The Finch Effect
They call it the Finch Effect.
Not officially. Not in any textbook. Just whispers in hallways. Stories that sound like lies until you see it happen.
Tyler Finch, seventeen. Nike Killshots, worn exactly right. Uniqlo Oxford, third button undone. Seiko on his left wrist, running three minutes fast. He never fixes it. Says he likes being ahead of time.
The chemistry exam: seventy-eight questions. Everyone else started twenty minutes ago. Tyler walks in late, AirPods still in one ear. Lana Del Rey leaking out. "Born to Die." The classroom smells like dry erase markers and teenage angst.
Mr. Harrison doesn't look up. Already tired of this routine.
Tyler sits. Back row. Always back row. Pulls out a mechanical pencil. Bic. Clear plastic. You can see the graphite inside, like bones under skin.
Click.
He doesn't read the questions. Doesn't need to. His hand moves across the Scantron. Automatic. Like breathing. Like bleeding.
C, B, C, A. C, C, D.
The girl next to him, Emma Watanabe, pre-med track, perfect GPA, watches from the corner of her eye. She's been studying for three weeks. Flash cards. Practice tests. Adderall she bought from Kyle Morrison for forty dollars a pill.
Tyler finishes in twelve minutes.
Sarah's still on question fifteen.
The pencil rolls across his desk. Falls. Hits the floor.
Crack.
The graphite breaks. He doesn't pick it up.
"Time," Mr. Harrison says, though there's still eight minutes left. He's watching Tyler. They all watch Tyler. "Finch. Stay after."
Tyler doesn't. Never does. Walks out while everyone's still writing, their pencils scratching like insects trying to escape.
"You should really try harder," Mr. Harrison calls after him.
But Tyler's already gone.
In the hallway: fluorescent lights humming. Dead moths in the fixtures casting shadows like Rorschach tests. Tyler counts his steps. Seventeen from Chemistry to his locker. Always seventeen. Even when he tries to make it sixteen or eighteen.
The universe has its patterns.
This is how it works: you can push, but it pushes back. Newton's third law. Every action. Every reaction. Equal and opposite.
Tyler discovered this at seven. Birthday party. Pin the tail on the donkey. Blindfolded, spun around. Dizzy. Should have missed by a mile. But he thought, really thought, about winning. About the prize. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure. Donatello.
He pinned it perfect. Dead center.
That night: his goldfish died. Mr. Bubbles. Floating at the top of the bowl. Eyes clouded over like tiny marbles.
Coincidence, his mom said.
But Tyler knew.
The redhead by his locker: Cassie Winslow. Doc Martens, $180. Ripped Levi's that cost more ripped than whole. Misfits logo stretched tight across her chest. She's the kind of girl who makes disappointment an art form.
She's also dating Kyle Morrison. Lacrosse captain. Duke acceptance letter already framed on his wall.
Tyler doesn't look at her. Doesn't need to. Just exists in her periphery. Adjusts the combination on his lock. 8-23-41. The numbers matter. Everything matters.
The air shifts. Temperature drops half a degree.
"Hey."
Tyler turns. Calculated surprise.
"Oh. Hey."
Her pupils dilate. Involuntary. Chemical. The universe tilting on its axis.
"Kyle and I broke up."
Tyler didn't know this. Didn't need to know. The knowing comes after. Always after.
"Sorry to hear that."
"I'm not." She leans against the locker next to his. Metal groans. "Want to hang out after school?"
"Sure."
The universe shifts. A cosmic transaction. Tyler can feel it in his molars. In the small bones of his inner ear.
She walks away. Hips like a pendulum. Like inevitability.
Tyler opens his locker. His iPhone screen: spiderwebbed with cracks. Wasn't this morning.
The price.
Always the price.
But today's different. Today the cracks form a pattern. Like a map. Like a warning.
He stares at it until the bell rings.