The Red Notebook

McKenna Hutchinson

I am one of the top students based on grades and come from the upper class, and I have always been one to blend into the background. My parents are usually gone, leaving me with nothing to do but study. As a child getting good grades, I was praised, but now it has just become a habit of going home and studying in a quiet house, then going to sleep. Grades became the one thing that made sense. Points are not abstract: they are proof that I am worth something. 

Points are not abstract: they are proof that I am worth something.

Every Friday current rankings are posted for each grade level. Today is a normal Friday. In the classroom almost every student is in their seat on their phone or reading. I walk to my seat in the middle of the class, the perfect spot between the windows so the glare of the sunrise does not hit me, but when the window’s open, the breeze hits just enough to prevent sweating. I am not in the back with the slackers who make noise, or in the front where being called on is a normal occurrence. I am in the middle showing that I care. I sit and pull out my SAT practice math problems.

“Hello. Happy Friday,” Mrs. Brush says while walking into the classroom. “You all know what time it is. Our exams from this week are factored into the ranking, and, might I say, there’s been quite a big upset.” 

I have been going to school with the majority of my class for years and have always been in first place. Almost every Friday I can predict the rankings and the shift in them based on the subject of the exams that week. Mrs. Brush goes through the list starting at twenty-five and decreasing. Almost every placement I already predicted. Only a month into the school year, things have fallen into the pattern that will most likely continue throughout the rest of the year. 

“Now to the big upset, we have Dereck in second.” I feel my heart drop from my chest into my stomach and begin swelling. Nausea sets in. Whose name has not been said? Who beat me? This has never happened. I have always been first and the highest scorer on every exam. Every time with a perfect or nearly perfect score. I look around the classroom trying not to seem desperate to find out who is left. 

“Alex, congrats on taking first place. We finally were able to account for the work done before you transferred.” I look back to where the teacher is looking. Alex recently transferred into the class. He associated himself with the rich kids. I looked past him as potential competition. He has a big smile on his face. His dirty blond hair almost covers his eyes with waves. Twenty and eighteen reach over to give Alex a high five. “Good job, Alex. Dereck now has some competition,” Mrs. Brush says, looking at me. There’s no way to see the point difference, no way to know the points between us. I prided myself on the invisible margin between 1 and 2 that only I knew.

*

After the announcement the day runs normally. But I can’t focus on the lecture. My notebook is out and pencil in hand, but all I can hear are the gentle whispers coming from the back of the class. Coming from Alex. The few words I hear are definitely not about school or anything intellectual. The bell finally rings, and my classmates stand up and leave the room. It’s lunch time. I look down at my empty notebook with only the date sitting at the top of the page. 

The rankings are always posted on the cork board at the front of the class. I walk up to it and see for the first time I am not first. Alex sits above Dereck like a crushing force on the page. On the page there is no way to tell how large or small the gap. I continue to stare at our two names. I remove the tack, grabbing the page off the wall. No one will notice. Now last week’s rankings sit on the board with me in first place, where I belong. I will just have to try harder. I need to study more. It was probably math—I need a perfect score. 

In the courtyard the boys from the back of the class are playing basketball. I use my time during lunch to study and go over practice problems, while the rest of the class goes with friends to the cafeteria or to play basketball. I see Alex. He wipes the sweat from his brow as he runs down the court. He catches the ball and he shoots, sinking the shot. With a big smile on his face, he gives out high fives. I walk away from the window with the now crumpled ranking in my hand. I flatten the paper and place it in between the pages of my textbook to flatten out the wrinkles. Sitting back down, I grab out my math practice problems. I will not be beat again. 

*

The week goes on normally. We have a literature exam and a history exam. My stronger subjects. I feel confident on both exams. Every night I continue my studying. Thursday evening I sit at my desk working on vocab. The class ranking is taped to the wall. I have to be first. 

Friday morning everything is normal. Alex is at the back of the class, and we make eye contact for a second. He smiles at me, but I just look away and continue to walk. I sit in my seat, grab my notecards out, and start to flip through them, waiting for Mrs. Brush to walk in. She announces herself. “Hello, class. Let’s go over this week’s ranking. I think our class has a new top dog.” What does that mean? Am I back in first? Is Alex? Mrs. Brush starts going down the list. I look back to Alex. He is not even listening. Does he even care? 

Over the last month the rankings have stayed the same, Dereck is always under Alex. From my stash of notebooks at home, I carefully chose the college-ruled spiral notebook with the red cover. It matched Alex’s notebook that he seems to use for all subjects. I have started to take notes on things about him over my month of observation. 1. He wears the same worn black New Balances. 2. He stops by the cafeteria and grabs a milk carton and a tuna wrap (grabs for 3 mustard packets). Sits outside, eats with friends, then plays basketball the remainder of lunch. 15. Is a fan of the NFL, favorite team is the Ravens. 28. In a better mood the day after the Ravens won. 78. Walks home after school, taking a right then left then two rights. His house is the one gray house next to a gas station.

*

Alex does not study. He talks with friends and plays all day at school. He wastes time. I follow him home. He walks alone, with his ear buds in. It must be something that he does at home that gets him the grades. He takes the final turn to his house. Staying far enough behind to not get noticed, I look around the corner. The single-level gray house is dark, with no light but a single bulb blinking at the front door. Alex definitely is not from a rich family. 

Alex unlocks the door and walks in. The house lights up. This is all I can see. I need to watch him to know what he does. I already have his routine planned out; the only blank place that needs to be filled is the time he is at home. I still have not talked to him. I have continued to use my time during school to study, with no change in the rank. In my notebook I have created plans for how to take back my rank. 1. Study and be the highest scorer. 2. Observe and copy actions. 3. Sabotage (probably not). 

Step 1 has not been successful. Sabotage could be possible, but how could I manipulate his test scores? I am stuck on step 2. It has been going well, but the wall of not knowing what he is doing when at home holds me back. 

The lights are still on in the house. I can’t see any movement through the curtained windows. I turn around, return home, open my notebook, and write down step 4. Befriend. Being alone has allowed me the time to study, not needing to worry about hanging out with people or laughing at jokes that are not funny due to the obligation of “friendship.” 

*

I sit down at my desk, notebook open, pencil ready, but today is different. I have one thing on my mind this morning: befriend Alex and add even more to my notebook. My usual rhythm of skimming through math problems, rewriting vocab words, reviewing past exams, is gone. Today I am thinking only about Alex. My plan is simple, but delicate: befriend him. Carefully. Slowly. Step 4 in my meticulously numbered plan: observe, catalog, and fill in the missing pieces. Everything else—studying, ranking, obsessing—will wait. 

At lunch, I spot him at the far end of the courtyard, leaning against the edge of the basketball court, talking and laughing with his friends. He moves effortlessly through the group, tossing the ball, shouting jokes, the way some people can just belong anywhere without effort. My notebook is clutched in my hand as if it were armor. I take a deep breath, straighten my uniform, and approach. 

“Hey,” I say, voice steady, careful not to let my nerves betray me. “Mind if I sit?”

He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, then shrugs. “Sure.” 

I sit, careful not to crowd him, careful not to seem too eager. The world around us continues: laughter, shouts, basketball thuds. I take a mental note. How he tilts his head when he laughs. How he pauses before taking a bite of his tuna wrap, dipping it carefully into the exact three mustard packets he always grabs. How he carries himself with a casual ease I will never have. 

He starts talking about the literature exam, jokes about how Mrs. Brush expects them all to memorize every line of Shakespeare in one night. I listen, recording silently, cataloging his methods. I notice his handwriting in his notebook, the way he underlines certain words and leaves spaces that I would have filled obsessively. 

Over the next week, I follow the rhythm, observing everything. I follow him around school, walk with him home, insisting that I live nearby, writing anything that I learn after each encounter. 

“You really don’t need to walk me home,” Alex says a few days into the twenty-minute walk. Alex’s house is farther from the school than most of the students who attend. 

“I live nearby.” The sun is starting to set. Alex and I decided to debrief the math quiz. He got his back with a big 100 circled in red at the top of the page; mine 98. Then silence sets in. 

“It’s just two points,” Alex says, breaking the pause. “You just were going too fast. Just some silly mistakes.” He does not understand. Those two points can be the difference between first and second. I need to be the best. 

“Easy for you to say.” 

Alex slows his walk, making me look at him. With a faint smile he says, “You know, you don’t have to be so worried about grades all the time. Loosen up. Talk with people. Make friends. Enjoy high school before we have to go out into the real world.” 

I try to decide if he is teasing me or giving me advice. “I guess,” I mumble back. 

He laughs softly. “Seriously,” he says. “It’s not the end of the world if you miss a point or two. Look at me, no one is perfect, not even me, despite what you think.”

We continue to walk. I look down at my red notebook, still hugged to my chest. I relax for a moment. 

We turn the corner, and Alex’s house comes into view. A visibly pregnant woman stands on the porch with a broom in hand, shouting over the noise of two small children running around the yard. 

“Alex! There you are!” she calls, waving the broom in one hand. “Right on time. Dinner is ready in ten.” She leans the broom against the house, and waddles over. “Who is this?” 

Alex puts his arms around my shoulder in a playful way. “Just a friend from school. He is my main competition,” he says, winking at his mother, and meets my gaze. 

“You are welcome to stay for dinner.” Alex’s mother looks at me. 

I refuse quickly. “Sorry, I will have to decline. I need to go home and study.”

“Have a nice evening,” his mom says. 

I turn the corner but linger, and look back to see Alex and his family. I see a loving family I will never have. Alex walks into the house, as his mother stands at the edge of the porch yelling at the kids out playing. They drop their sticks and race their mother through the front door. 

As I walk home my mind starts to wander. I missed the perfect opportunity to learn more. Alex has a family. A mother, father, and siblings. Another difference from myself. Are they the reason for his good grades? 

I continue to walk him home, and I always stop at the corner and watch. I see what he does at home, his routine, his rhythm that somehow produces the highest scores without the obsession. Nothing out of the ordinary. He studies when he gets home, games with his friends on the computer. I record it all in my red notebook when given the chance. I study him as much as I study for my exams. Every small gesture, every pause, every pattern. 

And the more I watch, the more I realize that I’m not content with observing. I need more. What I have learned is not enough: there must be a secret to his course. But after following him around relentlessly, no answers can be found in my pages of notes. 

And the more I watch, the more I realize that I’m not content with observing. I need more.

There is no change in the rank a month after I have buddied myself with Alex. The time I would spend studying during lunch I now spend watching Alex play basketball, taking notes on every move. 

“Dereck, what’s up with that notebook?” Alex asks me after one of the games. I hug the notebook even closer into my chest. The metal spiral creates indents in the palm of my hand. Alex grins, gently bumps me with his shoulder. 

“Come on, man. You’ve been scribbling in that thing for what seems like forever. What’s in there? Secrets? Love letters?” he says with a big laugh. 

“Its just some notes to remember for later,” I say, looking to the ground. 

He laughs again. “All right, I won’t pry. But don’t get too lost in it. Instead of looking into the notebook, why not talk with other people?” 

“I will get back to you on that.” 

He gives me a laugh, probably thinking that I am joking. But I need to assimilate myself into his world, and then maybe I can understand more. 

*

The cafeteria smells like hot pizza, old polish from the floors, and the faint tang of sanitizer from the trays. Noise surrounds me: laughter, clanging utensils, the scrape of chairs. Everyone seems to move in patterns I’ve memorized over the years, but today, my focus is entirely on one thing: Alex. 

I’m at the edge of the room, notebook open, pencil poised, but I can’t write. My eyes follow him: the way he grabs a milk carton, the three mustard packets he tears from the dispenser, the casual flick of his wrist as he tosses them onto his tray. I know I’m clinging. I know it. And yet, it doesn’t matter. I need this. I need to see, to learn, to understand every move he makes. Then I hear it. “Look at Dereck. He’s always trailing Alex like some shadow.” The words hit my ears, sharp and precise. 

“Yeah, it’s like he has no life outside of Alex. Creepy.” 

“Dereck’s obsessed,” another voice adds, louder this time. “He’s literally taking notes on him. On every single thing he does. Who does that?” 

I stare straight ahead at Alex. Let them whisper, let them laugh. I am doing what I must. I know I’m obsessive. I know it’s obvious. But if I back away now, if I act like it matters… everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve observed—it could be lost. 

I bite the inside of my cheek. My notebook trembles slightly in my hand, but not from fear. Just the focus of recording every detail. They don’t understand. They’ll never understand. Then Alex appears. He moves quickly, purposefully, a little damp from basketball. The noise around me fades as he strides toward the group of kids laughing at me. Their smiles falter, eyes darting between him and me. 

“Enough!” His voice slices through the cafeteria. Sharp. Commanding. Every head turns. Laughter stops mid-air. The bullies glance at each other, unsure.

“I don’t care what you think of Dereck,” Alex says, stepping right in front of me, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to make fun of him for being my friend. If I didn’t want to hang out with him, I wouldn’t.” 

Someone scoffs, tries to dismiss him, but Alex’s voice rises: “Dereck is a kind person.” 

The group hesitates, a mix of annoyance and shame crossing their faces. Some mutter half-hearted apologies, but Alex doesn’t wait for them. I blink, the notebook forgotten for a moment on the table. My heart tightens, not in fear or guilt, but in a strange swell of recognition. He’s defending me. Not because he has to, not because anyone is making him, but because he wants to. 

One of the bullies mutters under his breath. Alex cuts him off: “I said enough. You can make fun of him all you want, but not in front of me. Not ever.” 

And then he turns to me, eyebrows slightly raised, lips pressed in that way he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Let’s go. The boys are waiting to start the game,” he says, a faint edge of exasperation in his tone. I nod and follow him. 

Watching Alex play I pull out my notebook. Trying to fabricate every detail from what just transpired in the cafeteria. I glance up every few seconds, and am reminded of the loyalty he showed on his face in that moment.

But even as I write, I still notice how I have gained no ground. I have been at this for months with nothing to show but a red notebook. I will continue to follow, to record, to know him, whether he likes it or not. I must be getting close to the secret of his ranking. 

The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the streetlamp outside my window. My desk is scattered with red notebooks, their pages full, some open, some stacked carefully in order, all covered in notes on him, Alex. I stare at the notebook, pencil ready, but the words won’t come. My thoughts loop around themselves, forming the same questions over and over: should I stop? Is this all a waste of time? 

Stop following him. Stop observing. Stop writing. Stop caring so much. It sounds simple when I think about it. Rational. If I let go, I could reclaim focus, maybe even regain first place in the rankings. I could close the notebook forever, tuck it away, and pretend like the past months never happened. 

But the idea feels hollow in my chest. I imagine walking into class tomorrow, into the hallways, and not noticing him. Not seeing the curve of his hair, the rhythm of his steps, the small, casual movements that I’ve memorized. My stomach twists at the thought. My hands tremble slightly as I picture the empty space his absence would create in my days. I don’t want to stop. Not now. Not ever. 

I try to reason with myself. It’s unhealthy. It’s obsessive. I close my eyes and picture the cafeteria, the day he stood up for me. His voice had cut through the laughter like a blade, sharp and unwavering. The other kids had faltered, unsure how to respond to his sudden fury. At that moment, Alex had defended me.

I open my eyes. My notebook stares back at me, blank, waiting. That moment alone makes it impossible to stop. If I walk away now, if I try to forget him, if I stop now, I won’t know what any of this is for. 

I could stop. I could leave it all behind. Maybe it would be better. Maybe it would make sense. I pick up the notebook again. The pencil hovers over a blank page. I think of the little details I haven’t yet recorded, the faint twitch of his mouth when he’s concentrating, the small furrow of his brow when he’s thinking, the way his fingers tap absentmindedly when he’s caught in thought. Each line I write sharpens something deep inside me, a mix of purpose and desperation. Each observation is another piece of the puzzle I’ve been building, another reason that letting go isn’t an option. 

It’s not one moment that has pushed me toward giving up—it is the slow, suffocating accumulation of failure. Every quiz score that wasn’t perfect, every ranking where my name stayed stubbornly in second, every night I spent hunched over practice problems while Alex joked with friends or played basketball without a care—it all presses down on me at once. I’ve built my entire life around the idea that effort guarantees results, that if I work harder than anyone else I will stay at the top. But now, faced with months of obsessing, studying, watching him, and still seeing no change, something inside me has cracked. Maybe I don’t have whatever secret he has. Maybe I never will. For the first time, the thought whispers itself into my mind. Maybe it is time to stop trying. 

I know it’s an obsession. I know it’s clear to anyone watching. And yet, as my pencil scratches across the page, I realize that if I stop now, I will lose not just him, but myself. I imagine the world around me, silent except for the faint hum of the streetlights, the occasional distant car. In that quiet, my decision crystallizes. I could stop. I could let go. But I will not.

I flip the notebook to a fresh page, pencil poised. My heart hammers as I write the words down carefully, meticulously documenting another detail, another step, another movement. Observation 247, 248, 249, each number is a promise to myself. A promise to follow, to know, to never look away. 

I close my eyes and picture Alex walking home, alone, earbuds in, unaware that I am watching, unaware that I am tracking every step, every pause. It is not wrong. It is not meaningless. It is necessary. The world may call it unhealthy and foolish. But as the night stretches on, as I write and rewrite and watch and memorize, I feel only certainty. The pull of him, the need to know, to understand, to follow, it is more real than grades, more real than rankings, more real than the quiet house I return to every night. 

I know the choice I’ve made. The rational path, the safe path, the one that might bring me peace—I will not take it. 

Instead, I write. I observe. I follow. I record. 

I will continue to do so, whether the world understands or not, whether he notices or not. Because some truths cannot be abandoned, some paths cannot be left behind, and some obsessions are too necessary to give up. 

My red notebook grows heavy in my hands, its pages filling with each passing night, each observation, each detail. The path is clear. 

And I am ready for it.

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