The morning after Derrick's arrest, Roosevelt High felt different.
The halls weren't loud anymore—they were buzzing. Every whisper, every glance, every half-smile carried Derrick's name like a ghost that refused to leave. He wasn't in school, but somehow, he was everywhere.
Lockers slammed shut with rumors inside them.
"He's gone for good."
"My brother says he's in juvie."
"No, my mom swears it's federal. Like, serious."
"I bet he won't play again. Team's finished."
It was like watching a wildfire eat through dry grass. Every story was bigger than the last, and none of them had roots.
I tried to drown it out, bury myself in textbooks and notes, but it was impossible. Every classroom had its own version of Derrick Kane. In history class, he was a cautionary tale. In gym, he was a legend. In English, he was a metaphor for chaos.
But the truth? No one had it.
---
At lunch, the cafeteria split itself clean down the middle. On one side, the worshippers—kids wearing black hoodies to mimic him, chanting his name like he'd gone from rebel to martyr overnight. On the other, the critics—those who said good riddance, who swore Derrick had poisoned Roosevelt from the start.
And me? I sat in the middle, notebook open, trying to capture the storm in words. But every line blurred into the same thought:
Why did the police really come for him?
---
That evening, my phone buzzed. A new text. Unknown number.
"You want the truth about Kane? Don't listen to the school. Listen to the streets."
I stared at the screen, my chest tightening. No name, no follow-up. Just that one sentence, glowing like a warning.
The streets.
Not the fight.
Not Tyler.
Something bigger.
And though I didn't know it yet, the real story—the one buried in Derrick's bloodline—was already clawing its way toward the surface.
---