The locker room smelled like sweat and something sour, like old socks forgotten for years. Lian stood in front of his locker, twisting the combination dial slowly, pretending he knew what he was doing. His gym clothes were too big. Hand-me-downs from a cousin who'd moved to San Diego.
The other boys around him shouted, laughed, and threw rolled-up socks across the room. Someone snapped a towel. The loudest voice belonged to a boy with sandy blond hair and a cocky grin. Carter. Everyone seemed to circle around him.
Lian didn't like the way Carter looked at people.
He looked once at Lian and didn't say anything. Just smiled.
Lian saw it immediately—thin legs, too many of them, and eyes like beads. A spider.
He looked away.
"Hey," Carter said. "You the new kid?"
Lian hesitated. "Yeah."
Carter nodded. "Cool. What's your name? Lee-on?"
"Lian."
"Leee-an," Carter dragged it out like it was a joke. A couple of the other boys laughed.
Lian didn't respond. He pulled his shirt off quickly and changed, eyes focused on the bench.
"You play dodgeball?" Carter asked.
Lian shook his head.
"Better learn fast," Carter said. "You're on the red team. Don't get in the way."
In the gym, the game was chaos. Balls bounced off the floor, kids screamed, one even ran in the wrong direction.
Lian stayed back. He ducked when one of the red balls came flying his way, missing him by inches.
Jamie was on the other team. She threw with surprising accuracy, even laughed when she hit someone.
Carter hit a kid square in the chest and raised his arms like a champion.
Lian crouched low, trying to stay invisible.
That didn't last.
A ball hit him in the leg. Not hard, but it surprised him.
Carter jogged over, grinning. "Out, Lee-on."
Lian stood and walked off the court. Behind him, he could still feel Carter's grin.
After gym, Lian found his locker partly open.
His notebook was on the ground, pages fluttering. He picked it up and turned it over. A spider had been drawn on the back cover in thick black marker.
Eight legs. Big eyes. A cartoon smile.
Lian stared at it, heart pounding.
He didn't need a vision to know who did it.
At home, his mother noticed he was quiet.
"怎么了?" she asked.
"Fine," he said in English.
His father wasn't home yet.
"你妈妈在说什么?" he asked, finally.
She repeated herself: "What's wrong?"
Lian looked down at his notebook. He thought of saying it. Of explaining the spider, the game, the smirks.
Instead, he said, "She asked if school was fun."
And to his father, later, he would say, "She said I made friends."
Because sometimes, the truth was easier to hide when wrapped in translation.
But in the dark, he kept the notebook close. He stared at the drawn spider long after the lights were off, trying to decide if it was better to fear what you see—or what you don't.