| Imran Adebayo Ibrahim |

"Here, have some peanuts," for the fifteenth time in a row, Mrs. Turner offered me a peanut and I declined politely. Her guilty conscience made her want to share everything she ate with me: everything — including her puddings. She should feel guilty, after all she was the one who called me in when the Principal was absent. The peanut that she had with her was enticing but I am allergic to it: it gives me severe acne. I'm already a pimpled face boy, adding acne to my face is the worst thing that could ever happen.

My tension was palpable — during my first couple of minutes inside the office — that tension gradually morphed into boredom an hour ago. My gaze at the wall clock was so unbreakable that tears began to well up inside my eyes as its gaze rotated in a clockwise manner with the second hand on the face of the clock.

After shedding a tear, I broke my gaze. Scanned around the office, fidgeting with the silver pen on the desk and resting my chin on my palm. I closed my eyes momentarily, allowing myself to be engulfed in the symphonic ambiance the office had created.

The shuffling of papers provides a rhythmic background, punctuated by the occasional ringing of phones conducting urgent conversations from the nearby staff's room. As Mrs. Turner began clacking on the keyboards it serves as the percussion section, while the melodious hum of The Amazing Grace tune adds a subtle harmony.

"Mr. Raymond." I heard someone calling, and they gently knocked on the desk. I slowly raised my head up, staring at them with puffy eyes. "Mr. Morales, g-good morning?" I inquired with a slight stutter.

Mr. Morales gave me a cold stare, with pronounced veins on his forehead and neck. He was so vexed that I could see sweat trickling down from his forehead, making way into his white button-up t-shirt. I quickly recomposed myself, sitting up and clearing my throat.

"Welcome back Mr. Morales," Mrs. Turner greeted the Principal with her usual enthusiastic smile, "the Juan Pablo family called again,"

Mr. Morales took his seat and sighed deeply, "look Lizzy, I told you not to pick that man's call,"

"But sir, he threatened to draw back from the school's funding project."

Mr. Morales scoffed wryly, "he's just bluffing, he ain't doing nothing." He stated with a slight raise of his voice, he calmed, taking a deep breath before continuing, "you picked his call, you're dealing with him. Please do not disturb my peace." Mr. Morales practically begged.

I cleared my throat to announce my presence. "Sir, you called for me an hour ago." I reminded. I know he was my superintendent, but he had to apologize for making me wait for an hour.

He glanced at me askance. "I see," he picked up his spectacles and began flipping through the folders in front of him.

"Sir—" I was cut short by his raised finger.

"Kindly explain what this is," he ordered, turning his open laptop towards my direction. Right in front of me I saw a video of me doing drugs. My already eased embarrassment and guilt were dug up again.

I remained speechless, looking at the laptop's screen like it was a foreign video. I watched the video effortlessly as if that was my first time seeing it. Rewatching the video again, I noticed the only face that was shown was mine, even their voices were muted. What the video reassembled, was; a Nigerian kid doing drugs — equivalent to jail time.

"What in the name of the devil is this?" Mr. Morales inquired again, and I remained speechless.

"I told you, it is photoshopped — those kids can be cruel." Mrs. Turner intervened, smiling at me.

I nodded instantly, "y-yeah, it's photoshopped."

"Have you called the Juan Pablos?" Mr Morales inquired and Mrs. Turner nodded in negativity, "then do that, and stop bein' nosy!" He snapped at her. "Explain, the floor is yours Mr. Imran." He turned to me, spreading his palms.

"It's not what you think, sir. They set me up." I told the truth.

The blood drained from Mr. Morales face, "what the hell son? Nobody set you up to do nothing judging by the video, you eagerly consume those stuffs like a pro. Who was there with you? One of Midtown High's students?" He inquired.

I was anything but a snitch, I couldn't jeopardize their future, since they didn't coerce me into doing it after all — and I still felt sympathy towards Omar, at least he apologized. "I can't say." I simply answered.

Mr. Morales brows furrowed, "son, look at me, do y'all know this will be on your permanent record and you can't get into any Ivy league university with that?" He inquired, more like an announcement. "If you don't state their names then you'll have to face the punishment alone." He added.

I did not know. That was the worst thing that could ever happen to me, not getting into Stanford. I couldn't afford to study at anyhow university, it had to be one of the Ivy leagues.

"What can I do sir, it's an honest mistake." I practically cried.

"Have pity on the poor boy sir, there should be something he can do." Mrs. Turner pleaded on my behalf.

"Look, I don't set the rules," Mr. Morales empathized, his expression softening as my sadness seemed to affect him. "But there are two options for you to clear things up."

"What are they?" I asked, surprised.

Adjusting his glasses and meeting my gaze seriously, Mr. Morales replied, "You could become a humanitarian aid."

"What does that involve?" My confusion was evident.

"Come on, keep up," Mr. Morales chided gently, snapping his fingers rhythmically. "Being a humanitarian aid means helping out at places like orphanages and hospitals. Just those activities would resolve your situation — or I can involve your parents," he offered, gesturing towards a proposition.

Knowing I was good with children and popular with older individuals, I realized I could excel as an aide at both the orphanage and the hospital. "I'll do it, sir!" I agreed promptly.

"Consider it done," Mr. Morales smiled, returning to his tasks.

Rising from my chair, I expressed my gratitude, addressing both Mr. Morales and Mrs. Turner individually.

Handing me a Humanitarian Aid form from his drawer, Mr. Morales instructed, "You'll need to fill in your personal details and have the form signed by the respective department heads at the orphanage and the hospital." He pointed to the space designated for signatures.

I nodded, acknowledging his instructions. "Thank you, I'll do just that." Folding the paper, I exited the office.

* * *

The rowdy Starbucks cafe hummed with the sound of steaming milk, grinding espresso, and animated conversations. Amidst the rhythmic clinks of cups and saucers, I meticulously prepare a coffee for a waiting customer; he was one of the nicest customers I'd served, my focus was intact despite the cacophony around me — I wanted to make the best coffee for the nice business man.

As I reached for the whipped cream, my senior breezed past me, a flurry of activity in the busy cafe. Seizing the moment, I stopped him with a respectful gesture, catching his attention.

"Excuse me," I called out above the din, "Could I have a quick word with you?"

Intrigued, my senior paused, turning to face me with a frown. "Sure," he forced out, "what's on your mind?" he added, leaning in slightly to hear over the noise.

Giving the business man his change, I focused on my senior. "Can I get a day off tomorrow and the next?"

"What for? It's your birthday?" He inquired, a brow furrowed.

I broke a smile, "no, I volunteered to be a humanitarian aid."

"Why would you voluntarily want to do extra work? You nasty?" He asked, but I remained silent. "Ah. . . You nasty," he deduced with a smirk. "You can have the day off," he offered.

"Thanks," I replied, "I really—" He interrupted me.

"I'm not compensating you for the days you missed, just so you're aware," he asserted firmly. "And your brother waiting here? Not ideal. I prefer not to have him lingering around my workplace," he mentioned, drawing my attention to the glass wall where Zayd stood, keeping a watchful eye on me, as he often did. Zayd caught sight of me and gave me a brotherly wave.

"Don't worry, he'll leave," I muttered under my breath, waving back at him with a frown.

"He's trouble. I have my reasons for disliking him," he continued, now waving at my stepbrother with an obviously insincere gesture, to which Zayd responded with a broad smile. "Such a phony," he muttered.

"Alex," I called out, diverting my focus from the register tally, "What's with the hatred towards Zayd?"

"I'm not paying you to snoop around, Nancy Drew," Alex retorted.

Although he wasn't the one footing the bill, I decided to play along. "Fine, I'll keep quiet," I replied with a sly grin. He kept muttering something to himself as he walked back into the storage room.

The highlight of my job as a Barista is definitely handling the cash. Even though I'm accustomed to counting Nigerian currency, dealing with dollars was a breeze, and the feeling of holding them was exhilarating. If I were more outgoing, I might have snapped a picture of the money in my hand. Money certainly brings a sense of tranquillity at times.

"Hi," someone interrupted my moment with the cash, causing me to accidentally drop some dollar bills on the floor.

"Hello, welcome to Starbucks, what can I get for you?" I said automatically as I stooped to retrieve the money.

"An apology," they said.

My first instinct was to retort, "We don't serve apologies here!" but I kept quiet and stood up to see who it was. It turned out to be Sahar, looking uncharacteristically without words.

"Imran, I'm really sorry about—" Sahar began to speak and I interrupted her, after all I was being a douche, blinded by my own jealousy that it almost cost me my friends.

"No, Sahar, let me apologize first. I've been terrible at replying to your messages and calls, it's just that I was in a really, really dark place then." I explained, but came to a halt at the sight of Sahar smiling.

Sahar smiled softly, "it's okay, Imran. Really, I'm not upset. I just miss how things were, you know? Especially the book club meetings we never had."

Realizing my mistake, my cheeks flushed. "I'm so sorry, Sahar. I completely forgot about our book club." I apologized.

"Don't worry about it. Let's just plan another meeting soon, okay?"

I hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I don't think it'll work, Sahar. I volunteered to be a humanitarian aid this weekend."

Sahar's face remained unchanged, devoid of disappointment. "Actually, that's what I came to tell you." She said, fidgeting with her hand like a little girl, "I've decided to volunteer as well," she said, and to my surprise she brought forth the same form Mr. Morales had given me.

"Really?" My face lit up with a toothy grin.

"Yes, it'll also enhance my college application and open up doors for any university I choose," Sahar explained, her hand gently brushing my dark, thick hair. "We'll be aid buddies."

I felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach, but I quickly pushed it aside. My determination to uphold the friend code was super strong.

"We can have our second book club meeting after our volunteer work. Francis is out of town, so it works out perfectly," Sahar suggested.

"Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Let me grab my things so I can walk you home," I offered, attempting to maintain a mature demeanor.

"Okie-dokie," Sahar agreed, settling onto an empty stool. I made sure I stole glances of Sahar whenever she wasn't looking, knowing that resisting my feelings for her would be a challenge, but I was determined to keep them strictly platonic — nothing romantic.

Author's Note

Salaam y'all. So sorry I was unable to update the story last week, I have been busy - I'm working on a new book (so secretive). What do you think about Sahar and Imran's relationship, is it giving the platonic or romantic vibes? Comment down your thoughts, and of course, do vote.