The Sphinx in the Server Room

I'm running down the hallway with Mrs. Gable's goldfish bowl clutched against my chest, water sloshing onto my vintage band tee. Again. This is the third time this week I've had to rescue Goldie from Brandon's "pranks"—which is a generous word for being a complete and utter asswipe.

The server room. My sanctuary. Nobody goes there except nerds trying to fix their grades, and even they know better than to mess with my kingdom.

I kick the door shut with my heel and set Goldie on the desk beside my laptop. The blue beta fish does a little flip, like he's thanking me. "You're welcome, little dude," I whisper, wiping fish water onto my jeans.

Then I see it.

Someone's moved the chairs. Someone's set up a whole operation in MY server room—laptop, monitor, a tangle of ethernet cable snaking across the floor like blue vines. And sitting there, illuminated by the glow of four screens, is Sphinx.

That's what everyone calls her. Real name's unknown. She's the one who solved the Mr. Henderson's impossible calculus bonus problem last year, the one who allegedly hacked the school's bell schedule to give everyone five-minute lunches.

She's wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves ripped off. Her headphones are massive, noise-canceling beasties.

Her eyes lock onto mine. "You're the one who keeps rescuing that fish."

I freeze. "You've been watching me?"

"I've been watching everything." She points to the screens—feeds from half the school's cameras. "Brandon's been stealing your lunch money since September. You should report him."

My face flames. I'm thirteen, I'm trans, I'm poor, and the last thing I need is Sphinx knowing my business. "I handle it."

"You're running from him." It's not a question. "Like you run from everything."

"What do you know about it?" The words come out sharper than I intend.

Sphinx shrugs. "I know you spend all day in here. I know you're on that server—" she points to my setup "—until the janitor kicks you out. I know you've got a Discord full of people who think you're a senior at some prep school."

My stomach drops. She knows. She actually knows.

"I'm working on it," I mutter, moving to grab Goldie's bowl.

"Stop running," she says. "Help me with something, and I'll handle Brandon."

I pause. "What something?"

She grins—actual, genuine grin, like she's been waiting for this. "I need someone who knows this school better than I do. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried—or at least where the cheerleaders stash their vape pens."

I look at her screens. At the cable running from her laptop to the school's main server.

"You're hacking the grading system?"

"I'm fixing it," she corrects. "Too many kids get screwed because teachers don't know how to use it. But I need eyes on the ground. Someone who knows who's actually struggling and who's just slacking."

I sink into the chair beside her. Goldie does a little dance in his bowl.

"I'm listening," I say.

And for the first time since seventh grade started, I'm not running anymore.