By Wednesday, Roosevelt wasn't a school anymore. It was a warzone with bells instead of sirens.
Hallways that once echoed with sneakers squeaking on polished tiles now rang with fists slamming against lockers. Students who used to sit side by side in class now split into factions: those who stood with Derrick, those who wanted him erased, and those who just wanted to survive the chaos.
The cafeteria was the worst. One spark—an insult, a shove, a name yelled too loud—and the whole room erupted. Trays flipped. Chairs crashed. A brawl swallowed the tables, kids swinging wildly, others filming with wide-eyed glee. Teachers tried to intervene, but their voices drowned under the roar.
When it was over, blood dotted the linoleum. Not Derrick's, but his name lingered in every curse, every bruise, every split lip. He wasn't there, yet he was the reason. Always the reason.
By last period, rumors spread that police might start patrolling the school daily. Some students cried in the bathrooms, afraid of coming back tomorrow. Others laughed, daring anyone to stop them. Roosevelt was cracking down the middle, and no one knew if it could be put back together.
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That night, I couldn't sleep. The fights, the chants, the chaos—they played on loop in my head. Finally, I slipped out, notebook in my jacket pocket, and wandered toward the edge of town.
That's where I saw him.
Derrick Kane.
He leaned against a streetlight like he owned the night, hoodie up, cigarette glowing in the dark. His eyes caught mine, sharp and unreadable, the kind of stare that could cut you open without a blade.
"Figured you'd find me sooner or later," he said, voice low, rough, almost tired. "You wanted the truth, didn't you?"
The world around us felt silent, like even the wind was holding its breath. Roosevelt was burning, but in that moment, all that mattered was the boy at the center of the fire—and what he was about to say.
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