If high school were a map, I knew the way to most roads—except for one: P.E.
I could memorize textbooks in hours, win writing contests before lunch, and recite entire speeches without blinking. Teachers saw me as the golden girl for quiz bees and academic fairs. My name was often on bulletin boards—First Honor, Top in English, Top in Science, Champion in Essay Writing. But when it came to Physical Education, I barely passed the finish line—literally and figuratively.
Not because I didn't try.
But because I hated sports. And I had asthma.
Every time the whistle blew and the heat radiated from the sun-soaked concrete, my lungs betrayed me. They clenched and stuttered. I hated the way my chest tightened, how my breath became a fragile thing. The way everyone else laughed and ran while I counted each inhale like it was borrowed.
Still, it was a manageable flaw. A low P.E. grade wasn't enough to ruin my academic standing. But it was enough to frustrate me. Because for someone who was taught that everything had to be perfect, an 87 was practically a scar.
Then came Anthony.
I was sitting on the concrete bench near the quadrangle one afternoon, sketching random phrases in my notebook while waiting for the CAT drills to end. Anthony was now the Battalion Ex-O, second only to the Corps Commander. He wore the uniform like it belonged to him—neatly pressed, brass gleaming, presence proud and magnetic. He gave off a quiet authority that made even the rowdiest boys fall in line.
That day, he walked past me, paused, then turned around and said, "Hey, Jaimie, right?"
I froze. My pen slipped slightly, making a line that cut across my quote. I nodded. "Yeah."
"You're good at writing, right? I read your essay on the school paper. You're the one who always wins those interschool contests?"
I blinked. "Yeah, I guess."
He smiled—crooked, genuine, and so effortlessly warm. "You make smart look cool."
I didn't know what to say to that. I had spent most of my life hiding how hard I worked for those things—how every award was earned with pressure-cooked nights and the sound of my mom's footsteps outside my bedroom door. But in that moment, it felt different. Like he saw me. Like he actually liked what he saw.
"You should join CAT," he added.
I laughed. "Me? I can't even run half the lap without wheezing."
He shrugged. "You don't have to run. You've got leadership potential. We need someone sharp. I can recommend you as an officer. It'll even boost your P.E. grade."
That part made me pause. Boost your P.E. grade. A dangerous temptation.
"You'll make it easier for me?" I asked, half-teasing.
Anthony grinned. "I'll make sure you get through it. I got you."
My heart did a strange flip. It was the first time he ever looked directly at me for more than ten seconds. And I swear, in those ten seconds, I considered rewriting everything I thought I wanted.
But of course, life isn't a simple equation. Not when Mario, the CAT-COCC Commandant, was already watching from a distance.
Mario wasn't subtle. He was two years older and treated me like I was a trophy he was entitled to win. He'd leave roses taped to my locker. Call me "Miss Quiz Bee Queen" like it was a pet name. He even once told EJ, "I'll make her fall for me, bro. Just watch."
EJ hated him instantly.
When Anthony asked me again a few days later, "So, you thinking about it? CAT?" I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I'd do anything if it meant more moments with him.
But I hesitated—not because of the drills or even my asthma—but because I didn't want to be the girl Mario claimed as his prize.
Still, Anthony kept showing up. Not in big ways, but in moments that lingered.
Like the time he passed by our room just to drop a juice box on my desk after hearing from someone that I had an asthma attack during flag ceremony. Or when he stayed a little longer after drills to answer my questions about leadership structures—treating me like an equal, not a fragile girl with allergies and medals.
I was torn between two versions of myself—the one my mother built, polished, and presented to the world, and the one who wanted to follow a boy with a crooked smile into something unfamiliar and warm.
What I didn't know was that every choice I made from here would cost me something—a friend, a piece of innocence, a little more air in my lungs.
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