Or what? Tyler stepped closer. You'll attack me again. Go ahead. My father's lawyer would love that.
Madison appeared from around the corner, phone raised. Say cheese, Ayana. The hallway filled with other students drawn by the noise. Some had their phones out recording. Ayana saw the trap closing.
They wanted her to react to give them more ammunition. Instead, she pushed past Tyler and helped Marcus to his feet. His eye was swelling shut. Blood trickling from his nose. "This isn't over," Tyler called after them as they walked away.
"Tell your boy to watch his back. " The nurse's office was empty, except for an ancient ice pack and some band-aids. Ayana helped Marcus clean up, her hands shaking with rage and fear. "I'm sorry," Marcus whispered, wincing as she pressed the ice pack to his eye. "They jumped me when I was getting my lunch from my locker. Said they knew about the evidence we'd been collecting.
Don't apologize. This isn't your fault. The vice principal appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. Mr. Reed, Miss Johnson, care to explain this situation.
Tyler Prescott and his friends attacked Marcus. Ayana said, "There are witnesses, videos. From what I understand, there was a scuffle between students. Unless Mr. Reed wants to file a formal complaint.
Marcus stared at the floor. They both knew what a formal complaint would mean. More threats, more accidents, more pressure on their families. That's what I thought. The vice principal's voice was dismissive.
Return to class, both of you, and Miss Johnson. Stay out of trouble. The rest of the day passed in a blur of whispers and sideways glances. During last period, a schoolwide email announced that Misses Patel had been placed on administrative leave pending review of recent conduct, causing division within the school community. Ayana found Miss Patel clearing out her desk after the final bell.
"They can't do this," Ayana said, watching her teacher carefully wrap a framed photo of her family. Ms. Patel's smile was sad but determined. They can and they have, but that doesn't make it right. She lowered her voice.
Don't give up, Ayana. The truth matters, even when it's inconvenient. That evening, Ayana sat on her bed, staring at the boarded up window. Marcus wasn't answering his texts again. Her mother worked late, picking up extra shifts to cover the window repair.
The weight of it all, the threats, the violence, the silence of those in power pressed down on her chest until it was hard to breathe. Maybe they should stop. Maybe the cost was too high. Her phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. The message read, "Miss Johnson, my name is Patrice Dixon, former city council woman.