My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 162

Chapter 162 Finding My Chewed Yellow Pencil

The cardboard box struck the polished hardwood floor. A dull thud echoed in the narrow space of the closet. The impact knocked the lid loose. The top spun across the wood and hit the baseboard with a sharp clatter.

I froze. My breath trapped tight in my throat. I stood on my tiptoes, my wet hands hovering in the empty air.

“Maria?” Ryder’s voice called out.

The sound came through the thick steam, muffled by the heavy glass door of the shower.

I slapped both hands over my mouth. The wet denim of my jeans clung to my shivering legs. I squeezed my eyes shut. I begged my lungs to remain silent. I prayed my erratic pulse did not give me away.

“Is someone out there?” he called again. The rough gravel of his tone echoed off the bathroom tile. “Did you bring the towels?”

I did not move, I did not breathe.

A few tense seconds passed. The rushing water shifted. He stepped back under the spray. The heavy drumming sound resumed its steady rhythm. He assumed the old mansion settled, or the spring wind knocked a tree branch against the glass window.

I let out a shaky exhale.

I dropped my arms to my sides. I lowered my weight off my tiptoes. My wet sneakers squeaked against the polished wood. The freezing dampness of my clothes seeped deep into my bones, making my teeth chatter. The adrenaline from the ruined midterms faded, leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in my chest.

I looked down at the floor.

The cheap cardboard shoebox sat overturned near a row of pristine leather dress shoes. It looked out of place. The closet resembled a high-end boutique, filled with tailored dark suits, crisp white dress shirts, and custom silk ties. The billionaire heir possessed a wardrobe worth more than my mother’s diner. Yet, he kept a basic, unmarked brown box hidden in the darkest, highest corner of his top shelf.

The fall spilled the contents across the floorboards.

I dropped to my knees. The wet denim pressed against the cold wood. I reached out to gather the scattered items. I wanted to shove everything back inside the cardboard. I wanted to replace the lid and put the box back on the high shelf before the shower stopped. I needed to hide my clumsy mistake.

My freezing fingers brushed a bright yellow cylinder.

I picked it up. A standard number two pencil. The wooden tip lacked a sharp point. The graphite sat dull and worn. I traced my thumb over the yellow paint near the metal ferrule. The wood held deep, distinct teeth marks. The paint chipped away, revealing the raw pine

underneath the bite pattern.

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13:51 Fri, Jul 10

Chapter 162 Finding My Chewed Yellow Pencil

I stared at the indented wood. The pattern sparked a strange, distant memory in the back of my mind.

I chew my pencils during stressful exams. I bite the wood right below the metal ring. I do not gnaw the eraser. I clamp my teeth on the yellow paint when I try to solve complex equations.

The memory surfaced with striking clarity. Freshman year. The mandatory fall pep rally.

“Stop gnawing on that piece of wood,” Chloe said. She sat beside me on the cold aluminum bleachers. ‘It looks disgusting, Raisa.

‘I am stressed about the geometry midterm,” I whispered. I kept my eyes on the notes in my lap. “If I lose the grade point average, I lose

the track for the premed scholarship.”

“You worry too much,” Chloe sighed. She checked her phone screen, ignoring the loud marching band. “You need to focus on real problems. Like how we are surviving this crowd.”

I clamped my teeth harder on the yellow paint. The wood indented. A few minutes later, the crowd stood up to cheer. The pencil slipped from my trembling fingers. It fell through the gap in the metal bleachers, lost in the dark shadows below.

A heavy, confusing pressure formed behind my ribs.

I placed the yellow pencil inside the cardboard box. I reached for the next item resting on the polished floor.

A small white square. A block eraser. The corners looked rounded and worn down from heavy use. I turned the rubber block over in my palm. A small, crude star decorated the center. Someone pressed a blue ink pen deep into the rubber to draw the shape.

The breath stalled in my lungs.

Sophomore year. The stuffy history classroom.

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