Foreigner

Chapter 4

Walking to class Wednesday morning, I know something's off. Not just because I feel it in my gut—but because I smell it.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out the source. The classroom reeks of something sharp, acrid, and unmistakably foul. As one of the first to arrive, I get the distinct pleasure of playing detective. It doesn't take long. My desk—of course, it had to be mine—is a crime scene. Someone's taken the time to scrawl nasty nicknames across the surface in bold black marker. And as a finishing touch, a puddle of yellow liquid gleams in the morning light.

So much for breakfast.

"Hello, class—" Mrs. Simmons strides into the room, laptop under one arm. She stops short just a few steps from her desk, her brows knitting together as she sniffs the air. "What in the world is this?!"

The boys in the back exchange nervous glances, a few even daring to point at the desk in question—my desk. It's like they can sense the storm brewing in her tone.

Christian, ever the unflappable one, takes it upon himself to walk to the nearest window. He throws it open wide, letting in the crisp autumn air. The breeze sweeps through the classroom, cutting through the stink, though it does nothing for my mood.

"Who is responsible for this?!" Mrs. Simmons' voice rises but stays icy, like a low rumble of thunder. "Who the hell did this? Own up. Now."

The silence that follows feels heavier than the smell. It stretches for a long, uncomfortable moment before Oliver—the kid with the perpetual smirk and a penchant for making himself heard—steps forward. He's standing next to the ginger bully, the same one who's been a thorn in my side all week.

Oliver speaks with faux confidence, pointing a casual finger my way. "It was probably the silent new guy."

Oh, brilliant. Genius-level deduction skills at work here.

Mrs. Simmons turns her sharp gaze on me. "Where do you sit, Lukas?"

I point reluctantly at my vandalized desk, feeling the weight of everyone's stares.

"And why," Mrs. Simmons says, swinging her attention back to Oliver, "would he vandalize his own desk?"

Oliver straightens like he's about to drop a bombshell of logic. "Reverse psychology, Mrs. S. He did it because he knew no one would suspect him. Now someone else will get the blame."

Okay, credit where it's due—he's actually smart. Clever deduction. But Mrs. Simmons clearly doesn't share the sentiment.

"Oliver," she says, voice dripping with exhaustion, "shut up before I reverse your arse straight to the principal's office."

The class erupts in scattered laughter, catcalls, and a few poorly stifled snickers. Mrs. Simmons pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath before she strides toward the door.

"Follow me," she snaps, not looking back, "or lose fifty percent of your final grade."

The class collectively groans but starts shuffling after her, some reluctantly, others with more urgency. Christian and I are among the last to leave. He closes the door behind us, and as I take a step forward, I feel his hand clamp down on my shoulder.

"Your poker face," he murmurs, leaning close, "is shit."

I freeze. His voice is low, amused, and somehow more unsettling than anger. Before I can respond, he's already walking away, leaving me rooted in place.

The feeling lingers—his words, his hand, the casual power he exudes. My face heats up as I hurry after him, a sinking sense of humiliation mixing with a growing knot of unease.

¤ ¤ ¤

Mrs. Simmons leads us around the back of the school. The wind bites at my cheeks as we gather in front of a massive wall covered in graffiti. Next to it is a pile of paint buckets and brushes.

"Until someone confesses," she declares, her dark eyes glinting with mischief, "you're going to paint this wall spotless."

The outcry is immediate. Boys shout protests, groaning about fairness and punishment, but Mrs. Simmons stands firm.

"Yes, keep complaining," she says, arms crossed. "I'll just add toilet scrubbing to your list of chores."

"You could just run a DNA test on the piss," someone pipes up from the back. "Wouldn't that be faster?"

A ripple of agreement follows, and for the first time, I almost laugh. Please do. Run the test and let this whole ridiculous situation backfire spectacularly.

That piss ain't mine. Next time someone forgets to flush, they should remember—your excrement could incriminate you for a crime you didn't commit.

Mrs. Simmons isn't having it. "Of course," she says, her tone mockingly sweet. "I'll just call the local forensics team, shall I?" She pauses, letting the sarcasm sink in. "Or you can shut up and get to work."

With that, she leaves us to our fate, disappearing around the corner.

Brushes are passed around begrudgingly. The musclehead of the group—a hulking guy with a vein practically pulsing on his forehead—grabs his with a murderous glare. "Someone better fess up," he growls, sweeping his gaze over us. "I ain't doing the janitor's job."

"Didn't I already tell you?" Oliver pipes up from somewhere near the back. "It was Luke."

Luke? Seriously? I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.

No, fuck that. I am so not a Luke!

Ginger, however, decides it's time for his hands to do the speaking. He strides over, grabs me by the collar, and leans in close. His grin is all teeth, his breath hot and sour. "You're gonna confess, whether you did it or not. Or I'll make sure you regret ever stepping into Whittiker."

I can't help it—I laugh. Loudly. The sheer absurdity of this guy trying to intimidate me like we're in some bad movie is too much.

"Back off," Oliver says, his tone almost bored. "If you hurt him, it'll just make you the prime suspect."

Ginger falters, glancing between Oliver and me. He knows Oliver's right, but his ego clearly doesn't like it. Before he can decide, Christian's phone dings.

We all turn to see him standing a few feet away, phone held up, camera pointed in our direction. Looking bored, he zooms in on us. "Say cheese," he exclaims, voice low and monotonous. 

Ginger's grip on my hoodie loosens. He steps back, his face flushed with barely concealed rage. The others murmur uneasily, glancing between Christian and me.

I shove Ginger's hand off my hoodie and step away, smirking. For once, I feel like I've got the upper hand, even if it's only for a moment.

I didn't say one word during all of this.

¤ ¤ ¤

Back in the dorm, I step out of the bathroom, towel slung over my shoulder. I finally got the paint off. Had to scrub my skin raw, but at least I don't look like an out-of-work artist anymore.

Christian's sitting on his bed, phone in hand, his expression unreadable. As I move to hang my towel, he walks up and blocks my path. We stand not more than two feet apart, him towering over me with a murderous expression.

"This is the last time I'm helping you," he says, his voice low and deliberate. He waves his phone at me. "I didn't record anything, so don't worry. But next time..." He leans closer, his eyes dark and sharp. "Shut Oliver up—or get ready for a beating."

He steps back, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding. It's clear now: this game is just getting started, and the stakes are higher than I thought.