Chapter 9 #2
My brain tracks exit routes automatically.
Classroom door to the left. Bathroom to the right, locked for cleaning.
Main entrance straight ahead, through a crowd that won’t move.
My muscles tense, preparing for movement I haven’t decided to make yet.
Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the sound of my own breathing.
“Hey, Transfer.”
My spine locks. I set off toward the main entrance without acknowledging him. It’s not enough. He steps into my path, all swagger and smirking confidence. The crowd parts for him like he’s fucking Moses and they’re the red sea.
His cologne hits me first, expensive and aggressive. Everything about him screams excess. Clean clothes. Full stomach. A home to go back to. Parents who give a fuck.
“You deaf or something?”
I shift, intent on moving around him, but he moves with me, a predator toying with his prey. My hands shake, and I shove them in my pockets. I can’t let him see weakness.
He’s bigger than me. Not taller, although he probably thinks he is. Six-two at least, two hundred pounds of muscle. His hands are huge, knuckles scarred from football practice. He knows how to use his size, how to make his body a wall. But size isn’t everything. I learned that lesson young.
Men twice his size thought they could break me.
They were wrong too.
“Something wrong with you?”
I don’t reply. Engagement means visibility, and visibility means danger. Visibility means someone asking questions I can’t answer about where I live, who takes care of me, and why I’m always alone.
Silence is my weapon of choice. Speaking will give him ammunition, reacting will give him satisfaction.
But Dan doesn’t like being ignored. His hand shoves against my shoulder, hard enough to test me, but not enough for a teacher to call him out.
My body rocks slightly, absorbing the impact.
I let it dissipate without resistance. Fighting back is what he wants.
It gives him permission to escalate. So I stay loose and quiet, and keep my gaze focused on the exit.
Three more steps and I’ll be past him.
“Fucking dirty pussy.”
I stop walking, lift my head and meet his stare with one of my own.
It’s a mistake. I know it as soon as I do it. But there’s something inside me that won’t bow down or flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid, even though my heart is hammering so hard I can taste it in my throat.
Every instinct screams at me to run.
Something flickers in his expression. Annoyance maybe, or surprise that I’m not backing down. People like me are supposed to fold, and know our place.
I should push my way through the gathering crowd, but my mouth moves before my feet do.
“You done?”
The crowd shifts. A shocked laugh rings out, quickly stifled. Someone else sucks in a breath. The temperature in the hallway changes to that electric current of anticipation. They want to see this. They want to see what happens when someone finally pushes back.
I’ve just escalated this from posturing to conflict, and there’s no taking it back now.
His smirk slips, turning sharper. He shoves me again, harder this time. Pain shoots through my shoulder. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and taste copper. I stumble back a step before catching myself, fingers fisting at my side.
I arch one eyebrow. “That all you got?”
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
But I’m so tired of this. I’m tired of being pushed around, of making myself small, and I’m especially tired of people like Dan who think they own the world just because they’ve never had to fight for a place in it.
That’s all it takes.
His expression hardens. The next shove is harder, enough to knock me off balance. My bag slips, and my notebook hits the floor. Pages scatter—all my survival notes, my maps of safe places. All of it exposed. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Gas station bathrooms. Dumpster schedules. Sleeping location. My whole life spills across dirty linoleum for everyone to see.
The laughter hurts more than any punch could, but instead of scrambling to pick it up and hide it, I straighten to my full height and lift my head, holding his gaze. My hands shake so bad I have to clench them into fists. My vision blurs at the edges.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me desperate. If they’re going to see my shame, they’ll see my defiance too.
Mr. Edwards appears, voice ringing out.
“Hartman.” There’s a warning in his tone, but Dan doesn’t take any notice.
His smirk lingers because he knows he’s won. Everyone has already seen what they needed to see. He glances at Edwards, then back to me, and down to the papers scattered at our feet. He’s committed now. Backing down means losing face, and guys like Dan can’t handle that.
He shifts his balance, muscles in his arm tensing, and I brace myself for the incoming punch.
Edwards steps between us. “Enough.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Principal’s office. Now. Both of you.”
Both. Like I’m equally responsible, because defending myself makes me guilty too.
I crouch and gather my pages slowly. My hands won’t stop shaking. The crowd has already seen enough though, and decided what kind of story this will become.
Someone nudges a sheet toward me with their foot. A small kindness in the midst of humiliation. I look up. It’s the girl from my history class. The one who writes the notes. She won’t meet my eyes, but she’s sent the paper close enough for me to reach it.
Once I have everything secured in my bag, I turn and follow Edwards to the principal’s office. My legs are water. My shoulder throbs with every step. The walk is endless.
Edwards doesn’t say a word, just keeps pace beside me.
The principal speaks to Dan first, a quick conversation that has him leaving her office with a glare in my direction.
I take his place, slumping in the seat he vacated.
The chair is still warm from his body heat.
The principal looks up from the open file on her desk, and I can see it in her expression.
She’s already decided what kind of problem I am.
The file is thin. I’ve only been here a month. From across the desk, I can see the red flags highlighted in yellow. No permanent address listed. Absent parents. Uncle works away. Doesn’t take part in any clubs.
All the markers of a kid who doesn’t fit.
“Mr. Edwards saw everything.” She sets down her pen. “Daniel was the aggressor, but you were involved. The school has a zero-tolerance policy for fighting.”
“I didn’t touch him. But I’m not going to let him shove me around.” I wouldn’t have seen the slight shift in her expression if I wasn’t watching for it. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Her fingers tighten on her pen. Just enough to tell me I’m right.
She sighs. “Even when one person starts it, situations like this escalate quickly. We have to step in to prevent retaliation.”
It’s a veiled warning. Dan is part of the football team. He gets a pass. I’m the outsider. I don’t.
“Preventing retaliation. That’s what we’re calling it?”
Her eyes narrow at my tone. “Ronan. I understand things are difficult at home—”
“You don’t understand shit.”
The words are out before I can stop them. I should shut up and take whatever punishment she’s planning to give and leave.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” I stand up. “Are we done?”
“Sit down.” It’s not a request.
I stay standing, every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to bolt.
“This attitude is exactly why we’re having this conversation. You need to understand that while Daniel may have initiated the confrontation, your response … your unwillingness to walk away … starts a pattern of behavior we cannot tolerate.”
Pattern. One instance doesn’t make a pattern. What she means is that the Hartman’s donate a lot of money to the school, and she can’t risk losing it.
“Got it.” I shoulder my bag and head for the door.
“We’re not finished—”
But I’m already gone.
As I walk past my locker, a flash of white catches my eye. There’s another note tucked in the gap. My hands shake slightly as I unfold it.
She saw everything. Everyone saw. The note is probably telling me to stop leaving notes for her.
Some lighthouses are built from broken things. It doesn’t make them any less bright, or any less important.
Below the words, she’s drawn another lighthouse. This one is different. It’s built from sharp lines and jagged edges.
My throat closes. I have to read it twice before the words make sense, before they penetrate the static of humiliation and anger still buzzing in my head.
She’s not pulling away.
I swallow hard. I don’t know what to do with this thing she’s trying to give me. But she’s giving it anyway. This girl with golden hair and warm brown eyes.
I fold the note carefully, and add it to the others in my pocket. Four now. Each one a small rebellion against the world.