Chapter 1: Pranks, Alarms, and Bad News

Brandon—yeah, that Brandon—snagged my phone right before third period, claiming he needed to call his mom. I should’ve known better. The second Mrs. Thompson started her lecture on quadratic equations, my phone exploded with the loudest alarm you’ve ever heard, echoing through the classroom like a fire drill.

The screeching sound slices through the sleepy math haze. I feel every eye in the room burning a hole through me. Mrs. Thompson whips around, zeroing in like a heat-seeking missile. She storms over, lips pressed into a thin line, and yanks my phone off the desk. "We’ve been over this, haven’t we?" she snaps.

My heart drops. The phone’s gone. Brandon is slouched in his chair, trying not to laugh but failing miserably. He looks right at me and grins. "April Fool’s, dude. Got you good!"

I force myself to breathe, but my stomach twists. I manage to whisper, "Your mom was in a car accident."

He stares, still grinning. "Nice try." Then he bursts out laughing, like I’d just landed the best punchline of the year. He just doesn’t get it.

But I wasn’t joking. My voice shakes so bad I almost choke on the words. I try again, desperate. I’m not playing a prank—this is real. I saw the message myself, right after silencing the alarm Brandon set. There it was, bright and cold on the lock screen: a string of missed calls from his dad, and a text saying his mom had been in a car accident, asking him to come home as soon as possible.

My hands go numb. I blink, reread the words, hoping I’m wrong. But the message is still there, cold and real. Everything happened so fast. I was still reading the message when Mrs. Thompson stormed over, snatched my phone out of my hands, and marched out of the classroom without a word.

I turn to Brandon, panic rising, and say, "Dude, I’m serious—your mom really was in a car accident. I’m going after Mrs. Thompson to get my phone back."

But his face goes hard. His voice is cold as ice. "It’s your mom who was in a car accident. If you can’t take a joke, just say so, but don’t bring parents into it on April Fool’s."

It’s like the unwritten rule in every high school—mess with someone’s phone, and suddenly it’s open season on your mom. I know exactly why Brandon doesn’t believe me. There’s this dumb unspoken code: if you mess with someone’s phone and it gets taken, everyone says, ‘Your mom’s dead.’ It’s a joke, but a mean one, and everybody acts like it’s some cosmic rule. Get someone’s phone confiscated, and it’s like you’ve jinxed your own mom. Dark stuff, but it’s just what kids say.

That’s the only reason Brandon thinks I’m firing back with the same insult. He thinks I’m just being petty, getting back at him for the prank. But right now, none of that matters. There’s a real emergency, and I need proof if I’m going to get through to him.

I bolt out of my seat, ready to chase after Mrs. Thompson, desperate to explain everything, to get my phone back, to call his dad. Just then, the classroom door bangs open.

Mrs. Thompson storms in, looking angrier than ever. In her hand is a hammer. Before I can get a word out, she strides over, lifts the hammer, and brings it crashing down on my phone, right in front of everyone.

The sound is like a gunshot. Someone gasps. A girl in the back covers her mouth. Nobody moves. I just stand there, frozen, as Mrs. Thompson crouches down, brings the hammer down two more times, and completely destroys the screen. Glass splinters everywhere. My phone’s basically a crime scene.

She straightens up, throws the wrecked phone onto the podium, and says with steely calm, "How many times have I told you all—no phones in class. Junior year is the most important year of your life. If I catch anyone else with a phone, I’ll smash it too. If you have a problem, bring your parents in to talk to me."

I can’t stop myself. "Mrs. Thompson, you can’t just smash it! His mom was just hit by a car—she’s waiting for him at the hospital!"

Brandon’s face darkens. He grabs his math textbook and hurls it at me, shouting, "Stop cursing my mom!"

Brandon’s fist catches my cheek, and for a second, the world blurs. I taste blood, but all I can think about is that unread message. Mrs. Thompson’s eyes narrow. "What’s going on here?"

I blurt it out. "Just now, before you took my phone, Brandon’s dad texted me—his mom was in a car accident. I was trying to see which hospital, but you took my phone. What are we supposed to do now?"

Mrs. Thompson laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that means she doesn’t believe a word. "Oh, his mom just happens to get in a car accident right when I confiscate your phone? And if something happened to his family, why would they text you?"

I answer honestly, feeling small. "A lot of people are scared to bring their phones to school. So I bring mine, and if someone needs to make a call, I let them—for fifty cents a minute. Parents end up saving my number so they can reach their kid."

Mrs. Thompson sneers. "So you’re running a business now?"

I can barely keep my voice steady. "This isn’t about that. Mrs. Thompson, right now his mom’s been hit by a car."

Brandon jumps up, face flushed with rage. He storms over, grabs me by the collar, and yells, "No, it was your mom who got hit! You just want to get back at me for the joke. Mrs. Thompson, he’s cursing my mom!"

Before fists fly, Mrs. Thompson shoves between us. She looks at me hard. "What do you want, then?"

"Just give me the phone back. Please. There’s a repair place right across the street. I can hook it up, recover the messages, and call his dad."

Mrs. Thompson just starts laughing, slow and sarcastic. She even starts clapping, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve lost my mind. The applause sounds wrong—too loud, too hollow. My ears ring with it. Why would a teacher clap now, when someone’s mom is in the hospital?

She says loudly, "Everyone, let’s give him a hand for how clever he thinks he is."

The whole class looks confused, but most start clapping, too. The sound fills the room, echoing off the walls and making my head spin.

Finally, Mrs. Thompson, still smirking, says, "You think I’m stupid? You want your phone back so you can get it fixed, say it was broken, and keep using it. Spend a couple hundred dollars on a new screen, and you’re set. Is that it?"

Suddenly, the whole class gets it—or thinks they do. They look at me with this kind of disappointed awe, murmuring and making little wow sounds like I just pulled off some elaborate heist.

Brandon turns on me, pure hatred in his eyes. He spits out, "Mrs. Thompson, that’s just a cheap Android. A new one’s barely two hundred bucks. You can get a screen for less than that."

Mrs. Thompson fixes me with a glare. "All this for a couple hundred dollars? You’d go as far as cursing someone’s mom? Don’t you have a mother yourself?"

And now everyone’s staring at me, but there’s no anger in their faces. Just a kind of quiet, awkward sympathy, like they think I’m so desperate for a new phone that I’d stoop this low. It’s twisted—suddenly, in their eyes, Brandon’s mom is as good as dead, and I’m the villain who brought it on by opening my mouth.

The worst part? Nobody actually believes me. They just think I want my phone back so I can fix it.

Mrs. Thompson shrugs and says, "Go stand in the back. Bring your parents in next week. I want to see just how poor your family is—running a business at school, cursing classmates’ mothers to save a little money."

I can’t even describe how crushed I feel. I’m telling the truth, but somehow I’m the one in the wrong, the one getting punished for something I didn’t do.