The other glanced back at me for a moment before turning away.
Within a minute, the crowd was gone.
I remained on my knees.
The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solution and damp jackets.
Somebody’s abandoned pencil rolled along the floor.
I began collecting the drawings.
I gathered every piece I could find, even the ones with shoe marks across their edges.
A few pages had been torn into sections so small that the measurements no longer connected.
Others were folded or stained.
I didn’t throw any of them away.
I couldn’t.
When I finally stood, my backpack hung crookedly from one shoulder.
The broken zipper would no longer close, so I held the papers against my chest with both arms.
Then something caught my eye.
Above the lockers, fixed to the ceiling near the corner, was a black security camera.
Its dark dome faced directly toward the place where Trent had cornered me.
I stared at it.
I had walked beneath that camera every morning without paying attention.
Now it seemed like the most important object in the building.
I didn’t know whether it recorded sound.
I didn’t know how long the footage was stored.
But I knew where it pointed.
And I knew what it had seen.
For the first time that morning, I understood that I might not have to convince anyone to believe me.
I might only have to make sure the right people saw the evidence.
I looked down at the ruined drawings in my arms.
Then I went to class.
CHAPTER 2: THE RECORDING HE COULDN’T IGNORE
“Put it away,” Principal Evans repeated.
The girl in the green sweater lowered her phone slightly.
Trent was still gripping my hoodie.
I looked at Evans and waited.
He didn’t tell Trent to release me.
He didn’t ask whether I was hurt.
Instead, he walked toward us with an expression that made it seem as though the greatest problem in the hallway was the number of students watching.
“Everyone needs to move along,” he said.
Nobody moved.
Trent finally released my hoodie, giving the fabric one last sharp pull before stepping backward.
The damaged seam hung loose near my shoulder.
I looked down at it.
Then back at the principal.
“Sir, I reported this before seventh period.”
Evans glanced at the students.
“We can discuss that privately.”
“He threatened to do this,” I continued. “I wrote it on the report.”
His jaw tightened.
“This is neither the time nor the place.”
I looked at Trent.
He was standing beside his teammates with an expression of injured innocence.
“He’s the one who came after me.”
Evans raised one hand.
“Enough.”
The word echoed through the quiet hallway.
Then he looked at both of us.
“I expect you two to stop this childish behavior.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
“You two?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
I held up my open hands.
“Sir, I didn’t touch him.”
“That doesn’t mean you haven’t contributed to the situation.”
Something moved through the surrounding students.
A quiet murmur.
A few exchanged looks.
The girl with the phone stepped forward.
“He didn’t do anything,” she said.
Evans turned toward her.
“Excuse me?”
She swallowed.
“I was standing here. Trent grabbed him.”
Trent looked at her sharply.
“Stay out of it.”
She stepped back.
Evans didn’t correct him.
Instead, he addressed the girl.
“I suggest you put your phone away and get to your next activity.”
“School’s over,” she replied.
Evans stared at her.
She lowered her eyes, but she didn’t put the phone into her pocket.
I could see that her hands were trembling.
She was frightened.
And she had still spoken.
I would remember that.
I looked at Evans again.
“Can you tell him to leave me alone?”
The principal sighed.
“Both of you need to learn to get along.”
I thought about the morning.
About the torn sketchbook.
About the recording already saved on my phone.
And suddenly, something became very clear.
Principal Evans wasn’t confused about what had happened.
He was trying to make what happened sound smaller than it was.
I reached into my pocket and took out my phone.
Evans immediately looked at it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling my uncle.”
“That can wait.”
“No, sir.”
The words surprised even me.
They were quiet, but I meant them.
“I told him what happened. He’s expecting me.”
Evans studied me for several seconds.
Then he looked around at the students still watching.
“Go home,” he said curtly.
I nodded.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
I turned and walked toward the exit.
Trent didn’t follow.
For the first time since I had transferred to Westbridge, I walked away from him without wondering whether I had somehow made him angry enough to try again.
