Leo wasn’t looking relieved.
He wasn’t looking emotional.
He was looking toward the gym entrance.
Waiting.
Almost like he was watching a clock.
A second later, I heard the doors burst open.
Every head in the room turned.
My heart stopped.
Leo’s mother was marching down the center aisle.
And she wasn’t alone.
In her hand was a sealed official envelope.
She walked with purpose straight toward the stage.
Straight toward us.
That was when I saw the look in his eyes.
And suddenly realized his shaved head wasn’t just a gesture of support.
It was a distraction.
A carefully planned distraction.
Something had been happening behind my back.
Something involving Leo.
His mother.
And that envelope.
Whatever was inside was about to change everything.
My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything.
The entire gym had gone silent.
Every student, every teacher, every parent was staring at Leo’s mother as she marched toward the stage with the envelope clutched tightly in her hand.
I looked up at Leo.
He was still watching her approach.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Waiting.
That was when I knew.
Whatever was happening, he had known about it all along.
My stomach dropped.
“Leo,” I tried calling out.
He glanced at me.
There was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.
Hope.
Real hope.
The kind I hadn’t felt since before my diagnosis.
A moment later, his mother reached the stage.
The principal hurried over.
“What is going on?” he asked.
Leo’s mother smiled nervously.
“Please. Just give me two minutes.”
The principal looked confused, but something in her expression must have convinced him.
He handed her the microphone.
The gym remained completely silent.
Leo stepped down from the stage and stood beside me.
His hand immediately found mine.
