him, that buzz under my skin, and it’s messing me up worse than the rest. I round the curve, breath heaving, and spot Caleb by the bleachers—slouched, sipping water, acting like nothing’s wrong. My blood boils, hot and fast, and I slow down, sneakers skidding to a stop.

He looks up, sees me coming, and his face shifts—nervous, eyes darting. I don’t stop, just storm over, dirt kicking up behind me. My heart’s slamming, loud in my ears, and my hands are already fists, itching to swing. He’s the key—he knows something, and I’m done waiting. I grab his collar, yanking him up hard, water splashing out of his bottle onto the ground.

“What’d you do, Caleb?” I growl, my voice rough, shaking with everything I’ve been holding in. His hoodie’s bunched in my grip, and he’s squirming, eyes wide, scared. “Last night—you said Lena took it too far. Tell me what happened!”

“Mateo, chill!” he chokes out, hands flapping, trying to push me off. His breath’s fast, sour with panic, and I tighten my grip, pulling him closer. “I—I planned it, okay? The prank! Me and Lena, we were gonna mess with Ortiz’s office—spray paint, trash it, make it big. But I bailed, man! I swear!”

“Bailed?” I snap, shoving him back a step. He stumbles, catching himself on the bleacher rail, and I step in again, looming over him. “You bailed, and now I’m the one screwed? Video’s got my face, Caleb! I’m off the team—expelled—because of your dumb plan!” My chest’s burning, anger spilling out, and my hands shake, wanting to hit him, make him feel this.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you!” he yells, voice cracking. “Lena—she was pissed when I ditched. Said she’d handle it, make it hurt. I didn’t know she’d pin it on you, Mateo! I thought—” He stops, swallowing hard, eyes flicking away like he’s hiding more.

“Thought what?” I hiss, grabbing his arm now, fingers digging into his sleeve. “You thought she’d just let it go? She’s coming for me—and Noah—because of you!” His face twists, guilty, and it hits me—he knew she’d flip, knew she’d lash out, and he still ran. My stomach sinks, cold and heavy, mixing with the heat in my chest.

“Noah?” he mutters, eyes narrowing, and I freeze, my grip slipping. My face burns, hot and sudden, because I didn’t mean to say that—not out loud, not to him. “What’s he got to do with—”

“Shut up,” I cut him off, voice low, hard, shoving him back again. He trips, lands hard on the bleacher steps, and I turn away fast, breathing ragged. My heart’s pounding too loud, Noah’s name echoing in my head, that basement moment flashing—his hand on me, the crash, us stuck together. I scrub my face, trying to shake it, but then I hear them—footsteps, voices, coming closer.

“Snitch now, huh, Vargas?” Ryan’s voice cuts through, loud and mean, and I spin around. Him and two other jocks—big, sweaty, grinning like wolves—saunter over from the track, towels slung over their shoulders. My fists clench tighter, nails biting my palms, and Caleb scrambles up, edging away, but they’re not looking at him—they’re locked on me.

“What’d you say?” I snap, stepping forward, chin up. My blood’s pumping, ready to explode, and Ryan laughs, sharp and nasty.

“Heard you, fairy,” he says, smirking, tossing his towel down. “Ratting out your buddy? That’s low, even for you.” The others snicker, closing in, and I feel it—the air shifting, heavy, like a storm rolling up fast. My jaw locks, teeth grinding, and I glance at Caleb—he’s frozen, eyes down, not saying a word.

“I’m no snitch,” I growl, voice shaking with how bad I want to swing. “You don’t know shit, Ryan.” My hands flex, itching, and he steps closer, towering over me, his shadow swallowing mine.

“Yeah? Tell that to Ortiz,” he says, shoving my shoulder hard. I stumble back, catching myself, and the others laugh louder, egging him on. “Or maybe you’re too busy crying to your boyfriend—Noah, right?” My heart stops, then slams back, hard and fast, heat rushing up my neck. My fists ball tighter, shaking now, and I step in, ready to smash that grin off his face.

“Say it again,” I dare him, voice low, barely holding it together. He opens his mouth, but Coach’s whistle cuts through—shrill, sharp—stopping us cold. Ryan smirks one last time, backing off with the others, their laughs fading as they jog away. I’m left there, chest heaving, fists still clenched, Caleb slinking off without a word. My head’s spinning, Ryan’s words digging in—Noah, boyfriend, fairy—and I hate how they stick, how they burn.

Practice drags on, but I’m done—legs heavy, mind a mess. I hit the locker room after, the air thick with steam and sweat, my bag slumped on the bench where I left it. I flop down, yank it open, needing to get out, get home, figure this out. My fingers brush something—paper, crumpled, shoved in the side pocket. My gut drops, cold and fast, same as last time. I fish it out, hands shaky, and flatten it on my knee. Black marker, sloppy scrawl: “Keep quiet.” My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I stare at it, the words sinking in, heavy and mean.

My heart’s slamming now, loud and wild, and my hands tremble, crinkling the paper. Another note—third one—and it’s worse, sharper, like they’re closing in. “Keep quiet” about what? Caleb? The prank? Noah? My head snaps up, eyes darting around the locker room—empty, quiet, but it feels wrong, like someone’s here, watching. My skin crawls, cold sweat trickling down my back, and I shove the note in my pocket, next to the others, like it’ll hide it. But it doesn’t—the weight’s still there, pressing down, suffocating.

I grab my stuff, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door, sneakers squeaking on the wet floor. My chest’s tight, breath short, and every shadow looks too long, too dark. I’m almost out when I hear it—a low scrape, metal on metal, coming from the back corner. I freeze, heart jumping, and turn slow, squinting into the dim light. Nothing—just lockers, benches, steam drifting lazy. But then it comes again—scrape, scrape—closer now, deliberate, like someone dragging something sharp. My mouth goes dry, pulse hammering in my ears, and I back up, hand on the door.

“Who’s there?” I call, voice rough, cracking, but no answer—just that sound, slow and steady, cutting through the quiet. My hand tightens on the strap, knuckles white, and I push the door, ready to bolt. Then—a thud, heavy, right behind me, and something cold brushes my neck, quick and gone. I spin, gasping, but the room’s empty, steam swirling, shadows still. My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud and sudden, and I jump, heart smashing into my ribs. I yank it out, hands shaking bad, and the screen lights up—unknown number, one word: “Run.”

My legs lock, breath gone, and the scrape starts again—loud, close, right around the corner. I’m out the door before I can think, running blind, the word burning in my head, the cold still tingling on my neck, and I know—they’re here, they’re watching, and I’m not fast enough to get away.