Chapter 4: The Price of Protection

“Just go, quick. It’s about to get busy here.”

He jerked his thumb toward the door, and I hurried out, the twenty burning a hole in my pocket. I glanced back once, catching his eye through the glass, before heading to the pharmacy down the block.

---

The next day, I finally understood what “it’s about to get busy” meant.

The whole school buzzed with rumors. Whispers floated down the hallways, and everyone seemed on edge.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Porter, used homeroom to hold a stern class meeting.

He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, his voice booming. He looked more tired than usual, his tie askew, coffee mug clutched in one hand.

“Some of you keep sneaking off to internet cafés, and now look—now you’ve drawn the attention of troublemakers. Just yesterday, a student landed in the hospital with a broken arm. If anyone leaves campus without permission again, I’ll call your parents! If I can’t manage you, maybe you need to find another school.”

His glare swept over the room, daring anyone to challenge him. A couple of kids shifted in their seats, avoiding his gaze.

Kyle’s seat was empty.

The empty desk seemed to radiate bad luck. No one dared whisper his name.

Marissa kept staring at me.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked like she hadn’t slept. I kept my head down, pretending to take notes.

Mr. Porter lectured the class nonstop.

His voice droned on, but I barely heard it. My mind wandered, counting the minutes until the bell would ring.

After class, Marissa came over, panicked. She handed me a note.

She looked desperate, glancing over her shoulder as she slipped the folded scrap of paper into my hand.

[Sorry, I messed up. I don’t want to end up like Kyle. Please!]

Her handwriting was shaky, the ink smudged. I could see her lip trembling, like she was about to cry.

She was on the verge of tears.

She clutched her backpack to her chest, her eyes pleading. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

I tore up the note and told her, “I begged you like this before, remember?”

I made sure she saw every piece flutter to the floor. My voice was calm, but my hands shook. For the first time, I felt like I had the upper hand.

---

A peaceful month passed.

The days blurred together—classes, homework, the steady hum of normalcy. For once, I wasn’t afraid to come to school.

There was still half an hour before after-school study hall.

The halls were quieter than usual, sunlight slanting through the windows. I leaned against my locker, flipping through my notes.

Suddenly, someone called from the door, “Jenny Carter, someone’s looking for you.”

The voice echoed down the hallway, turning a few heads. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to walk over.

I went out and saw a tall, skinny guy holding a notebook and a bottle of Gatorade.

He wore a faded Lincoln Vocational hoodie in the school’s blue and gold, sleeves pushed up, a shy smile on his face. He looked harmless enough, but I stayed on guard.

“You looking for me?”

My voice was wary, but he just nodded, holding out the notebook and drink.

He handed me the notebook and drink. “Chris’s homework. He’ll pick it up at the end of next month.”

His words were clipped, like he was reading from a script. He shoved the notebook into my hands, then stuffed his hands in his pockets.

So this was Tyler.

I studied him for a second, committing his face to memory. He didn’t seem like the muscle-for-hire type, but you never know.

The Gatorade sat on my desk all night before I finally tossed it. My dad always said never take food from strangers.

I eyed the bottle suspiciously every time I passed my desk. Finally, I dumped it in the trash, just to be safe.

Chris’s homework was crammed full—there was no space left for me to write. So I grabbed a red pen and marked the answers for him. This wannabe gangster—he didn’t even need to cheat. All his answers were right.

I smirked as I circled the answers, leaving little check marks next to each one. For someone who acted tough, Chris was smarter than he let on.

---

When I got home, I noticed my dad’s weathered face looked even more tired. He yanked his jeans down over his thigh, trying to hide something.

The apartment smelled like fried onions and old coffee. Dad stood by the stove, limping a little, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the waistband of his jeans.