Skipping class isn't exactly my style. I don't like the attention it brings, the whispers that follow when I show up later like nothing happened. But today? Today's a little different.

My heart's pounding in my chest like it's trying to break out, and my hands are clenched so tight I'm half-worried I'll crack my knuckles open. My brain is running loops of pure static, and if I don't figure out who put that damn letter in my locker, I'm going to explode. Not figuratively. Literally. I'm going to explode, and the janitors will have to scrape me off the ceiling.

I try not to stomp as I make my way down the hall, but it's not exactly working. My boots hit the floor like gunshots, and everyone within a five-foot radius seems to sense the storm brewing. Kids pull their backpacks in tighter as I pass. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Even the security guards--the ones who usually strut around like they own the place--seem content to stay out of my way. They're watching me, though, I can feel it. Probably remembering that one time I judo-threw one of their coworkers.

Not my proudest moment. But useful now, apparently.

By the time I reach Principal Heckerman's office, I'm so wound up that I barely register the secretary's polite attempt at stopping me. Something about waiting my turn, about how Mr. Heckerman might be busy right now. She might as well be speaking Greek. I mutter something that sounds vaguely like "urgent," push past her, and shove the door open.

Heckerman looks up from his desk, startled but not exactly surprised. "Samantha," he says, setting his pen down and folding his hands neatly in front of him. "To what do I owe this... visit?"

I don't answer right away. My chest is still heaving, and I feel like I might actually vibrate out of my skin. Without thinking, I pull the letter from my pocket and slap it onto his desk. It lands with a pathetic little flutter. Not exactly the dramatic effect I was going for.

"I need security footage," I blurt out.

He blinks at me, then at the letter. "Excuse me?"

"Security footage," I repeat, louder this time. My voice is shaking, but I ignore it. "From the lockers. Yesterday. I need to see who put that in my locker."

His eyes flicker to the envelope, his expression unreadable. He doesn't reach for it. Instead, he leans back in his chair, studying me with that calm, measured look that all administrators seem to master at some point. "Miss Small," he says, his tone carefully even, "I'm going to need you to take a deep breath and explain what this is about."

I don't want to explain. Explaining takes time, and every second that ticks by feels like another second closer to... something. Something bad. But I can see it in his face--he's not budging until I give him something.

I try to keep my voice steady. "Someone left this in my locker. I don't know who. I need to find out."

He tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to read between the lines of what I'm not saying. "And why is that, exactly? Is this... a threat?"

"It's personal," I snap. Too sharp. I see him flinch slightly, and I force myself to take a breath. "It's not a threat. I mean, it is, but... Not exactly. But I need to know who's behind it."

He leans forward now, his elbows resting on the desk. He doesn't look annoyed. He looks... concerned. Which is almost worse. "Miss Small, if you believe someone is targeting you, this is something that needs to be reported to the authorities. That's not something we can handle internally--"

"I don't want the police involved," I interrupt, my voice rising. "They can't help me with this. You can. You have cameras. I just need to see them."

He lets out a slow, measured sigh, like he's trying to defuse a bomb without touching it. "Sam," he says gently, which makes my stomach churn - I don't need his sympathy - "I understand that you're upset. But this is a school. There are protocols for these things. If someone is harassing you--"

"They're not harassing me," I cut in, almost shouting now. "It's not like that. I just--" I stop myself, my throat tight. My hands are shaking, and I shove them into my pockets to hide it. "I just need to know who it was. That's all. Please."

He studies me for a long moment, his gaze flicking between my face and the letter on the desk. "Alright," he says finally. "Let's take a step back. Can you tell me when this happened? A specific time would make this a lot easier."

"I don't know," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Sometime yesterday, I think. Maybe during second period? Or lunch? I don't know. Between last time I opened my locker and now. Maybe it was just the end of the day."

"That's a lot of footage to sift through," he says, his tone careful. "It's going to take time."

I can feel the frustration bubbling up again, hot and sharp in my chest. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "If you don't give me the footage, I'm going to--" I stop, swallowing the rest of the sentence. What, Sam? Start roughing people up? Great plan. Really productive.

I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. When I open them, Heckerman is still watching me, his expression unreadable but... softer, somehow. Like he's waiting for me to say something that makes sense.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

I don't.

Instead, I sit down. Not because I want to, but because my legs feel like they might give out if I don't. I press my palms against my knees and stare at the floor, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. My throat feels tight, like there's a fist wrapped around it.

Heckerman doesn't say anything right away. I hear the sound of a drawer opening, then the faint rattle of something plastic. When I finally look up, he's holding out a small bowl of M&Ms. "Take one," he says, his voice oddly gentle. "It helps. Trust me."

I stare at him like he's grown a second head. "What?"

"It's a psychological thing," he says with a faint shrug. "A little sugar can help calm you down. Try it."

I don't want M&Ms. I want answers. But the way he's looking at me--like I'm a fragile, spooked animal that might bolt at any second--makes it hard to argue. Reluctantly, I reach out and grab one. Red. It tastes like waxy chocolate and shame.

He leans back in his chair, folding his hands again. "Now," he says, his tone calm but firm, "let's start over. I need you to tell me exactly what's going on. Why is this so important?"

I don't answer right away. My eyes are locked on the bowl of M&Ms, my thoughts racing. I could lie. Make up something vague enough to get him to give me what I need. But the truth is stuck in my throat, heavy and impossible to swallow.

"I just..." I force the words out, my voice cracking. "I just need to know who it was. That's all."

He leans back in his chair again, letting out a deep sigh that feels like it's been sitting in his chest since the first day of school. His fingers lace together as he watches me, his expression softening but still measured.

"Look, Samantha," he says, and I know I'm in deep water because he's breaking out my full name. "Everyone my age has seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I'm not a cartoon principal you get to boss around nor a pointy-haired bureaucrat getting in your way. I don't want to be one of those adults you'll end up talking about on the news when you're twenty-five and famous--God willing, of course--and saying, 'No one listened to me.' I don't want to obstruct you, but there are processes, rules. You're my pupil, and as much as I appreciate the work you've done for this city, you're under my tutelage while you're in this school. It's my responsibility to protect you. And I don't need to know exactly what this..." He gestures vaguely at the envelope on his desk. "Nail salon gift card means to you. But I can tell it's unpleasant."

I stay silent, trying not to look at the card. The edges of the sticker still poke out like a sick joke.

He sighs again, softer this time. "If there's a real threat to you--one that puts the rest of the school at risk--I need to know so we can handle it the right way. What exactly are we dealing with here?"

My first instinct is to lie. To keep the details vague and manageable, just enough to get him to give me what I need. But he's staring at me like he can already see the truth bubbling under my skin, like he knows I'll break if he waits long enough.

So I say it. Flat, direct, because sugarcoating it makes me feel stupid.

"A serial arsonist is trying to kill me. Or scare me into killing myself. Whichever comes first."

I watch the words sink in. His face doesn't change much, but there's a slight twitch in his jaw, the kind of subtle reaction you only notice when you're looking for it. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. "I see," he says evenly. "And this is related to that coffee shop incident from the news?"

"Yup," I say, popping the p like it's the only bit of power I have in this room.

He leans back, processing. "Right. Well," he says slowly, "in that case, I'll email a copy of the footage to the local law enforcement and--"

"No," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. "No law enforcement. I need it. For me. I need to know if he broke into my locker or if he just got a patsy to do it. That's it, nothing else. I don't need to make this a big, huge deal. I don't want to get more people in the line of fire."

I don't feel rational. I feel like an animal in a corner. Surely the cops could help. If Aaron broke into our school, I bet the cops would want to know about that.

His lips press into a thin line, not angry, just... firm. "Samantha, you can't do this alone. You're not an island. There are people who can help you with this--professionals. If you really need to, you can lie about why I'm sending it. It'll come from my secretary with only the bare minimum information required, as requested by an acting member of the Young Defenders, for an investigation. You walk in with your mask on and get what you need. Everyone's happy."

I shake my head, my pulse spiking again. "Nobody needs to put themselves at risk except me."

He unfolds his hands, steepling them thoughtfully under his chin. "Sam," he says, like he's trying to talk me off a ledge. "I understand that this is personal, but we can't just hand out security footage like candy. There are laws - data privacy laws, protocols - especially when it comes to footage involving other people's children. You're not the only student here. Your life may feel more dramatic than others, but they all have lives too. Not only the legal risk, but the very physical risk of danger. If what you are saying is true, and I do believe you, let me just say, then it puts the safety of the entire school at risk. I'll have to get the sprinklers checked by the fire department and so on and so forth."

I feel myself bristle at that but bite my tongue. Barely.

He leans forward slightly, his tone softening again. "After school," he says. "Come back to my office, and we'll look through the footage together. I'll help you find what you're looking for. And I don't want to set you off, but I will need to alert the authorities, especially if this man broke into the school to leave a threat in your locker. I can keep it separate from you - an anonymous student tip - but an arsonist is a big deal. We will have to deal with this like we'd handle a potential bomb threat, or some other act of - presumably superhuman - terrorism. This isn't the first public school threatened by supervillains and it won't be the last, but I'm not going to let it put the other students in danger."

I chew the inside of my cheek, torn between frustration and reluctant relief. It's not what I want, but it's better than nothing.

"Fine," I mutter. "After school. Do you want a nail salon gift card while we're at it?"

For the first time since I barged into his office, he smiles. It's small, almost imperceptible, but it's there. "Sure," he says lightly. "I'll take the gift card, you take some more M&Ms?"

It's stupid. It's dumb. But I can't help it--I laugh. Just a little. Just enough to let some of the tension drain from my chest. I grab another red M&M from the bowl and pop it into my mouth before standing. I look at him and I can tell he's putting on just as much of a brave face as I am. Something about the sweat along his widow's peak, the creases in his very slightly livermarked skin. I'm sure I'm scaring him just as much as I'm scaring myself.

"See you after school," I say, shoving the envelope back into my pocket.

"See you then," he replies, his tone steady. "And Sam?"

I pause in the doorway, glancing back.

"Stay safe," he says quietly.