"Is anyone going to do anything,”

Someone laughs, “No. The teachers will get involved.” they reply. They hope a teacher will get involved. While everyone is witness to a student in our class being extorted for money my heart is racing, but I push through the crowd or maybe I glide through a clear path I see, while two taller students stand over Charles.

“Leave him alone,” I tell the two tall boys, James and Dominic. They both look over at me. Few will challenge them, but that is the nature of bystander bias. Everyone just lets these things happen because they believe the right people will stand up. They never do. And people like Charles go on in the world believing they aren’t worth saving. I am not a physical fighter, I cannot fend them off in any way like tearing them off of Charles, but I can stand my ground. Looking both of them dead in the eye. But of course then I am putting myself at physical risk in the same way Charles is.

“Really,” James huffs.

My classmates won’t praise me. I won’t be put on any front page of the school newspaper. A majority of them are just watching, laughing and snickering. Though I came late into the situation, because the teacher is already arriving to break apart the gathering of students. Shooing them away and encouraging them to go home for the evening. Mr. Ratcliff looks at me, “How are you involved?” he asked me.

“Oh, I wasn’t,” I respond, “I am just here to take Charles home.”

Charles looks over at me, he’s short like me, though maybe taller, with a lithe build that makes him an easy target for people who think they are bigger and badder than him. His hair is curly, like copper wires highlights of blonde in his orangy hair.

Ratcliff merely shoos us away with a hand gesture, I nod at Charles and attempt to smile. Charles attempts an awkward smile, but we’ve never spoken before. We wouldn’t even be considered friends. But I couldn’t stand the injustice of people standing around watching him get cornered. Leading the way having Charles follow me, he nervously clears his throat.

“Why do that for me?” Charles ask, “You and I rarely speak Quentin.” he states.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Quinn is fine,” I tell him with a smile, “It’s true that we rarely speak with each other, let’s change that. So you can be safe after school.”

Charles looks slightly uncomfortable, “You’re the weirdest classmate I have, you know.”

“Weird for doing the right thing?” I ask him.

“No one else would,” Charles shrugs.

That kind of cynicism is born from the lack of help he has received. As others simply look and watch, some will record it on their phones and pass it around social media as if they have done their part to call out injustice. And while I do agree we need recorded evidence in those situations, I also think standing by and making commentary behind our phones is not nearly enough.

“Well, I am not no one else,” I tell him.

“Well, uh, thank you,” Charles pauses, as we exit the school grounds, finding ourselves staring out to the city, “what now?”

What now? That’s a good question. Ordinarily in stories of heroism, the hero is applauded and they move on. But I am not really a hero. I abhor the idea that just by doing the thing they should do people get praise for it, get slapped onto the news. It defeats the purpose and makes justice seem fleeting. It makes what should be the right thing lesser. People shouldn’t be praised for what they should be doing. It disgust me that the only reason people do good things is because they expect some kind of reward.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, “What now?”

Charles watches me.

“Do you want to do something?” Charles asks.

“Like what?”

Charles looks uncomfortable, “I really don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” I laugh.

Charles laughs.

“You’re kind of strange, you know that” Charles tells me.

“Am I?”

“Yeah, but kind of cool, you stood up to James and Dominic,”

“I am glad to help,”

Charles gives a nervous laugh, “Yeah. Do you always do that?”

“When I am around-

-like a superhero?”

“In our school uniform,” I quip, “No. I also don’t care for superheroes.”

“What, no way, every teenager is obsessed with superheroes, what’s your reasoning behind that?”

“I think that it denormalizes just ordinary behavior,” I tell him with a smile. Charles scrunches up his face.

“Man you’re super odd,” he states again. Scratching the back of his hair and giving off an airy laugh to expel nervousness. He gives a crooked smile, while fidgeting with his jacket zipper.