Prologue

High school Statistics. Just the word made his brain cells do a collective groan into the abyss of numbers. Besides him, perched with an alarming level of composure on the edge of his unmade bed, sat his neighbor, Angela. She was attempting to explain the nuances of standard deviation, her voice a soothing murmur against the backdrop of his racing thoughts. But Riley’s focus had long since drifted, captured by the way the afternoon sun seemed to emanate from her very being.

Was this real? Or was he still in bed, dreaming up some fantastical, wish-fulfillment scenario where a beautiful, intelligent university girl willingly spent her precious afternoon in his messy room, patiently trying to drill numbers into his thick skull? He subtly, almost imperceptibly, pinched himself under the desk. Nope, definitely awake.

The faint, almost pleasant pain was a testament to reality, or at least, a very vivid dream. His heart, however, seemed to have taken on a life of its own, each beating a drum roll for some imagined, glorious confession.

“Riley? Are you with me?” Angela’s voice, a melodic blend of kind patience and subtle amusement, cut through his reverie, a gentle hand pulling him back from the precipice of daydreaming. She even tilted her head slightly, her gaze soft but unwavering, a silent invitation to rejoin the land of the living.

He mumbled something incoherent, a string of half-formed syllables that he hoped sounded like an intelligent response. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his internal chaos, a warmth that prickled behind his ears. Instead of being annoyed, she sighed dramatically, a theatrical gesture that was somehow endearing.

“Right, I think we need a brief intermission. My stomach is staging a rebellion, and it’s threatening to declare independence if I don’t feed it soon.”

She began rummaging through her large, overstuffed gym bag as she took out a Tupperware containing a fresh batch of homemade cookies. The instant the lid was opened, the sweet, comforting smell of vanilla and warm butter filled the room. She offered him one, and he took it, his fingers brushing hers for a fleeting second. She paused before taking another bite, looking up at him with a sly smirk, a glint of pure mischief in her eyes that made his stomach do a little flip. “What’s wrong, Riley? You look like you’re about to confess a terrible secret. Worried I’m going to find your hidden stash of... questionable magazines under your bed?” Her eyes twinkled with playful malice, and a knowing curve played on her lips, hinting at countless unsaid things.

Riley’s face instantly went from a slight blush to a full-blown crimson, a hue that could rival a ripe tomato left too long in the summer sun. “N-no! Of course not!” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly, betraying his mortification, the word catching in his throat.

Angela chuckled, a soft, teasing sound that was like wind chimes in a summer breeze, only making him more flustered. She returned to her bag and pulled something small and innocuous. “Put out your hand,” she commanded, her voice suddenly crisp, a playful authority in her tone that left no room for argument.

He obeyed instantly, extending his palm, bracing himself for... he wasn’t sure what. A high-five for his effort? A gentle tap of encouragement?

“OW!”

A sharp, stinging pain erupted in his wrist, startling him. Riley yelped, snatching his hand back as Angela burst into peals of laughter, her head thrown back, a sound so genuine and carefree it was impossible not to be charmed. In her hand, she held a simple, colorful slap bracelet, its edges still slightly curled from the impact.

“That,” she explained, still giggling, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “was a classic move from my old tutor. Worked every time I started zoning out. Or, you know, staring dreamily into space.” She winked, and Riley couldn’t help but crack a small smile, the sting in his hand already fading into amused embarrassment. He felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the slap, and everything to do with her laughter.

Then, with a flourish that could rival a seasoned magician, she produced a worn pack of playing cards. “Alright, let’s try a different approach. Sometimes, you just need to trick your brain into thinking it’s fun. Like this.” She began to shuffle the deck with a dexterity that suggested years of practice, the cards a blur between her nimble fingers, a soft rhythmic snap-snap-snap. “Here’s the deal. I’m going to shuffle these, and you have to guess the top card.”

Riley blinked, intrigued despite himself. “And if I get it wrong?” he asked, a playful challenge creeping into his own voice now.

Angela grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes that promised delightful trouble. “Then I get to hit you with the slap bracelet again,” she declared, raising the colorful band as if in warning. She paused, her gaze locking with his, a playful challenge dancing in their depths, a silent dare that hung in the air between them. “But if you get it right...” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, a velvety soft sound that sent a shiver down his spine. She leaned in, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “I’ll give you a kiss.”

Riley’s face instantly felt like it was on fire. A kiss? From Angela? His mind short-circuited, sparks practically flying from his ears. Panic flared, hot and sharp, quickly followed by a strange, dizzying rush that made his heart pound a frantic rhythm. He opened his mouth, trying desperately to articulate a coherent thought, but brain was just screaming a nonsensical jumble of “kiss, joy, kiss, oh god, panic, kiss!”

“What’s wrong, Riley?” she purred, her voice a low, teasing melody, clearly, undeniably enjoying his utter discomfiture. Her eyes danced with triumphant glee. “Don’t tell me you don’t want a kiss from a pure maiden such as moi? My reputation will be utterly shattered!” She even pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, feigning distress.

“It’s not that, I just-” He stammered, feeling like a tangled ball of yarn, desperate to break the delicious tension. His throat felt dry, and he could practically taste the sudden metallic tang of anxiety. “It’s... the ten of spades!” he blurted out, picking a card entirely at random.

Angela stuck her tongue out playfully, a charming childlike gesture that made him almost forget his panic. With a dramatic flourish that would make a stage magician weep, she flipped the top card. A brightly colored Joker stared back at them, its painted smile mocking Riley’s flustered state.

“Aw, too bad!” she chirped, a triumphant sparkle in her eyes. “Looks like someone gets another smack from the bracelet.” But then, a blush, even more vibrant and deep than Riley’s own, crept up her neck. Her playful bravado faltered, just for a moment. “Wait, no! I... I’ve never even told my best friend that I haven’t kissed a boy before,” she exclaimed, her voice rising in a squeak that was unexpectedly adorable. She suddenly leaned closer, her eyes twinkling with feigned, or perhaps not-so-feigned, embarrassment.

Her face, framed by soft strands of hair that smelled faintly of vanilla and something uniquely her own, was mere inches from his. He could see the slight tremor of her lips as she stifled a giggle, the long fringe of her eyelashes. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, desperate plea, each beat echoing the word “kiss,” "her", “now.” She was so close. Too close. He instinctively closed his eyes, anticipating the gentle touch of her lips. And then, a familiar sharp sting erupted in his hand.

He yelped again, snapping his eyes open to see Angela retracting the slap bracelet, a wide, triumphant grin plastered on her face. Her laughter, a joyful, unrestrained sound like tiny bells ringing, filling the room, leaving Riley both deflated and utterly charmed.

Returning back to the deck of cards, Angela began re-shuffling again, her movements fluid and practiced, almost hypnotic. “Statistics is like a game of luck and logic. Each card pulled is a possible outcome that could have been, however...” she said, her voice taking on a slightly more serious, almost philosophical tone, before taking out the top card, which, to Riley’s surprise, revealed the same Joker that Angela had pulled earlier. “If you don’t know the rules, implied or not, then you become nothing more than Probability’s Pawn.”

“But that was cheating,” Riley sulked, rubbing his stinging hand, a pout forming on his lips. His disappointment was palpable.

“Was it?” Angela’s voice had a heavier, more resonant tone to it now, a subtle shift that made Riley pause. Her playful demeanor seemed to recede, replaced by something more enigmatic, a hint of something vast and unreadable in her eyes.

This made Riley hesitate on how to respond. Her question hung in the air, weighted with an unspoken depth that made his stomach clench. Even so, Angela continued to shuffle more and more, almost mechanically, as if lost in thought.

“Let me ask you a question,” she continued, her gaze direct, surprisingly intense, pinning him in place. “When I told you to pick a card, why did you not question the deck I took out?” Her words were strange, almost cryptic, but they made him think. With an open deck, could it have been tampered with? In a standard deck, it is common to play with 52 cards, but a new deck would have 54, including two Jokers. The biggest concern was how likely the deck of cards was the same deck that came in the pack. It could have been filled with nothing but Jokers.

Her question had a heavy impact on him, a sudden, chilling insight into a world beyond his understanding. Was this the age difference, the vast unsettling gap in understanding between someone in high school and university? Her words carried a weight that made his head spin more than statistics ever could, leaving him feeling small and uncomprehending.

The look of struggle from Riley figuring out a question even Angela herself seemed to have trouble fully articulating caused her to falter. Her hand, mid-shuffle, suddenly lost its grip. Cards cascaded, scattering across his messy floor like colorful confetti, shimmering jewels, starting a new game of 52-pickup, or was it 54-pickup?

“Oh no...” A small, frustrated groan escaped her lips.

Seeing that Angela was making a mess, a familiar flush of embarrassment returned to her cheeks, and she began to scramble, picking them up immediately. It was only when she reached out for the Queen of Hearts that her hand felt the touch of the boy she was teaching.

Their fingers brushed, a soft, electric current passing between them, sparking a jolt that went straight to his core. Their heartbeats, already erratic, could almost be felt from their joined hands as they realized their hands were, inexplicably, stuck to one another for several long, breathless seconds, a silent, powerful connection.

““I’m sorry.””

The words tumbled out simultaneously, a shared moment of awkwardness that stretched into something fragile and profound. The spell was broken. They both pulled their hands away quickly, as if burned, as if the contact itself was too much, before Angela started packing up everything to leave, a sudden, desperate urgency in her movements, avoiding his gaze.

"Good luck with your test," Angela mumbled, her voice a little too quick, a little too quiet. She gave a small, hesitant wave, still not quite meeting his eyes. Her face was suddenly unreadable, as the setting sun began to hide her face, casting her in shadow, almost obscuring her from view. "I’ll come by tomorrow and help answer any questions that you have."

Riley could only wave as she left, a strange, profound sense of unease settling in his chest despite the sweet memory of her hand in his, a warmth that lingered. He found himself clutching the slap bracelet she had dropped, its smooth surface cold beneath his thumb, a stark contrast to the warmth that had lingered from her touch. He wanted to call out to her, to ask her to stay, but the words felt stuck in his throat.

But that day never came. Weeks after, her family moved away without warning. Riley asked his mom what would happen to Angela's studies, but he struggled to understand the vague, unsatisfying answers. Angela, the girl next door, the one with the vanilla scent and the mischievous grin, never existed in the first place.