By the time Jayden turned twelve, school wasn't about learning anymore — it was about surviving another day without getting jumped, suspended, or sent back to the group home in the back seat of a police car.
He was in his fifth school in three years. Every new start felt the same: strange eyes, whispered names, and that one teacher who always said, "Let's give him a chance." They all said it once. None of them said it twice.
His new school sat between a gas station and a row of boarded-up houses. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the lockers groaned when you opened them. It smelled like bleach and frustration — the kind of place where dreams didn't fit in desks.
Jayden sat in the back of every class, arms crossed, hoodie up, daring anyone to try him. It wasn't just an attitude — it was armor. He'd learned that if you looked angry enough, people wouldn't see how scared you were underneath.
At first, it worked. Teachers left him alone. Kids didn't mess with him. But quiet never lasts long in places like that.
It started with whispers.
"Yo, that's the foster kid."
"He came from Maple Ridge, right? My cousin said that's where they send the psychos."
Then came the laughter. Then the shove.
One morning in gym class, a boy named Devin thought it'd be funny to snatch Jayden's shoes and toss them across the locker room. The others joined in, laughing, chanting, throwing them back and forth like a game.
Jayden stood still for a moment, watching his sneakers fly through the air. He felt that old heat rise in his chest — the one that started in his gut and spread like fire behind his ribs. His vision blurred. His fists clenched.
When the shoe hit the floor, he hit Devin.
Not once — over and over until someone screamed and teachers rushed in.
They pulled him off, hands gripping his arms, voices shouting over each other. Jayden didn't hear any of it. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, fast and loud, like it was trying to break free.
He got three days' suspension and another note added to his file.
"Uncontrollable aggression."
That phrase followed him like a shadow.
Back at the group home, the staff lectured him about self-control. Jayden sat through it, eyes blank, pretending to listen. When they finished, he went to his room and punched his pillow until the stuffing came out.
The next morning, he woke up early and stared out the window. Kids were walking to school in groups, laughing, sharing snacks. He wondered what it felt like to have someone wait for you at the bus stop — to know that if you disappeared tomorrow, someone would actually notice.
Later that week, Mr. Pierce — the counselor from Maple Ridge — stopped by for a visit. He was one of the few adults who came back when he said he would.
"I heard about what happened," Mr. Pierce said, sitting across from him.
Jayden didn't answer.
"You've got a lot of anger, kid. And I get it. You've earned every bit of it. But anger's like fire — it can warm you, or it can burn everything you touch."
Jayden looked up. "People stop messing with you when you burn them first."
Mr. Pierce nodded slowly. "Yeah. But after a while, there's nothing left but ashes."
The words stuck with Jayden longer than he wanted to admit.
Still, school didn't get easier. The teachers treated him like a ticking bomb, and the kids treated him like a joke. Some days he'd make it to lunch without trouble. Other days, one wrong word or one look too long would set him off again.
He started skipping classes, hiding out behind the gym or in the park across the street. He'd sit on the swings, headphones on, hood pulled up, staring at the clouds. Sometimes he imagined Layla sitting in the swing next to him, telling him about her day. In his head, she always smiled. In real life, he couldn't even remember the sound of her laugh anymore.
When he did show up to class, he'd draw in the margins of his notebooks — graffiti tags, angry words, faces with hollow eyes. Teachers called it "distraction." He called it breathing.
One day, a substitute teacher found one of his drawings and told him he had "real talent." No one had ever said that to him before.
She smiled and said, "You should think about art school someday."
Jayden stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or thank her. The words felt too soft for his world.
But that night, he drew again — this time slower, deeper. He didn't show anyone, but he kept that paper hidden under his mattress. It was the first thing he'd made that didn't come from anger.
Still, fights kept coming.
When you grow up in a system that teaches you to fight to survive, peace feels like weakness.
By the time he turned thirteen, Jayden's reputation had already reached the next school before he did. The word "trouble" was stamped on his record, his forehead, his future.
But what they didn't see was the boy underneath — the one still writing his name under every mattress, still hoping one day someone would say, You can stay here.