Page 70 of Broken Pieces
The classroom reeks of sweat, too many bodies crammed into chairs that were never built for comfort. The windows are sealed shut, dust caked thick along the ledges.
I sit in the back, where no one looks twice if I zone out, but today, even that doesn’t help. Everything presses in.
The scrape of chairs.
The tap of pens.
The endless hum of voices that all sound the same.
Cassie’s next to me, chewing the hell out of her pen cap, eyes pinned to the clock like it owes her something. She hasn’t said a word since I opened my mouth, and honestly, I don’t blame her. I don’t talk about that kind of shit. Not out loud. The second Zane’s name slipped out, I wanted to shove it right back down my throat.
The teacher drops a worksheet on my desk.
I don’t bother looking at it. My pen is in my hand, but it doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Two rows up, one of the dickheads from this morning twists in his seat. His eyes land on me. That smirk creeps back, all teethand ego, and I catch it—that flicker of something foul gearing up in his brain.
A punchline.
A power move.
Something he thinks will make him feel bigger.
I hold his stare. Cold. Unmoving. Daring him to open his mouth and choke on whatever shit he’s dying to spit.
Cassie leans in, voice all silk and threat. “You want me to shank him?”
He’s the one who breaks first, eyes slicing away like the stare never happened. All bark and no fucking teeth.
Cassie grins like she won something. “Fucking coward.”
Up front, one of the jocks hurls a crumpled worksheet at Rebecca’s head the second the teacher turns. It clips her shoulder. Laughter spills out, the kind that sticks to weakness and waits for someone to flinch.
I like Rebecca.
She’s one of the few who actually says hi when I walk past, eyes meeting mine instead of darting away. That small thing matters.
She doesn’t belong here, not really. She’s too kind. Easy prey for assholes who get off on weakness.
The dickhead rolls another sheet of paper tight and whips it straight at her back.
It lands with a dull smack and drops to the floor. His friends lose it, snorting, elbowing each other, proud of the show they’re putting on.
It’s fucking stupid how cruelty gets the applause. How being a prick makes you somebody.
Rebecca flinches but doesn’t turn around or say a word.
He grins, already rolling up another sheet, as if being a piece of shit is a full-time job he’s proud to show up for.
I shove my chair back. It screeches across the floor, a sound that cuts clean through the noise.
Heads turn.
He freezes just as he’s about to throw, eyes dragging to me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I don’t yell. I don’t have to.
