Chapter 71 Watchful Corridor

Chapter 71 Watchful Corridor
The moment electronic doors of the bus slide open I step out onto the gravel lane, the wind from the valley hitting my face. My chest is still tight from the kitchen, the taste of the stale tea and my mother’s desperate panic sticking to the back of my throat. I pull my gray cardigan tight around my ribs and walk toward the main entrance of Oakwood High.

The lobby is loud with ridge kids laughing by the main office, their winter coats smelling of laundry detergent and rain. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the gray tile floor, counting the squares to keep my breathing steady.

"Maya."

The voice is low, cracking slightly at the edge. I stop from the glass display case housing the state championship banners.

Caleb is leaning against the metal frame. He has his varsity blazer unbuttoned, his hands shoved into his pockets. Two other guys from the first hockey line, Miller and his shadow, are flanking him, their broad shoulders blocking the narrow path toward the English wing. They stand there, their eyes fixed on my face.

I grip the nylon straps of my backpack until the plastic digs into my palms. "Move, Caleb."

Caleb doesn't budge. He steps forward, enough to force me to look up. His eyes slide down to my left sleeve, where the hem of my cardigan covers the yellowing marks Raph left on my skin.

"Raph asked us to tell you his phone is on his nightstand," Caleb says. "He tried to call you three times from his computer application after you blocked his cellular number. He’s pissed, Maya. He’s sitting over there in the dark, and he’s holding his phone with his thumb right over his father’s contact sheet."

A cold sweat breaks out across my shoulder blades. "Tell him to drop it."

"You don't get it," Caleb says, leaning down until his face is level with mine. The smell of mint gum hits my nose. "He’s not playing the landlord game today. He told me to tell you that if he doesn't get a text from your number by the end of third period—proving you unblocked him and telling him you're coming over at 3:30 PM—he's making two phone calls. One to Mason to tell him you’re sleeping with the ridge captain. And one to Arthur Thorne."

The name Arthur Thorne hits me like a physical blow as air leaves my lungs in a gasp. My mind flashes instantly to Leo—to the way his leg drags across the linoleum every single morning, the permanent limp left behind after Arthur decided our family had stepped too far across the boundary line.

"He'll do it," Caleb whispers, his eyes narrowing as he watches the color drain from my face. "He doesn't care if Mason kicks your mom out. He's so crazy about you he’d rather see this whole place burn to the ground than see you take another ride in that silver sedan. Unblock him, Maya. Send the text before noon, or everybody goes down."

He turns on his heel, his broad shoulders swinging as he and the two line-mates walk away toward the cafeteria.

My legs feel like paper. I stumble two steps to the side, my back hitting the cool glass of the trophy case. If Arthur finds out Jackson came back for me—if he finds out we broke the agreement he will wipe us out.

I force my feet to move, turn left at the intersection, heading down the concrete steps toward the basement corridor where the athletic gear is stored.

Jackson is there. He’s leaning against the iron mesh of the cage, his hooded sweatshirt pulled over his forehead, his jaw set so hard the muscle under his ear is twitching. He looks up the second my sneakers click against the cement.

"You're shaking," he says. He crosses the distance, his hands reaching out to grab my upper arms, holding me steady. His palms are warm through my cardigan. "What happened? Did Raph call your mom again?"

"It's worse," I choke out, my voice breaking as the panic finally breaches my throat. I look up into his eyes, my fingers clutching the fabric of his black sleeves. "He knows, Jackson. He knows about the sedan. He knows about midnight."

Jackson's grip tightens on my arms. "Did he tell your mom?"

"Not yet. But Caleb just stopped me by the gym. Raph told him to give me an ultimatum. If I don't unblock his number and promise to be in his apartment by 3:30 PM today, he’s calling Mason. And he’s calling your father."

Jackson stops breathing. I watch the pupils of his eyes dilate, the skin around his mouth turning white.

"He can't," Jackson whispers. "If my dad finds out—"

"He'll destroy us, Jackson," I say, the tears finally burning the backs of my eyes, though I refuse to let them fall. "He told me he would ruin my family if I stayed near you. He already took Leo’s leg. What do you think he’ll do to my mom’s job? What do you think he’ll do to our living situation? We have nowhere to go if Mason throws us out."

Jackson drops his hands from my arms. He turns around, his back to me, and slams his fist hard against the iron mesh of the equipment cage. The metal rattles violently, the sound echoing down the concrete hall. He stands there for five seconds, his head lowered between his shoulders, his breath coming in heaves.

"I can't talk to my dad," Jackson says, his voice flat with a bitter, helpless fury. "If I go to him, I'm confirming it. He'll drop the hammer before I can even explain."

"Then what do we do?" I ask, my voice trembling. "Do I go to Raph's at 3:30 PM? Do I sit on his couch and let him touch my hand just to keep him quiet?"

Jackson whips around, his face dark, his grey eyes burning with territorial anger that makes me take a half-step back. "No. You don't go near his door."

"Then how do we stop him from making the calls?"

Jackson pulls his phone out of his pocket, looks at the digital clock—7:42 AM—and slides it back into his blazer. "The varsity line has a mandatory tape-review in the locker room in five minutes. Caleb and the others will be in there."

"Jackson, you can't fight them," I say, reaching for his hand. "If Coach sees—"

"I’m not going to fight him," Jackson says. He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing once over my knuckles before he pulls away. "Go to your first period. Sit in the back. Keep your phone in your pocket. I'll handle the line."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to use the only thing I have left," he says. He turns and walks down the dark corridor toward the metal door of the boys' locker room, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows before I can call his name again.

First period is agony. I sit in the back of the history classroom, my knees knocking together under the small wooden desk. The teacher is talking about some war from a century ago, her finger tracing lines on a map, but all I can hear is the ticking of the wall clock.

Every time the door to the hallway opens, my heart leaps into my throat. I expect the principal’s assistant to walk in with a slip of paper demanding my removal. I expect my mother to call my phone from the warehouse, screaming that the eviction notice has been filed.

At 8:30 AM, the bell finally rings for the passing period. I stand up, my hands icy, and walk out into the central corridor.

The atmosphere has shifted.

Caleb is standing by the water fountain outside the library. His blazer is zipped up to his chin, his hockey duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks pale, his jaw slack as he stares straight ahead at the opposite wall.

Two other varsity players are standing behind him, their heads bent together, whispering in panicked tones. When I walk past them, Caleb’s eyes dart to me for a fraction of a second, filled with fear. He then looks away, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

I hurry down the stairs toward the cafeteria, my heart hammering against my ribs. I find Jackson standing by the vending machines in the corner, a brown paper bag in his hand.

"What did you do?" I whisper, pulling him into the alcove behind the soda machines. "What happened in the locker room?"

Jackson looks down at me. "The state qualifiers are on Friday. The scouts from the northern universities are driving down to sit in the premium boxes. If we win, Caleb gets his athletic scholarship profile cleared for the state registry. If we lose, or if he gets benched, his family can't afford the tuition."

I frown, my fingers twisting the fabric of my bag. "Coach wouldn't bench his starting defenseman over a personal fight."

"He wouldn't," Jackson says, a smile touching the edge of his lips. "But I’m the captain. The league bylaws state that the captain handles the internal discipline registry for conduct violations before the roster is submitted to the officials on Thursday night. I told Caleb that if a single rumor about you, me, or Raph leaves his mouth before the Friday buzzer—if Raph makes one single phone call to Mason or my dad—I'm filing a formal hazing report against the first line for the incident at the rink last week."

I catch my breath. "The incident with Raph's ribs?"

"If that report goes to the district board, the whole line gets an automatic fourteen-day suspension pending investigation," Jackson says flatly. "Caleb loses his scout look. Miller loses his placement. They’d be done for the season."

"Did he believe you?"

"He had no choice," Jackson says, his voice dropping into a low murmur as a group of seniors walks past our alcove. "Caleb went into the bathroom and called Raph right in front of me. He told Raph that if he drops the bomb to the fathers before Friday night, the hockey line will personally make sure Raph's life at Oakwood is a living hell. He told him to keep his mouth shut until the qualifiers are over."
A wave of relief washes over me, so intense that my knees buckle slightly. Jackson catches my elbow, holding me up until I find my footing on the tile.

"Raph is blind now," Jackson says, his eyes fixing on mine. "His friends won't watch you for him today. He’s stuck next door, and he doesn't have an eye in this building anymore."

"But what about 3:30 PM?" I ask, the reality of my mother’s order hitting me again. "My mom still thinks I'm going over there to clean his kitchen and apologize."

"Go over there," Jackson says, his fingers tightening on my arm for a brief second before he releases me. "Play the part for your mom. Do the dishes. Say the words. But remember that he can’t do anything to us until Saturday morning. We have two days to figure out how to lock his mouth permanently."

The warning bell for second period echoes through the cafeteria. Jackson takes a step back, pulling his hood up over his hair.

"Go to class, Maya," he says.

I turn and walk toward the stairs, the weight in my chest lighter than it was this morning.