His friends looked toward the grate.
The boy in the dark sweatshirt gave a weak smile.
Brandon laughed.
“Your money’s still down there.”
A few people in the crowd shifted uncomfortably.
I faced him.
“I know.”
“Go get it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I guess you’re walking.”
I stared at him.
There was something so pointless about the cruelty that I found myself struggling to understand it.
The money was already gone.
He had already made me miss the easiest chance to reach my bus.
He had already embarrassed me.
Why wasn’t that enough?
I looked down at the drain one last time.
Then I looked at Brandon.
“Do you feel better now?”
His laughter stopped.
“What?”
“After doing that.”
I wasn’t trying to sound clever.
I genuinely wanted to know.
He had spent several minutes making me miserable.
He had an audience.
His friends were standing beside him.
He had won every part of the confrontation he seemed to care about.
So why was he still angry?
Brandon’s lips pressed together.
“You think you’re funny?”
“No.”
“Then shut your mouth.”
I nodded once.
“Okay.”
I turned away.
He stepped into my path.
I stopped so suddenly that my shoe scraped against the pavement.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he said.
I looked up.
“You told me to leave.”
“Not while I’m talking.”
I felt the last of my patience slipping.
“What do you want me to do?”
He didn’t answer.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other.
Then Brandon smiled again.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he had found another way to make the situation last.
“Say you’re sorry.”
I stared at him.
“For what?”
“For being disrespectful.”
I could hear somebody behind us whispering.
The crowd had become larger than before.
Several students stood near the metal fence separating the walkway from the road.
Others remained closer to the school entrance.
A phone was still pointed toward us.
Brandon noticed it and lifted his chin.
“Go on,” he told me.
I shook my head slowly.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
His face changed.
The smile vanished.
“Last chance.”
I didn’t respond.
He took another step forward.
“Apologize.”
I felt my legs wanting to move backward.
I held still for another second.
Then I said the only thing I could honestly say.
“I’m sorry this happened.”
Brandon stared at me.
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know.”
“You think you’re smarter than me?”
“No.”
“Then say it right.”
I looked toward the gate.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted the day to be over.
But I couldn’t bring myself to apologize for not kneeling in front of someone who had stolen my money.
I shook my head.
Brandon’s breathing became heavier.
The sandy-haired boy looked toward the entrance again.
This time, his eyes stayed there.
There was a particular expression Brandon wore when people laughed with him.
His eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth tilted upward as though he were certain that everyone around him understood the joke.
I had seen it in hallways and crowded spaces.
I had seen it when younger students tried to hurry past him.
I had seen it when he turned someone else’s discomfort into entertainment.
Now that expression was gone.
He was looking at the faces around us, searching for the reaction he wanted.
But the crowd had stopped laughing.
That seemed to bother him more than anything I had said.
“What’s everybody staring at?” he demanded.
Nobody answered.
A student lowered his phone slightly.
Brandon pointed at him.
“Keep filming.
I don’t care.”
The boy raised it again.
I watched Brandon’s shoulders tense.
For the first time, I wondered whether he was beginning to realize that the crowd might not be entirely on his side.
Then he looked back at me.
And I knew he had decided to make me responsible for that, too.
“This is your fault,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
“All of this.”
I looked around us.
The gathering students.
The storm drain.
The phones.
His two friends.
The whole scene had begun because he had taken a five-dollar bill from my hand.
But he was speaking as though I had dragged him into it.
“I didn’t ask you to take my money,” I replied.
“You wouldn’t listen.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
“You’re really going to lecture me?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
I took a breath.
“Brandon, just let me go.”
He moved closer.
“Or what?”
“Nothing.
I just want to leave.”
He looked down at me.
“Then stop making me mad.”
I realized that was impossible.
If I answered, he became angry.
If I stayed silent, he became angry.
If I tried to leave, he became angry.
The problem wasn’t what I was doing.
