Foreigner

Chapter 26: The Joker's Dead

The courtyard is too bright.

Not in a pleasant, early spring kind of way. No. It's the kind of sunlight that exposes everything—dust, tension, nerves. It glints off the chain-link fences and peels back whatever thin layer of calm might've existed. Music blasts from speakers someone set up near the equipment shed. Boys are laughing too loud. Too forced. It all smells like sweat, old grass, and nerves wrapped in gym clothes.

Whittiker's version of a good time. A sports day.

I cut through a group near the water cooler, barely registering the way their conversations trail off when they see me. Max's eyes meet mine across the basketball court. He looks away just as fast.

Christian stands across the yard, his arms folded, back against the bleachers near the stadium like he's always been there. Watching. Waiting. There's a speaker tucked beneath the bench near his feet—small, wireless, and loaded. I gave him the signal earlier: one nod, slow. Play it when the crowd's at its peak. Play it when he shows up.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Alex Rivers enters like nothing's wrong.

Late, of course. Hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket, sunglasses perched stupidly on his nose like he's too cool to sweat. He's grinning wide, tossing a few words toward Dean's underlings. Someone slaps him on the back. He spins around, cracking jokes.

He's trying. That's the thing. He's trying so hard to be normal.

But the crowd's shifted since yesterday.

The recording over the PA.
The pill bottle posters.
The silence in the hallway when he made that joke.

And now? Now he walks through a sea of smiles that don't reach anyone's eyes. They move away from him when he passes. Not out of fear—out of discomfort. That's worse. That's so much worse.

I drift closer. Step by step. One eye on him, the other on Christian.

The speaker clicks on.

The static hits first—sharp and sudden—and Alex freezes like a deer with its antlers caught in a fence. The crowd's talking fades out.

Then it begins.

His voice. Warped, high-pitched, panicked. A child's voice.

"I—I'm fine, I just—I don't want to talk today, okay? I just—I can't, I can't breathe, Mom, can you just—can you just—"

Click.

He turns toward the sound slowly. And then turns again. Looking for an escape.

Someone laughs. Not with him—at him.

The mask fractures.

Alex rips off his sunglasses and barks out a laugh like it's all part of the act. "Alright, okay—who's the genius behind this little comedy hour?"

No one answers.

I take a step forward. And another.

He sees me. His jaw clenches. "You think this is funny, Mai?"

I stop a few feet from him, head tilted. Let the weight of the silence wrap around us. "No," I say. "I think it's finally quiet enough to hear what you actually sound like."

His nostrils flare. He laughs again, but it dies halfway through. "You gonna throw another tantrum? Like you did with Julian? Monroe? What's the plan now, Lukas—make me cry?"

"Didn't you hear the recording?" I ask, lowering my voice with a mocking smile. "You already are."

His hand twitches. That's all I need.