Chapter 9: The Quiet Before the Break
The days that followed felt strangely calm, like the school was holding its breath. Crestwood High always churned with noise and rumor, but for once, things seemed... muted. Not peaceful — just paused, like everyone was waiting for the next spark to land.
Anna didn't trust that silence for a second.
By Wednesday, even the teachers noticed. Whispers still drifted when she walked into a room, but they were softer, more calculated. People weren't losing interest; they were loading ammunition.
Jordan felt it too. She could tell by the way he watched the halls, alert, almost guarded, like he sensed a hit coming.
Their project was nearly finished, and they spent most afternoons in the library tightening the last pieces. Jordan had grown more serious, less sarcastic, his usual smirk replaced by a quiet focus that made Anna uneasy.
"You're weirdly quiet today," she said as she packed her notes.
He shrugged. "Just thinking."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's nothing," he said — too quickly.
Anna frowned. She wanted to push, but the tension around him felt fragile, like poking the wrong spot would make him shut down completely.
So she let it go. For the moment.
The storm finally broke the next morning.
Anna walked into the cafeteria for breakfast duty — a volunteer thing she'd signed up for months ago — and everything stopped. A cluster of students stood near the bulletin board, crowding around something taped to it. Their laughter cut sharp through the room.
When Anna stepped closer, the crowd shifted just enough for her to see.
It was a printed sheet — bold letters, blown-up screenshot:
"Saint Anna and the School Bad Boy: A Match Made in Hypocrisy."
Below it, paragraphs of garbage. Twisted quotes she'd never said. Fake chat messages. Someone claiming she used religion "as a way to get attention," and worse — that she pretended to care about morals just to get close to Jordan.
Her stomach bottomed out.
Riley's voice floated from the crowd. "Wow, someone's famous."
A few people snickered.
Anna forced herself to breathe. Slow. Steady. The cafeteria felt like it was spinning, but she refused to let them see her crack.
She grabbed the paper off the board. "Who put this up?"
Riley raised both hands, all innocence. "Don't look at me. I just got here."
Lying straight through her teeth.
Anna didn't argue. No point. She turned and walked out, gripping the page so tightly it crumpled in her fist. She told herself not to cry — not here, not in front of them.
But the hallway was empty, and the tears came anyway. Quiet, angry ones.
Jordan found her five minutes later.
He didn't say a word when he saw her face. Just stepped closer, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to the crushed paper in her hand.
"What is that?" he asked, voice low.
She handed it to him without speaking.
He read it. Once. Then again, slower. By the time he finished, his expression had dropped into something cold and dangerous.
"Who did this?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she whispered.
"Yes, you do."
She swallowed hard. "Even if I did... confronting them will just make it worse."
He shook his head. "No. What makes it worse is letting people get away with it."
She hated that he was right. And she hated even more that she was scared.
"I don't want a fight," she said.
Jordan looked at her, and for a moment the anger slipped. All that was left was something raw, something like guilt.
"I should've seen this coming," he muttered. "I should've—"
"This isn't your fault," she cut in.
He didn't look convinced.
They skipped the rest of breakfast duty and walked outside, where the morning sun was just starting to cut through the cold.
"Anna," he said finally, "there's something I need to tell you."
She turned to him. His tone wasn't sharp or defensive — it was careful. Too careful. Like he'd practiced the words and hated all of them.
"What is it?"
He hesitated, eyes fixed on the ground.
"My suspension last year..." he started. "There's more to it than the rumors. People think I got into a fight because I like trouble, or because I wanted to show off, or whatever crap they made up."
"Jordan, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," he said, cutting her off this time. "If you're getting dragged into the mess around me, you deserve to know what really happened."
Her chest tightened. She waited.
Jordan took a slow breath.
"I wasn't suspended for fighting," he said. "I was suspended for protecting someone. Someone who mattered."
Anna stared at him. "Who?"
He met her eyes — finally — and there was a heaviness there she'd never seen before.
"My little brother."
The world around them went still.
Anna opened her mouth, then closed it, because the words she had weren't enough.
Jordan continued, voice low, steady, but full of a hurt he clearly wasn't used to sharing.
"He got cornered in the boys' locker room. They were pushing him around, calling him things... stuff no kid should hear. I stepped in. One of them swung first. I hit back. Hard. Hard enough that the school couldn't ignore it."
He let out a humorless laugh. "Guess who took the blame? Not the three guys who picked on an eight-year-old. Me. Because I'm the 'troublemaker.' The 'bad influence.' The kid everyone already expects to mess up."
Anna's throat tightened. "Jordan... why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Because it doesn't matter. People believe what they want. They always have."
He finally looked at her again. Vulnerable. Defensive. Waiting for judgment.
She stepped closer, heart pounding. "Thank you for telling me. And for standing up for him."
"You're not... scared of me?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Not even a little."
Something in his expression broke — not badly, but in the way a wall cracks when it's been holding weight too long.
"Anna," he said quietly, "I don't think I can watch people treat you like this because of me."
"I'm not walking away," she replied, just as quiet.
The air between them felt different — charged, fragile, real.
Jordan exhaled, long and slow, and for a second, the storm around them didn't matter. The rumors, the cafeteria, the paper pinned to the board — all of it faded under the weight of something more honest.
Something neither of them had said yet.