Dexter
Eight Years Earlier
Mr. Sweeny has always hated me.
Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind that hides behind policies and polite smiles.
He’s told me more than once that my ADHD diagnosis is bullshit. That it’s just an excuse to do less than everyone else.
“You’re not going to graduate high school, Dexter.”
He says it calmly, like it’s already decided.
The fluorescent light above him buzzes, the clock ticking too loud at the same time, and my brain latches onto both until I can’t separate them, can’t shut either of them out.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hands curling into fists against my thighs.
“Why the hell not?”
He slides a file toward me. “Too many absences.”
Numbers. Dates. Columns.
I’ve counted them. Over and over.
“That’s wrong,” I say too fast. “I still have forty hours left.”
“Your November medical certificate,” he replies, “was submitted outside the acceptable time frame.”
It takes a second to land.
November. Surgery. Three weeks out.
“I brought it in the first day I was back.”
“School policy requires documentation within three days.”
My thoughts scatter. Three days. Did I miss it? Did Mom? Did I forget?
“You can’t do that,” I say, but it already feels like I’ve lost.
“The policy is applied equally,” he says.
Except it isn’t.
“You’ll need to repeat senior year.”
Something inside me snaps tight.
If I flip the desk, I prove him right.
If I yell, I prove him right.
“Fuck this.”
I tear the paper in half before I can stop myself, the exact second I know I’ve crossed the line.
He just writes something down.
“You may leave.”
Dismissed. Like I was never anything but a problem.
The hallway hits all at once, too loud, too bright, and I don’t stop walking.
I don’t think.
I just move.
The engine of my dirt bike roars to life beneath me, loud and real, and the noise in my head finally starts to clear. Wind cuts across my face, cold and sharp, pulling everything else away until it’s just me, the bike, and the road.
This is the only place it makes sense.
I slow near the old bike shop, the engine dropping to a low, steady hum, and that’s when I see them.
Four Harleys.
Black. Heavy. Alive in a way mine isn’t.
Michael’s Legion.
My dad always said to stay away. Said they were trouble.
My body tenses.
I don’t leave.
“You dreaming, kid?” one of them calls out.
I shrug, trying to play it off even though something in my chest is still humming. “Something like that.”
He watches me for a second longer, then nods toward a rusted-out bike.
“Think you can fix it?”
I don’t answer.
I just move.
Kneel.
Hands on metal, grease, something familiar settling into place as everything else fades out.
This part is easy.
A few adjustments, a couple of turns.
The engine coughs, then roars back to life.
Something sharp sparks under my skin.
The man leans forward slightly, studying me differently now.
“Looking for work?”
I glance at them, at the way they’re watching me, not annoyed, not waiting for me to screw up.
“…Yeah,” I say, quieter, but steady.
He nods once.
“Stick with us. We’ll see what you’re made of.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
At school, I’m too much.
Too loud. Too restless. Too wrong.
Here… I’m useful.
That’s the difference.
A few nights later, I’m alone in the shop when the door creaks open, the wrong kind of quiet settling in before I even turn.
A man moves fast toward the cash box.
My body locks for half a second.
Then everything snaps.
“Hands off.”
He lunges.
I swing.
The wrench connects, the impact running up my arm, and something breaks loose inside me as I follow through, faster, harder, every hit ripping something out of my chest I didn’t even know was there.
He goes down.
I’m still breathing hard when I notice him.
The VP.
Leaning against a bike like he’s been there the whole time.
“You didn’t run,” he says.
“I couldn’t.”
He studies me for a second longer, then nods.
“That’s how we do things in Michael’s Legion.”
A pause.
“Ever think about joining?”
My chest tightens, something unfamiliar settling into place.
This doesn’t feel like school.
This doesn’t feel like failing.
“…Yeah,” I say.
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
“I think I would.”
A slow smirk pulls at his mouth.
“Then don’t screw it up.”