It was nothing more than a fleeting, foolish impulse. I had convinced myself it was a mark of independence, yet all I truly did was attempt to drive myself out of my very first 'home'.
"This is disgusting," snapped Ms. Portland, the disciplinarian. "Causing trouble on your first day? Is that what your parents drilled into you—show up at school and act like some big shot?"
"You have no right to insult my parents. They have nothing to do with this," I shot back, irritation prickling through my words. But that only fanned the flames.
BAM!
Her fist slammed against the desk with a crack that drew every head in the staffroom.
"And you've still got the guts to talk back to me, you brat?"
I blinked rapidly. She wasn't using a shred of her power, yet somehow I found myself… frozen.
"I don't care about your parents, or whether you're offended I mentioned them. What I do care about is this: you little scoundrel can punch, bite, even kill each other—but only in the proper place, at the proper time!"
"I—"
"Shut it. This is your first and last warning. Next time you stir up chaos, I'll drag you from your room myself and kick your shameless ass out of here."
I stood stiff, protests caught in my throat.
"Do you understand?"
Grinding my teeth, I clicked my tongue. "Understood."
"What? Louder—where's that ridiculous courage from a moment ago?"
"Yes, I understand, ma'am."
Ms. Portland's face finally softened into a satisfied smile. "Now get out and do as you're told."
I rose, walking past teachers whispering behind their hands, their eyes sharp and accusing.
It was absurd. I wasn't even the one who started it, yet I was the one getting chewed out.
Sure, Weinstein was lying in the infirmary getting patched up because of me, but what really boiled my blood was that Ms. Portland never even gave me the chance to explain how it actually happened.
"Back to our old habits, huh?" Fletcher greeted me with a stupid grin, holding a mop, a bucket, and a rag.
"Your habits, not mine." I pushed open the bathroom door—and stepped straight into hell.
Urinals stained yellow, blotched with brown. A stench of piss mixed with something sour, bitter, and rotten. The floor tiles, meant to be white, were closer to cracked asphalt buried under grime.
They say the brighter the light, the darker the shadow.
Drakenshire had dazzled me with its 'light' until now. This was its 'shadow'.
"Not that bad," Fletcher muttered. I turned to him, incredulous. "What? Riverdale had two that were worse. The ones by the back gate. Toilets full of—"
"Okay, stop. I get it," I cut him off before he reached the 'juicier' details. Did this idiot not know how to filter his words?
"But Dawson didn't get punished at all. Just a light scolding from homeroom before being sent back to class. Gender equality, my ass."
"She didn't even throw a punch." I yanked the bucket from Fletcher's hand and headed for the faucet.
This won't get done if you keep running your mouth.
"Hey, hey, what's this? Special treatment for your girlfriend?"
"You'd better move your hands."
"Can't even protest anymore. So much for democracy."
I rolled my eyes and turned the faucet. It was stiff, and when water finally sputtered out, it was little more than a trickle. Filling a small bucket would take ten minutes—what a joke.
"If anyone should be doing this, it's them. They started it."
Fletcher mistook my silence for agreement. "See? You think the same way. But you know what Ms. Portland barked at me when I said that?" He mimicked her fiery voice: "'You dare lay a hand on our precious asset, and now you mean to slander him too?'"
"Precious asset?" I asked, turning to him.
Fletcher shrugged. "Maybe he's their star student, or maybe his parents are regular donors. Either way, he's untouchable."
That explained it—why only we got punished, while Weinstein, the so-called 'seriously injured' one, sat comfortably under protection.
***
By the time we scrubbed the last foul stench from the toilets, the dismissal bell had rung half an hour ago. I expected only my bag waiting in the classroom.
Instead, someone was sitting at my desk.
A short-haired girl fidgeted nervously with her fingers.
The moment the door opened, Freya jolted upright, bumping into a desk in her haste. She winced, avoiding my eyes as I walked in.
"Ah, s-sorry."
I frowned, tossing books into my bag. "For what?" I asked, since she remained silent, head lowered.
At my voice, she finally spoke, trembling. "I… left you back there. And—"
"They forced you, didn't they?"
Her widened eyes were answer enough. Hazing. No doubt about it. Weinstein wasn't just some bully—he had social leverage across the whole school.
And Freya was under his thumb. Maybe even one of his victims.
I sighed. "But I won't forgive you."
We had just met, and she had already tried to throw me under the bus to shield herself. No matter how much she had suffered, what she did was still a sin I couldn't overlook.
She froze, mouth opening and closing, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"But, if you're desperate enough to apologize…"
Her head snapped up, her tear-streaked eyes brimming with hope. And for a moment, I nearly relented—nearly.
"If they try to force you again, tell them this: 'come face him yourself, you coward'."
I turned and headed for the door.
"C-Cain, thank you."
I frowned. Had her self-worth fallen so low that she mistook this for kindness?
"And… be careful."
It might have been her way of saying goodbye. But remembering Fletcher's words about Weinstein, I couldn't shake the thought—
Maybe this wasn't as simple as I wanted to believe.