By Monday morning, Roosevelt High was past the point of pretending. The school didn't feel like a place of learning anymore—it felt like a pressure cooker seconds from blowing.
Parents crowded the front office, demanding answers, demanding safety, demanding that the principal "get rid of the Kane problem." Some threatened lawsuits, others threatened to pull their kids out for good. The principal's voice over the intercom cracked more than once, straining under the weight of a storm he couldn't control.
Teachers weren't any better. Some openly muttered that they wished Derrick would never come back. Others avoided mentioning his name at all, as if silence could keep the chaos at bay. But silence only made the rumors grow louder.
In the halls, students weren't just whispering anymore—they were taking sides. Lockers were spray-painted with tags: "FREE KANE" on one row, "EXPEL HIM" on another. Whole friend groups split apart overnight. Fights broke out daily. One boy landed in the nurse's office with a broken nose just for defending Derrick's name.
The cafeteria was policed like a war camp now, security guards posted at every exit, scanning every movement. But it didn't matter. Anger hung in the air like smoke. All it needed was one spark.
That spark came during gym.
Two teams squared off in basketball scrimmage, but it wasn't about the game. It was about him. Someone muttered that Derrick had ruined the team's season. Another fired back that they'd be nothing without him. Words turned to shoves. Shoves turned to fists. Within seconds, the court was chaos—shoes squealing, whistles blaring, fists flying.
When the dust settled, three players were suspended, one was bleeding, and every single kid in the bleachers knew the same truth: Roosevelt wasn't a school anymore. It was a battlefield.
And at the center of that battlefield was the ghost of a boy who hadn't walked its halls in weeks—Derrick Kane.
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