I watch her go, something hot and ugly simmering deep in the pit of my stomach as the ugly truth of what just occurred sinks in. She backed down, sure – but not before reminding us exactly who holds the real power in this little microcosm of societal breakdown. I let out a slow, nuisanced breath, trying and mostly failing to push down the swell of bitter impotence that rises like vomit at the back of my throat.

"You good?" Jordan's voice cuts through the haze, its usual cocky edge filed down into something softer, more hesitant. They place a gentle hand on my arm, meeting my gaze with an uncharacteristically earnest look of concern when I finally bring myself to meet their eyes.

I open my mouth to answer, to insist that yeah, I'm totally fine, just maybe a little shaken by this latest injustice and bald-faced abuse of authority… but the words wither and die on my lips before I can give them voice. Because, really? Am I okay? Am I truly, genuinely fine with just standing here and accepting this kind of treatment?

And what could I even do about it? Like, obviously I could probably take most of these security guards in a fight, but then I'd just get expelled. They have all the power here. I don't. And they're going to circle the wagons, and there isn't really anything I can do about it.

In the end, though, I simply paste on my best attempt at a brittle smile and give Jordan's hand a reassuring squeeze before slipping free of their grip. "Yeah, I'm good," I lie through my teeth, tugging my backpack up from where it lies forgotten on the floor. "No sweat. Let's just get the hell out of here before Miss Congeniality changes her mind, yeah?"

Jordan regards me for a long moment, one eyebrow quirked in mute skepticism. Then, slowly, they nod – although whether it's in agreement or simply resignation, I honestly couldn't say.

"Sure, boss," they murmur, gesturing for me to take the lead as we set off down the echoing, emptied hallway. "My class is on the way anyway."

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The cafeteria is a microcosm of the divisions ripping through the student body – factions and cliques forming like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface. Over by the lunch lines, a cluster of kids shoot me appraising looks, whispering behind cupped hands before breaking into nervous giggles. Closer to the center of the room, another group watches me with open admiration, fists thumping against tabletops in a silent salute.

It's like the whole world has been turned upside down in the span of a few short days. I'm not just Sam Small anymore – I'm a symbol, a rallying point for prospective rebels and reactionaries alike to gather around. And I hate every second of it.

"Well, well, if it isn't our very own Rosa Parks," a sardonic voice rings out from somewhere to my left. I turn to find its source – a knot of upperclassmen lounging at one of the central tables, eyes glinting with undisguised mockery. "Tell me, do they just hand out medals for every little malcontent pulling a stunt these days? Or did they make you work for that Hero of the Proletariat badge?"

I feel my shoulders tense despite my best efforts, jaw clenching as I fight against the urge to retort. Jordan picks up on my sudden shift in demeanor, falling in a half-step behind me as we navigate the crowded sea of tables and benches.

"Take the high road, dude," they murmur out of the corner of their mouth, low enough that only I can hear. "They're just looking for a reaction."

"I don't think they can call you that," Alex mumbles under his breath.

As if to punctuate their point, another derisive voice pipes up from the direction of the upperclassmen.

"Please, Jordan, there's no need to defend your little delinquent friend," it sneers, dripping with artificial boredom. "We all know trash like you sticks together."

My hands curl into white-knuckled fists inside the too-long sleeves of my hoodie, nails biting into callused palms hard enough to sting. I open my mouth, fury and indignation coalescing into the beginnings of a blistering retort –

And Jordan places a gentle hand on the small of my back, just a fleeting brush of contact, but it's enough to shatter my mounting rage into a thousand glittering shards. I swallow hard against the lump of anger burning in my throat, forcing myself to breathe slowly through my nose as I wrestle my emotions back under control. Nameless faces from the crowd press in around us, gawking and murmuring like ravens drawn to a scene of roadkill.

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After what feels like an eternity, I manage to shoot Jordan a look that could almost pass for casual – a raised eyebrow, a sardonic twist of the lips, a silent command to keep moving before this goes any further off the rails. They purse their lips, considering my unspoken request for a heartbeat, two… and then, finally, inclining their head in a minute nod as we resume our path towards the sanctuary of the back corner table.

It's only once we're seated, the noise and chaos of the lunchroom a distant murmur, that I allow myself to relax – propping my elbows on the tabletop and burying my face in my hands as I let out a shuddery breath.

"Assholes," I mutter, more to myself than Jordan. "Every single one of them. Just… G-d, the entitlement on those pricks is unreal."

Jordan makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, already working their way through a carton of curly fries someone must've scored off the limited veggie menu. "What else is new?" they point out between mouthfuls. "These are the same dillweeds who spent all of freshman year harassing the theater kids and stuffing the baby bats into lockers. Literally the last people whose opinions we should give a solitary fuck about."

I snort out a harsh bark of laughter at that, the icy knot of anger still lodged beneath my breastbone loosening slightly.

"I guess," I concede, straightening up in my seat and allowing my gaze to drift over the bustling cafeteria one final time. "It's just… I dunno, frustrating? Like, god forbid anyone try to just do the right thing for once without a billion different people getting piled on top of it."

Jordan arches one slim eyebrow, brushing a few stray crumbs from the corners of their mouth. "Yeah, well, moral purity's all well and good," they drawl, fixing me with that patented look of world-weary amusement. "But to these clowns, you're a symbol whether you like it or not. Might as well start thinking about how you want to use that."

Before I can formulate a response to that particular pearl of cynical wisdom, their eyes flick away from mine – narrowing as they seem to focus on something over my shoulder. Frowning, I turn to follow their gaze, but all I find is a loose cluster of students loitering near the cafeteria doors, books and backpacks clutched to their chests.

"What's with the Breakfast Club reject corner over there?" Jordan muses aloud, knuckle rising to tap contemplatively against their lower lip. "Are the burnouts making a comeback while we weren't looking?"

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I slouch deeper into the creaky wooden chair, aggressively ignoring the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock mounted above the classroom door. Around me, dust motes dance and swirl in the thin beams of late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the windows, hovering and twisting in kaleidoscopic patterns.

It should be mesmerizing, almost meditative. Instead, every passing second feels like nails on a chalkboard, sawing away at my already frayed nerves.

With a grunt of disgust, I snap my gaze away from the torturously slow sweep of the second hand and focus on the task laid out before me – a teetering stack of ancient, coverless textbooks towering precariously on the desk. My hands drift over the pile automatically, sorting and re-shelving with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner told they'll get an extra ration of gruel if they make their shackles nice and shiny first.

Welcome to detention! I think bitterly, pursing my lips in a silent scowl. Where the only thing being punished is my sanity!

The clock ticks with agonizing slowness, each second stretching into an eternity as I sit in the silent, stuffy classroom. My leg bounces restlessly beneath the desk, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against the worn wooden surface. It's like my entire body is screaming out for stimulation, for movement, for anything other than this unending monotony.

I can feel Mr. Heckerman's eyes boring into the side of my head from his perch at the front of the room, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. Instead, I let my mind drift, replaying the events of the past few days in an endless loop.

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"I'm telling you, Sam, there's something seriously off about that Ridley guy," Jordan insists as we loiter outside the school gates, waiting for the last stragglers to clear out before beginning our nightly patrol. "I've been asking around, and apparently he's got a reputation for being a real hardass with the black kids."

I sigh, rubbing at the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to stave off the beginnings of a headache. "Look, I get that he's an racist asshole," I concede, "but that doesn't mean he's, like… I don't know, a criminal? There's nothing I could say to the principal - who already hates me for embarassing him - that would make him fire the guy. I don't even know if the school, like, hired these guys or if they're an imposition from the city."

Jordan fixes me with a look of pure exasperation, their lips pursing into a thin line. "That's not what I'm saying," they huff, crossing their arms over their chest. "I'm saying we should look into him ourselves, see if we can find any dirt that'll give us some leverage."

I open my mouth to argue, to point out all the ways that plan could backfire spectacularly… but something in Jordan's expression gives me pause. There's a glint of genuine concern in their eyes, an intensity that speaks to more than just idle curiosity or petty vengeance.

Then, Jordan sticks a finger in my chest. "And for the record, I think saying 'well he's a racist asshole but he's not a criminal, so we shouldn't do anything' is a really misguided way of thinking."

I sputter and stammer for a couple of seconds, fumbling for some sort of comeback. "Fine," I relent at last once nothing comes to mind, throwing up my hands in defeat. "We'll do some digging. But if this blows up in our faces, I'm blaming you."

Jordan's answering grin is sharp enough to cut glass.