Broken Hands

8. Math X-ponents

Grayson slammed his locker shut, already bracing himself against the sidelong glances and muffled snickers that came his way. Two girls giggled as they walked past, their laughter as sharp as it was meaningless. He ignored them, heading down the hallway towards math class, his footsteps echoing alongside the whispers and sideways glances from clusters of students lingering by their lockers. He tightened his jaw, focusing on the rhythm of his steps, resisting the familiar urge to lash out or, worse, freeze under their stares.

Sliding into the back seat of his math class, Grayson let his shoulders relax. Mr. Alan was a solid figure up front, his curly hair and thick beard giving him a look of permanent severity, like he could silence the whole room with just a glare. Grayson didn't mind him-at least Mr. Alan wasn't like Mr. Simon back in junior high, who'd made a point of calling Grayson out, poking and prodding until he finally exploded. Mr. Alan kept his distance, and that was a line Grayson intended to keep clear.

The lecture kicked off. Mr. Alan's voice boomed over the noise of shifting chairs and whispering students, breaking down the formulas, letters, and numbers like they were more alive than anyone in the room. Grayson focused, letting the low gruff of Mr. Alan's voice serve as his anchor, his mind tethering to it the way his therapist had taught him. But then his phone buzzed-a text, blinking up from an unknown number.

"Hello Grayboy."

His chest tightened, heartbeat stuttering as his mind spiraled back to that awful memory-a string of unknown texts, an ambush, the sharp sear of pain that followed. Before he could shove the memory back, a voice snapped him to attention.

"Mr. Smith."

Grayson's head shot up, and Mr. Alan was staring right at him, his eyes sharp and calculating, a hunter sensing weakness. "Do you think this class is boring?" he asked, his voice coated in a thin layer of politeness.

"No, sir," Grayson replied, trying to sound collected. "I just got distracted."

"Come forward, Mr. Smith." The man's tone was calm but unwavering.

Suppressing a curse, Grayson stood, ignoring the smirks and whispers from classmates as he made his way to the front. Savanna shot him an amused look, making a metal sign with her fingers. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and looked back at Mr. Alan, who was holding out a marker.

"Solve the equation." The command hit like a punch, his voice sharp as steel.

Grayson scanned the board. Equations twisted and tangled in complex forms, variables stacked up with too many exponents and symbols. Every instinct screamed to just drop the marker and leave. But he knew better than that. He sucked in a quick breath, the frustration rising. "What if I say I can't?" he muttered.

Mr. Alan's gaze didn't waver. "There is always and aftermath, and something tells me you don't want to find out."

Grayson ground his teeth. A rush of defiance flared up-what could Mr. Alan do that he hadn't already seen? But he was tired of games. Moving up to the board, he let the equations sink in. He hadn't studied in a while, particularly since Damien left but he forced his brian to recall and memories flickered-Alex teaching him with his visual tricks. He quickly mapped the problem in his head, running through formulas he barely remembered studying.

With a hint of irritation but steady resolve, he lifted the marker and set to work. Grayson wrote on the board, his hands working almost automatically, his mind recalling formulas like pages of a book he'd barely glanced. He scribbled quick drawings on the side, marking things in Alex's style-a bee to represent distance, a ball for speed, breaking down the abstract into something real. He could hear a few gasps, see some heads tilting as they watched him draw through his steps, the familiar shapes emerging almost like they had a life of their own. He knew it wasn't genius; it was survival.

When he finished, he capped the marker, handing it back to Mr. Alan. "If I'm not mistaken," he said, tone dry, with a flash of defiance.

Mr. Alan's eyes glimmered with something almost like approval. "Put your hands together for Mr. Smith," he announced. The class broke into applause, a few students even cheering. Grayson forced his expression neutral, catching Savanna's smirk as she gave him a thumbs-up, and he felt the edge of a smile himself.

The bell rang, its echo filling the room, and Grayson stayed rooted to his seat, his eyes down. He'd learned the trick a long time ago: never be the first to rush out. The teachers noticed, and suddenly, you were on their radar. Instead, he waited, slinging his bag over his shoulder with practiced ease, blending in with the wave of students. But just as he was about to step into the hallway, Mr. Alan's voice cut through the noise.

"Grayson, a word."

He turned, catching a sympathetic look from Savanna and a knowing one from Russell. With a sigh, he trudged back into the emptying classroom. Mr. Alan was stacking a few papers, glancing at him with that teacher look Grayson knew all too well-disappointed but still hoping.

"You're better than a C, Grayson," Mr. Alan started, his voice measured. "I don't want to have to keep scoring you like this. You need to start showing what you're capable of. Next time, if you're not making an effort, we'll be having a talk and we'll be taking decisions along side your parents or gaurdians. I doubt you'd enjoy that."

Grayson shrugged, his voice low but firm. "As long as it doesn't become a classroom performance. I'm not here to be everyone's project, Mr. Alan."

Mr. Alan studied him for a beat before nodding. "Fair enough. I won't keep you."

With that, Grayson slipped back into the hall, the tension of the conversation lingering. Mr. Alan was nothing compared to the real weight pressing down on him-the anonymous texts, a reminder that his past wasn't so easily buried. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the person in front of him until they collided.

Books tumbled to the floor, and he bent to help. As he did, a mess of long, red hair fell forward. When she looked up, Grayson's gaze met a pair of shaky copper-gray eyes-Amber Woods. Her face was blank, but her eyes were hollow, haunted in a way he recognized.

"Thanks," she mumbled, grabbing the last book he offered, her voice flat but fast, like she didn't want to linger.

Before he could respond, she added, "For everything," then pulled back, her movements hurried. A group of girls walked by, sneering as they passed. "Lame," one of them muttered, just loud enough to sting.

Grayson watched Amber disappear down the hall, a strange feeling tugging at him. She wasn't his problem, not his responsibility. But he knew that look. A part of him wanted to follow, wanted to check if she was okay, but he held himself back, frustrated at the instinct to care. He wasn't Julian, the one who fixed things. He pushed the thought away and continued down the hall, pretending he hadn't felt the pull.

A/N

Do you think Grayson should go after Amber?

Comment

Like

Share and Follow.