Broken Hands

68. Antoine Gilbert

The cafeteria hummed with the controlled chaos of boys chatting in low voices, each one mindful of the ever-watchful staff in brown shirts who moved like hawks, their eyes sharp for any signs of disorder. Grayson had grown used to the atmosphere—the hum of voices, the scrape of trays, and the occasional reprimand cutting through the air.

Sitting at his table, he held his test sheet up, eyes scanning every inch of the page as if the answers to his frustration were hidden in the fine print. The red ink slashing across five questions taunted him, the average mark glaring at him like an accusation. He speared another bite of salad, chewing deliberately as his eyes darted between the sheet and his scattered thoughts. Was it a calculation error? A misplaced symbol? Something had to be wrong—something other than him.

Finishing his meal quickly, Grayson stood, his resolve sharpening. He owed it to Julian to stick to the promise he'd made to always eat healthy, even if it meant facing Mr. Pendleton with his stomach knotted. Heading into the hallway, he kept his eyes on the sheet, reviewing the questions again and again until the answers blurred.

A cluster of boys caught his attention up ahead, their polished prefect badges gleaming under the fluorescent lights. In the center stood Timothy Goldman, handing out papers with the air of someone in command. The other boys jostled to grab their sheets, their deference a reminder of the untouchable status the prefects held. Grayson's jaw set—he knew firsthand how dangerous it could be to cross one of them.

As the group dispersed, Timothy turned to his locker, slamming it shut with unnecessary force. Grayson approached, clearing his throat. Timothy turned, his expression immediately narrowing.

"Smith," he said, his voice clipped. "What brings about this sudden intrusion?"

Grayson slipped his hand into his pocket, a calculated gesture of ease. Timothy turned back to his locker, feigning indifference as he opened it again.

"Why did you back me up the other day with Hawthorne?" Grayson asked, his voice measured.

Timothy didn't look at him but spoke with the same detached formality. "I already told you, Smith. I don't know who messed you up, but not everyone is your enemy."

Grayson frowned, his expression almost imperceptibly shifting.

Timothy caught the look, sighing as if the conversation bored him. "If that's all you came to say, spare me the pleasantries. I've got better places to be."

Grayson's eyes drifted to the sheet in Timothy's hand, its contents just visible enough to betray a math grade that didn't scream perfection. "Didn't peg you for an average student," he remarked, his tone casual but edged with challenge.

Timothy stiffened, folding the sheet with precise movements before answering, "It's not typical. Just got distracted." His words were defensive, but there was doubt in his voice.

Grayson let the corner of his mouth tug into a slight smirk. "Right, Goldman. And I suppose..." he trailed off, avoiding Timothy's gaze for a beat before locking eyes with him. "I owe you something. And I don't like being in anyone's debt."

Timothy's smirk mirrored Grayson's. "Really? Why not?"

Grayson's gaze didn't waver. "Because I'm not a debtor. Let's call it business—just this once." He stepped back, leaving Timothy to process the statement. "I'll be waiting," he added over his shoulder, his tone flat but deliberate. Without waiting for a response, he strode away, the encounter leaving an unspoken understanding in its wake.

In the restroom, Grayson turned the faucet on, letting the cool water run over his hands as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked clear, his eyes free of the shadows that used to haunt them. His hair was growing out, the stray strands falling over his forehead—a haircut would be overdue soon.