Chapter 64
Kieran's POV
The silence after Logan's outburst stretched like taffy, thick and uncomfortable. Thirty pairs of eyes darted between him and Tyler, waiting for someone to break first.
Tyler's jaw tightened. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with deliberate slowness. "You done?"
"Not even close." Logan's voice stayed level, but his hands were still shaking. "You want to talk about reality? Let's talk about it."
He turned to face the room. "USAPhO nationals has five spots. IPhO only takes three. Every single person in this room is competing for those slots." His gaze swept across the front row. "That's the reality. But instead of working harder, you're tearing down the guy who's actually earning his place."
Tyler stood up, smoothing his polo shirt. "I'm not tearing anyone down. I'm stating facts." He looked directly at me. "The school gave you a twenty-thousand-dollar signing bonus. They promised you thirty thousand if you place at USAPhO, and a hundred thousand if you make the national team." His voice was perfectly calm, clinical. "That money could've been split between seniors who've been training here for three years. Instead, it's going to someone who showed up two months ago."
Murmurs rippled through the room. A few students nodded. Oliver Martin shifted in his seat, expression carefully neutral.
Tyler turned to Logan. "You're defending him because you're safe. Your family lives in a Newton house. You'll get into BU even without a scholarship." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "But some of them need that money to go to MIT. Some of them can't afford to be generous."
My stomach twisted. The marker in my left hand felt slippery.
"So your solution is to push out the best student?" Logan's voice cracked. "That's what you did to Emma Wilson last year!"
The room went silent again. Emma's name hung in the air like a bomb.
Tyler's expression hardened. "Emma quit on her own."
"She quit because you put 'Go Back to Flushing' stickers on her locker!" Logan's voice rose. "You flooded her family's restaurant with fake bad reviews on Yelp! You threw her backpack in the fountain the night before her lab report was due!"
A girl in the back whispered, "That was just a joke—"
"A joke?" Logan spun toward her. "She's on medical leave now. She gave up her MIT dream. I saw her last month downtown, and she said she can't get out of bed most mornings." He turned back to Tyler. "That's your joke?"
My fingers curled around the edge of the desk. Every detail Logan described felt like a preview of my own future.
Tyler's eyes narrowed. "You're awfully chatty today, Logan. Did Summer Hayes ask you to be her spokesperson? Or do you think if you defend her charity case, she'll finally notice you?"
Logan's face flushed red. He stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. "You piece of—"
Two senior guys next to Tyler rose simultaneously. One was on the football team, shoulders twice as wide as Logan's.
I stood up too, right hand curling into a useless fist at my side. "Logan. Don't."
The air felt like it might explode. Everyone held their breath.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door slammed open.
James Smith stood in the doorway, gray hair perfectly combed, eyes sharp as a hawk's. "What the hell is going on here?"
Everyone froze. Tyler's face immediately shifted to perfect student mode. Logan and the two seniors slowly sat back down.
Smith's gaze swept the room, landing on the half-finished problem I'd written on the board. "Cross. Continue your explanation." His voice was ice. "Everyone else, sit down, shut up, and take notes. If I hear one more word, you're off the team."
My throat tightened. I turned back to the board and picked up the marker with my left hand. The letters came out crooked, but I forced myself to write slower, clearer.
Behind me, the room was silent except for the scratch of pens on paper.
Smith leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes scanning each student like a searchlight.
I finished the problem mechanically, voice steady and flat, until the bell rang.
Smith's voice cut through the shuffle of backpacks. "Starting today, I'm personally supervising every training session." He pointed at Tyler and Oliver. "Tyler, Oliver. My office. Now."
Tyler's face went pale. He followed the coach out, but not before his eyes swept over me one last time, full of unfinished threat.
---
The next days, Smith showed up every single day. Tyler and his friends kept their mouths shut during training, but the harassment never stopped.
Someone covered my locker with stickers. "Scholarship Kid of the Month." "Free Lunch Program Spokesperson."
WhatsApp groups circulated close-ups of my right hand with captions like "When you can't afford proper healthcare."
Someone spilled coffee on my lab report, leaving the pages wrinkled and stained. I reprinted it without a word.
During training, Tyler's friends would "accidentally" knock calculators and reference books onto my desk, hitting my right hand. Then they'd apologize with exaggerated concern.
I wiped the stickers off my locker. Reprinted ruined assignments. Kept solving problems with my left hand.
Logan watched it all, jaw tight. During a break, he leaned over. "You're not even mad?"
I shook my head. "Doesn't matter."
"We should report them—"
"Won't help." I kept my eyes on my notebook. "Smith's here. That's enough."
Logan frowned. "But they're still—"
"The competition matters," I cut him off. "Nothing else does."
Logan stared at my profile like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. "You're too calm. It's not normal."
I didn't answer. Because he was right. I wasn't calm. I was holding everything down so tight I could barely breathe.
---
November brought a brief Indian summer. The training room turned into a furnace. The AC had been broken for two days.
Most students stripped down to T-shirts. I kept my hoodie on.
Halfway through an experiment with Logan, I had to solder circuit components. The wide sleeves kept sliding down to my wrist, getting in the way. I tried to roll them up with my right hand, but my fingers wouldn't grip the fabric properly.
Logan glanced over. "Dude, just take it off. It's like eighty degrees in here."
I hesitated, looking around. Everyone was focused on their own work. Tyler was in the corner, talking quietly with his friends.
I took a breath and grabbed the hem of the hoodie with my left hand, pulling it over my head in one motion.
Underneath, I wore a black V-neck T-shirt with short sleeves that barely reached my shoulders.
For the first time, everyone could see my arms completely.
The training room went quiet. All eyes turned toward me.
My skin was pale, almost translucent from years of poor nutrition and overwork. Blue veins showed clearly beneath the surface. The scars stood out under the fluorescent lights, dark and brutal.
Tyler's group in the back went still. A few guys who'd laughed the loudest before now looked pale, instinctively stepping back.
A girl whispered, "Oh my God... but his arms are kind of... I mean, he's thinner than I thought but still built. Those scars are scary though."
I didn't look at anyone. I just kept soldering the circuit, left hand steady and precise, right hand loosely supporting the board. The scars mapped across my skin like a geography of pain under the fluorescent lights.
---
After class, Logan pulled me into the hallway corner. "Bro, that was intense. You did that on purpose, right? Like telling them 'I'm not scared of you'?"
I shook my head. "No."
Logan didn't believe me. "Then why suddenly take off your hoodie? You've always—"
I pulled out my phone, typed into the notes app, and showed him the screen. "It's hot. And hiding doesn't change anything."
Logan frowned. "But—"
I typed again. "They already saw the photos. Everyone knows. Pretending makes me look weak."
Logan stared at me. "So you just... gave up hiding?"
I nodded. There was a tired calm in my eyes. "I won't fight them. But I'm not hiding anymore either."
Logan looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just clapped my shoulder. "Okay. But if they mess with you again, tell me. Don't handle it alone."
I didn't answer. I just draped the hoodie over my arm and walked away.
In the hallway, an image flashed through my mind—Summer in the coffee shop, touching my scars without flinching, without disgust, just holding my hand and seriously learning sign language.
I thought: If she saw all this and didn't run, why should I care what these people think?
A secret everyone knows isn't a secret anymore. Like the emperor's new clothes—hiding just makes me look pathetic.
Better to stand in front of them like this. Open. Unashamed.