Chapter 68: Room to breath

The alarm on my phone goes off at 6:00 AM. I sit up immediately, shutting off the sound before it can wake my mother or Leo. The apartment is cold, the grey morning light barely cutting through the cheap plastic blinds in my bedroom. I sit on the edge of my mattress for two minutes, listening to the silence coming from the other side of the wall. There is no sound of a front door opening next door. There is no heavy footwear dragging across the carpeted hallway outside.

I dress quickly, pulling on the pleated wool skirt and the green V-neck sweater that make up the Oakwood Academy uniform. The purple marks from Raph’s fingers are still there, turning a dull yellowish-green around the edges, but the swelling has gone down. I leave the skin bare and pull the cuffs of my sweater down until they touch my knuckles.

When I walk into the kitchen, Leo’s bedroom door is open. He is sitting on the couch, his injured leg resting flat on a stack of pillows. He is already fully dressed in his work clothes, a mug of black coffee held between his palms. He doesn't look up when I enter.

"There's bread on the counter," Leo says, his voice rough from sleep.

"I'm not hungry," I say, picking up my nylon backpack from the floor. "I'm going to catch the early bus."

Leo sets his mug down on the low table. He turns his head, his eyes fixing on my face. "Maya. We aren't done talking about what happened at the rink."

"The bus leaves in ten minutes, Leo," I say, my hand already on the brass doorknob. "If I miss it, I have to wait forty-five minutes for the next one, and I'll be late for homeroom."

He looks at me for five seconds, his jaw tight. He looks like he wants to stand up, but his right hand moves down to brace his bad knee, reminding him that he can't move fast enough to stop me. "We're talking tonight," he says. "When Mom is at her shift."

"Okay," I say.

I open the door and step out into the hallway. I don't look at the door to the Millers' apartment as I walk past it. I keep my eyes on the concrete steps, moving down the stairwell two at a time until I reach the ground floor and push through the glass exit doors into the cold morning air.

The walk to the public bus stop takes exactly twelve minutes. The sidewalk is covered in a thin layer of morning frost that crunches beneath the rubber soles of my uniform shoes. For the past three days, Raph has been there, matching his stride to mine, his fingers digging into the fabric of my blazer to keep me close to his side. Today, the space next to me is empty. I can walk at my own pace. I don't have to listen to him talk about his father’s connections or his plans for our building because he bought it.

The bus arrives on schedule. I climb the high metal steps, drop my coins into the transparent box next to the driver, and walk toward the back. The bus is mostly empty, filled with a few hospital workers in scrubs and two utility men in canvas jackets. I sit by the window, resting my forehead against the cold glass as the engine roars to life.

As the bus moves away from our neighborhood and heads toward the wealthier northern ridge where Oakwood Academy sits, I watch the buildings change. The cracked brick tenements and auto repair shops give way to wide, clean avenues lined with stone walls and mature oak trees.

By 7:30 AM, the bus pulls up to the concrete island outside the school's iron gates. I step down onto the pavement. The gravel driveway is already crowded with shiny black SUVs and silver sedans idling in the drop-off line. Students in identical green blazers move in large groups toward the main stone archway, their loud voices and laughter filling the crisp morning air.

Usually, Raph waits for me right by the concrete pillar where the bus unloads. He likes to make sure the other seniors see him take my bag. Today, there is nobody there. I shoulder my backpack and walk through the gates alone, my hands buried deep in my cardigan pockets.

The moment I push through the oak doors into the main lobby, I hear the whispers.

Despite Oakwood being a huge school, the news moves through the corridors within minutes. Groups of juniors are huddled near the trophy cases, their heads bent over a smartphone screen. As I walk past them, I catch snippets of their conversation.

"—did you see how high he lifted him?" one boy says, his eyes wide. "He didn't even try to play the puck. He just came off the blue line like a freight train."

"My brother said the new kid's dad called the headmaster last night," a girl answers, leaning in closer. "They're trying to get Thorne suspended for the season. But the coach is fighting it because of the tournament on Friday."

I keep my head down, walking past the administrative office. Through the glass partition, I can see the athletic director standing by the headmaster’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his face red as he argues with a woman in a grey business suit. On the desk lies a stack of standard incident reports printed on bright yellow paper.

I reach my locker in the senior wing at 7:42 AM. The hallway here is wider, the metal doors painted a dark hunter green. I spin the combination dial, open the door, and begin pulling out my advanced chemistry textbook and my lab notebook.

"Hey. Raph's girl."

I freeze, my fingers clutching the spine of my textbook. I turn my head slowly to the left.

Two senior hockey players are standing three lockers down. They are both wearing their green varsity jackets with the leather sleeves, their hair still damp from an early morning practice block. The taller one, a defenseman looks at me with a curious, mocking squint.

"Where's your shadow today?" He asks, leaning his shoulder against the green metal locker. "We heard he’s home with a couple of cracked ribs. Is he going to miss the history mid-term?"

"He has a medical exemption for five days," I say.

The other boy lets out a low whistle. "Five days? Thorne really put him through the boards, didn't he? Your boy needs to learn to keep his head up when he's entering the offensive zone. You can't play soft at Oakwood."

"He isn't my boy," I say clearly.

I slide my textbook into my bag, slam my locker door shut until the latch clicks, and walk away before they can ask anything else. My heart is beating a little faster against my ribs, but it isn't from fear. It's from the strange, unfamiliar sensation of being able to speak back without Raph standing behind me to penalize me for it later.

The morning classes go by in a predictable routine. During second-period English, Raph’s seat in the back row remains empty. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, looks at the empty desk during attendance, marks a small black 'A' next to Raph’s name on his clipboard, and moves on without comment. Nobody asks where he is.

During the mid-morning break at 10:15 AM, the students gather in the central courtyard to buy coffee and pastries from the small cart near the fountain. The sun is higher now, but the air remains cold enough that everyone is bundled up in their winter coats.

I sit on a stone bench near the library wall, a small paper cup of black tea held between my hands to keep my fingers warm. I look across the gravel courtyard and see Jackson Thorne.

He is standing with three other varsity players near the stone steps of the gymnasium, wearing the standard uniform blazer, his tie straight against his crisp white shirt. He looks normal despite everything going on around. His face is clean, his posture relaxed as he listens to his friend talk.

As if he can feel me watching him, Jackson turns his head. His eyes look across the open gravel, tracking through the crowd of students until they lock directly onto me.

He looks at me, his expression calm and unreadable. He stands there for a while, then says something to the boy next to him, turns around, and walks up the stone steps into the gymnasium.

I look down at my tea, the surface of the dark liquid trembling slightly as my hands shake.

An hour later, during our lunch block, I go to the basement level of the library. It is the quietest place in the school, filled with rows of old microfiche machines and bound periodicals that nobody reads anymore. The air smells like dry paper and floor wax. I sit at a small wooden carrel in the back corner, opening my chemistry notebook to copy out the formulas for the afternoon lab.

A shadow falls over my paper.

I look up. Jackson Thorne is standing at the edge of the wooden carrel. He has his hands in his trousers pockets, his school bag slung loosely over one shoulder. The low ceiling of the basement makes him look even taller than he does outside on the ice.

"You're hard to find," Jackson says. His voice is quiet, matching the silence of the library basement.

"I come here to study," I say, my pencil still resting on the paper. I look toward the stairs to ensure the librarian isn't watching us. "You shouldn't be down here. People talk."

"People are already talking," Jackson says. He steps into the narrow space of the carrel, leaning his hip against the edge of the wooden desk. He looks down at my open notebook, his eyes lingering on my bare left wrist where the yellowing bruises show beneath my sweater cuff. "How is he?"

"He has bruised ribs," I say flatly. "My mom made me go next door yesterday afternoon to give him pain cream and wrap his torso with a compression bandage. He’s stuck on his couch for five days."

Jackson nods once. "Did he say anything about the rink?"

"He said his dad is calling the school board and the district superintendent," I say, looking directly into his eyes. "He said he’s going to make sure you lose your captaincy and get kicked off the varsity team before the tournament on Friday. He wants to ruin you, Jackson."

Jackson lets out a short, dry sound from his nose that might be a laugh. "Let his dad call whoever he wants. My father built the science wing we're standing under, Maya. The headmaster isn't going to suspend the varsity captain three days before the state qualifiers because some transfer kid didn't know how to take a hit in a gym class scrimmage."

"Raph won't let it go," I say, my voice dropping into a lower whisper. "Since he knows you did it to scare him away from me, he’s furious. When he’s angry, he looks for ways to hurt people who can't fight back."

Jackson leans down slightly, his hands coming out of his pockets to rest on the top of the wooden partition between our desks. "Is he still threatening your brother's medical attention?"

"Yes," I say. "And now that his dad bought our building my mom thinks Raph is a savior because his dad haven't processed the back-rent notice yet. She thinks he’s a sweet boy. She saw me humming at dinner last night because I was glad he wouldn't be at school today, and she thought I was happy because I spent time with him."

Jackson’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at my wrist again. "What did you do when you went over there yesterday?"

I look down at the tip of my pencil. "I put the cream on the bruise. He told me to rub it in hard because the doctor said the tissue needed deep friction. So I did. I pressed my thumbs straight into his cracked ribs as hard as I could."

The basement is silent for several seconds.

"Did he scream?" Jackson asks quietly.

"He choked," I say. "He tried to pull away, but he couldn't move because his side locked up. I told him to remember how it felt to be unable to breathe. I told him to think about that the next time he tries to lock a door with me inside."

Jackson doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he reaches out and places his hand flat on the wooden desk, an inch away from my notebook.

"You aren't as helpless as you look, Maya," he says, his voice low.

"I am helpless," I say, finally looking up to meet his gaze. "Raph’s dad now owns the lease. My brother still needs his surgery. If Raph figures out that you're talking to me down here, he will call his father before the sun goes down, and my family will be on the street by Monday morning. You need to stay away from me, Jackson. You did what you wanted on the ice. You gave me five days of peace. Now leave it alone."

Jackson looks at me, his grey eyes steady and dark under the fluorescent lights of the library. He doesn't move his hand away from the desk.

"Five days isn't a long time, Maya," he says quietly. "Friday is the tournament. After that, he comes back to school. What are you going to do on Monday when he’s standing at your locker again?"

"I'll figure something out," I say, picking up my pencil and turning back to my chemistry formulas. "Go away, Jackson. Please."

He stands upright, his shadow lifting off my paper. He doesn't say another word. I listen to the sound of his uniform shoes moving across the concrete floor, walking toward the stairs until the basement door clicks shut behind him.

I stay at the wooden desk for the rest of the lunch block, my pencil moving across the paper, writing out lines of black numbers that I don't see. The light through the small basement window remains grey and cold, but for the first time all week, the room around me feels big enough to move in.