Echo Creek Academy - Chapter 2 (Edited)
The corridors of Echo Creek Academy stretched before me like the throat of some institutional beast. The smell hit first—sweat, old nacho cheese, and that particular brand of teenage desperation that clings to everything like smoke. Pungent enough to make my eyes water.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the persistence of dying insects, casting everything in that shade of yellow that slowly drained souls. The walls, painted in what some optimist had called "inspirational beige," showcased motivational posters of kittens dangling from branches. "Every Day is a Gift," one proclaimed—ironic, considering I'd literally choked to death on processed food.
The air was a cocktail of industrial floor cleaner fighting yesterday's mystery meat, sharp adolescent hormones, and that metallic taste of fear that seeped from lockers like blood from old wounds. More overwhelming than any street fight I'd survived.
Marco's locker awaited like a shrine to organized anxiety. The combination—23-15-8—flowed from muscle memory that wasn't mine but felt natural as breathing. Inside: pencils arranged by length, erasers organized by size, a small mirror reflecting light like a watchful eye. Everything controlled, ordered, desperately maintained against chaos.
"Marco!"
Ferguson's voice cut through the hallway noise like a blade. He bounced toward me, oversized glasses catching the harsh lighting, followed by Alfonzo's lanky shadow. Marco's friends—if you could call relationships built on shared awkwardness and academic panic friendship.
"Dude, did you finish the history report?" Ferguson's voice pitched with barely contained panic. "Because I totally spaced on the Revolutionary War thing and—"
"Which part?" The question escaped before I could stop it, sharp and direct.
They exchanged glances. Marco would've launched into his own anxiety spiral, not asked for clarification.
"The Revolutionary War," Alfonzo said carefully, like I might not understand English. "You know... the whole thing?"
My mistake settled like lead in my stomach. In my previous life, I'd devoured military history—Washington's Delaware crossing, guerrilla tactics against superior forces. Knowledge meant survival. But Marco was supposed to color-code homework folders and zip-check his backpack seventeen times.
"Right," I forced uncertainty into my voice. "Yeah, I'm... still working on it."
Ferguson's relief was visible. "Oh good, I thought I was the only one. Want to work on it during lunch?"
"Sure." The word emerged before my brain processed it. Group projects had always been exercises in frustration—me doing everything rather than trusting others. But something in Ferguson's earnest hope made me reluctant to extinguish that flame.
First period brought Mrs. Skullnick's classroom—academic violence barely contained. She entered like a storm front, heels striking linoleum with metronome precision. Sharp features, no-nonsense demeanor, someone who'd abandoned educational idealism for fear-based pedagogy.
"Alright, maggots," she announced, papers hitting her desk like a judge's gavel. "Pop quiz on last night's reading."
Collective groans rose from teenage souls. Marco's anxiety spiked through my system, memories of cramming sessions flooding my consciousness. But beneath borrowed panic, I felt something else—the thrill of intellectual combat.
The Battle of Yorktown had fascinated twelve-year-old me, not as assigned reading but for its tactical brilliance, the psychological warfare that broke enemies without firing shots. Marco's memories showed hasty chapter skimming interrupted by granola bar worries.
Questions unfolded like old friends, answers flowing with confidence that wasn't Marco's. When I finished in under ten minutes, Skullnick's eyebrow arched dangerously.
"Confident today, Diaz?"
"Just... felt prepared." Words carefully modulated to suggest luck over competence.
Her gaze lingered, sharp enough to dissect lies. Eventually she moved on, leaving me to contemplate how many small deceptions I could manage before someone noticed Marco's academic DNA had fundamentally changed.
The morning became a performance—walking the razor's edge between competence and expected mediocrity. In PE, I nearly executed an armbar when Coach Connors touched my shoulder, muscle memory responding with defensive violence. In English, I bit my tongue to avoid correcting Mrs. Henderson's mispronunciation.
Small infractions. Minor cracks in the facade. But they accumulated like fractures in glass.
By lunch, I felt the exhaustion of constantly performing an ill-fitting role. Ferguson and Alfonzo had claimed a window table, spreading history notes like generals planning campaigns—fitting irony for our Revolutionary War assignment.
"Okay," Ferguson began, extracting a notebook that had survived several disasters. "So the Boston Tea Party was... a party? With tea?"
I stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"What? I know it wasn't actually a party party. But like... was there tea?"
Alfonzo nodded gravely. "Important questions, Ferguson."
The absurdity hit me, and I laughed—not Marco's nervous giggle, but genuine laughter bubbling from some forgotten well. These boys were ridiculous in the most endearing way, their lack of pretense an antidote to the school's careful personas.
"The Boston Tea Party was a protest," I explained, pulling out notes more detailed than Marco would produce. "Colonists dressed as Native Americans and dumped British tea into Boston Harbor to protest taxation without representation."
Ferguson's eyes widened with wonder. "Oh. That's actually pretty badass."
"Right? Economic warfare disguised as vandalism," I continued, warming to the subject. "They turned their oppressor's symbols against them, transforming tea from British cultural dominance into rebellion."
Both boys stared like I'd revealed ancient languages or future sight. Silence stretched taut between us.
"I mean," I backtracked quickly, "that's what the textbook said. More or less."
Lunch passed in surprisingly productive collaboration. Ferguson's naive questions revealed a mind that grasped complex concepts once properly explained, while Alfonzo's random historical details created unexpected connections. For the first time in either life, I genuinely enjoyed academic teamwork.
Afternoon art class existed in Marco's memory as an oasis. Ms. Pembrook presided like some benevolent creativity spirit, flowing scarves and jangling jewelry suggesting annual Burning Man attendance and strong pigment opinions. She moved through the classroom like incense smoke, offering encouragement with wisdom that understood art was less technique, more courage to expose inner truth to judgment's harsh light.
"Today we're working with charcoal," she announced, holding up the black medium like a sacred relic. "Draw something representing change. Something showing transformation."
Blank paper pulsed with possibilities, white surface intimidating as any opponent. Change. Transformation. Bitter irony, considering my impossible metamorphosis.
My hand moved without conscious direction, guided by deeper impulse. Lines appeared—sharp, confident strokes bearing no resemblance to Marco's hesitant sketches. A figure emerged, caught between worlds, one foot in shadow, the other stepping toward light. Face deliberately obscured, frozen in the moment of becoming something entirely different.
"Interesting perspective, Marco."
Ms. Pembrook materialized beside me like smoke given form, studying my work with attention that made me feel simultaneously seen and exposed, as if she could read my transformation story in charcoal smudges and deliberate shadows.
"It's very... mature," she continued, head tilted in that teacher way of determining brilliance versus concerning psychological development. "There's an intensity I haven't seen in your work before."
I set down the charcoal carefully, my fingers leaving smudges like bloodstains. "People change, I guess."
Her smile carried warmth earned from years watching adolescents struggle with becoming themselves. "Yes, they do. That's what makes art beautiful—it captures those moments of becoming."
As the final bell released us from academic imprisonment, I realized I'd been holding my breath. The drawing was too revealing, too much of my true self bleeding through Marco's facade like ink through paper. I needed more strategic personality emergence.
Students fled toward afternoon pursuits, but I remained frozen, staring at evidence of my carelessness. The charcoal figure mocked me with its honesty, refusing to hide behind comfortable lies that had carried me through the day.
"Nice artwork, Diaz."
I turned, and there she was.