The weight of a thousand stares seems to bear down on me the moment I step through the main doors of Tacony Charter, an almost palpable force that makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with instinctive unease. Whispers and sidelong glances trail in my wake like a bad fart, mingling with the dull roar of adolescent chaos that fills the air.
I force myself not to react, not to so much as twitch beneath the scrutiny. Head held high, shoulders back, every line of my body radiating an aura of studied nonchalance – the same sort of casual indifference I’ve had to cultivate over the past year and change as both student and… well, something slightly more than that. It doesn’t make the stares or the muted mutterings any easier to ignore, but it helps, at least a little.
What really makes my skin crawl, though, is the overwhelming presence of the school’s security forces. Everywhere I look, those black-clad figures seem to materialize – prowling the hallways in pairs, one hand resting casually on their batons as they eye the surging tide of students with ill-disguised hostility. A few of them clock me as I pass, faces hardening into stony masks of disapproval beneath the brims of their caps.
And it’s not even the heavy-handed security theater that’s setting my nerves so thoroughly on edge, as much as it is the attitude those glorified mall cops are giving off. Like they’ve all banded together, united in some unspoken pact to circle the proverbial wagons against any whiff of perceived disrespect or rebellion from the student body.
“Freakin’ animals,” one of them mutters just loud enough for me to hear as I brush past, his voice a grating rasp of pure distaste.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t quite suppress the full-body shudder of revulsion that wracks me at his spite-fueled words. Jordan catches the reaction out of the corner of their eye and quirks one slim eyebrow in a silent question. I just shake my head, pressing on towards homeroom while my mind whirls.
This whole situation, this sudden escalation into what feels like a full-blown totalitarian crackdown feels wrong. Like something has gone horribly, horribly wrong with the status quo and I seem to be the only one noticing it. It makes me feel insane that this is even happening! Like I should just get up and shout that we shouldn’t tolerate this, even if I can’t articulate why and what’s bothering so much. Aren’t they keeping us safe? I need to scream.
But I can’t do that, can I? The very notion of keeping that part of myself locked away, tamped down tight and hidden from view, used to terrify me. But now, as I glance sidelong at the cluster of snickering guards loitering by the bank of lockers… now, I can’t imagine a worse fate than being outed to people like them. Cruel jackals just drooling at the chance to turn their pack mentality against a new target. It’s amazing how quickly my view of them seems to have 180’d.
So instead, I’ll play along. I’ll keep my head down and my mouth shut, gritting my teeth against the torrent of injustices both large and small that seem to swirl around me like a gathering storm. It’s what Sam Small would do, after all. Just a normal, ordinary teenage girl trying to keep her head above water. Just a girl that knows martial arts. Right?
The sudden weight of Jordan’s hand on my shoulder makes me jump, my train of thought derailing with a violent lurch. I blink owlishly at them for a moment before managing a thin ghost of a smile, doing my best to keep the turmoil churning inside me from showing on my face.
They just arch an eyebrow again, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting their hand drop away. A tacit reminder – I’m not alone in this fight. Not anymore.
I allow myself a single deep breath, fighting down the tide of impotent anger that threatens to overwhelm me. One battle at a time, Sam. No sense picking fights you can’t win, not when there are so many worth fighting still to come. Jordan gives me a shake like a maraca and splits off for their own homeroom.
Mr. Weston’s classroom is an oasis of blessed normality compared to the circus unfolding out in the halls, the air hushed and thick with a sense of tranquil concentration as students ready themselves for the day ahead. He looks up as I slip through the doorway, eyes crinkling at the corners in a warm smile of greeting.
“Ah, Samantha,” he calls out, rapping his knuckles lightly on his battered old desk, while the rest of the class stares at me for being like 30 seconds late. “Glad to see you could join us.”
I muster up my best attempt at an easy grin, sliding into my usual seat at the back of the room and pulling out my notebook. Mr. Weston studies me for a moment, one eyebrow quirking upwards as he seems to take in my subtly tense posture, the guarded look in my eyes. He steps in a little closer, so that he’s not chattering me up in front of the entire class.
“Everything alright, Sam?” he asks quietly as the rest of the class settles in around us, blessedly oblivious. “You seem on edge today.”
I open my mouth to brush off his concern with some trite, meaningless platitude, but something in the gentle warmth of his gaze gives me pause. So instead of deflecting, I simply let out a soft sigh and shake my head, offering the barest shrug of my shoulders.
“Honestly, Mr. Weston?” I murmur, pitching my voice low to avoid being overheard. “The security guards here kind of suck balls. If you don’t mind my French.”
On reflex, he responds with a “watch your language”, and then his face crinkles up like he swallowed a lemon, or maybe a frog. He nods slowly, beginning to uncrinkle. “If you want my opinion, I think you did the right thing standing up for that young man. But we do all have our responsibilities to bear, like our academics. So try not to make a habit of flipping authority figures.”
The corner of my mouth twitches upwards at that, a tiny flicker of genuine amusement sparking to life somewhere in the pit of my stomach. “I’ll try to keep that in mind, sir,” I assure him, and for once the words don’t feel like empty platitudes.
“Good, good,” he nods, seemingly satisfied. Rapping his knuckles on the desk one more time, he straightens up and clears his throat, voice rising to address the rest of the restless class. “Right then, settle down, everyone! Let’s have our undivided attention up here, shall we…”
The rest of homeroom passes in a blur, school announcements and friend-making icebreakers that I decline to participate in flying through me in a soothing, almost hypnotic flow. For a little while, at least, I can simply exist in the moment – focus on the work in front of me rather than dwelling on the madness simmering just outside these four walls. It’s a welcome respite, a chance to simply… breathe, and be Sam Small the high school student instead of Samantha the Bloodhound.
But like all good things, it can’t last forever. All too soon, the bell is ringing to signal the end of period one, and I find myself swept up in the crush of bodies spilling out into the hallway. The cacophony of noise and movement is jarring after the tranquility of the early morning, overwhelming in its sheer intensity. I grit my teeth and brace myself against the tide, allowing the flow of foot traffic to carry me along towards my next class.
It’s as I’m passing by one of the security checkpoints – hustling to avoid attracting any undue attention – that a harsh voice rings out, amplified to ear-splitting levels by the sheer belligerence fueling it.
“You! Small! Hold up!”
I freeze, the command hitting me like a physical force as my head whips around to find its source. One of the guards – a thickset woman with tan skin and a brutally severe bun – is stalking towards me, dark eyes narrowed to slits of implacable hostility. The thin stream of students still shuffling past gives her a wide berth, parting around her like a river diverging around a jagged outcrop of stone.
“Me?” I blurt out dumbly, frozen in place despite my brain screaming at me to turn and bolt before… whatever this is inevitably turns ugly. “What did I do?”
The guard – her nameplate identifies her as OFFICER NGUYEN – doesn’t answer, at least not with words. Instead, she closes what little distance remains between us with two long, purposeful strides and gives a curt nod towards my backpack.
“Drop it,” she orders, voice a flat rasp of pure contempt. “Now.”
For a heartbeat, I can only gape at her in stunned silence, my brain simply refusing to process the demand.
She can’t be serious, can she?
It isn’t until Alex appears at my side, gently but insistently nudging me with one of his tiny shoulders, that the spell breaks and I find my voice again. He reaches into the crowd and somehow manages to pluck out a Jordan like he’s pulling a weed out of the dirt.
“I… wait, what?” I stammer, utterly bewildered. “Why do I need to –”
“Random search,” Nguyen cuts me off with a sneer, making a show of folding her thick arms across her chest. “Drop the bag.”
My jaw works soundlessly for a moment as I try to process this blatant violation of… what? Boundaries? Civil liberties? Basic human dignity? I’m not even sure at this point, I just know that there’s something deeply, viscerally wrong about the way she’s handling this entire situation.
Beside me, Jordan is practically vibrating with pent-up outrage, their features twisted into a scowl that looks more suited to a vengeful demon than a teenage civilian. They open their mouth, maybe to protest or simply hurl a few choice insults of their own, but I beat them to the punch – not with words, but actions.
Gritting my teeth, I let my backpack slide off my shoulders and hit the ground with a dull thump, dropping into a loose ready stance as I brace myself for whatever fresh brand of bullshit is about to unfold. Nguyen eyes me with a mixture of contempt and what might be just the faintest hint of respect, that thin veneer of professionalism masking her true colors just long enough to get through this little performance.
She nods again, curtly. “Kick it over here,” she orders, using the toe of one scuffed boot to indicate the empty space between us.
I oblige without a word, shoving the bag across the linoleum with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. Nguyen tracks its movement, her gaze never wavering for even a fraction of a second until it finally comes to rest at her feet.
Bending over with an exaggerated grunt, she snatches it up and begins to rifle through the contents, disordering notebooks and pencil cases with cavalier disregard. I allow my eyes to flick over to Jordan, whose silent fury seems to have transmuted into something colder, harder – an icy mask of disapproval and contempt that has the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
“You can’t just do this, you know.” Their voice is soft, barely more than a hoarse whisper of naked disgust, but it cuts through the din like a blade nonetheless. Several nearby students pause mid-stride, casting furtive glances over their shoulders to see what new drama is unfolding.
Nguyen does Jordan the courtesy of looking up from her rummaging, one heavy brow arched in a facsimile of polite inquiry. “Yes, I can,” she rumbles, somehow managing to pack an entire novel’s worth of unspoken menace into those three simple words.
Jordan isn’t cowed – if anything, their lips peel back in a cold smile that sends a shiver of primordial unease rippling down my spine. “Singling Sam out like this?” they clarify, their tone conversational despite the undercurrent of venom. “It’s harassment, plain and simple. You might have shiny new rules to hide behind, but we both know this is just petty payback over yesterday’s little incident.”
Silence, thick and suffocating, descends over the hallway. Even the guards clustered nearby – all bravado and sneering aggression just moments before – seem to shrink in on themselves, shoulders hunching inwards as Jordan’s words hit home. I find myself holding my breath, every muscle in my body tensed for… what? Fight or flight, I couldn’t say.
Then, finally, Nguyen lets out a soft chuckle – a rasping, hollow sound utterly devoid of anything even remotely resembling humor. Her fingers still inside the ruins of my backpack, toying idly with the few remaining scraps that still linger within.
“You got a smart mouth on you, don’t you, kid?” she observes, eyeing Jordan up and down in a way that makes the hair on the nape of my neck prickle. “I’d be careful where I aimed it if I were you.”
Her words hang in the air like a physical force, the subtle note of threat inherent to them sending little shivers of ice water trickling down my spine. Jordan tenses almost imperceptibly beside me and for a breathless, suspended moment, the entire world seems to hold its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it never does.
Instead, Nguyen lets out another one of those wheezing chuckles and straightens up, her free hand upraised in a placating gesture as she pretends to brush a few stray hairs out of her eyes. She grunts, accompanied with an indolent shrug. “I’ve wasted enough time on you two smart-asses today. Get to class, Westwood. And you, Small, watch yourself.”
With that, she bends down and snatches up my thoroughly violated backpack, tossing it back at me with enough force to make me grunt as I snatch it out of the air. Not waiting for any response, she turns on her heel and stalks off down the hallway, barking at a cluster of slack-jawed onlookers to quit gawking and get to class.
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.”
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.
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?”
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.
“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.
It’s so hard to express in so many words just how tedious and boring detention is, especially when that detention isn’t even with any of my teachers. It’s not like I’ve ever gotten detention before, so I don’t really have, like, a scale to operate off of here, but this is definitely doing a great job of deterring me.
I’m not even getting punished. I totally expected to be forced to write a hundred sentences – “I will not karate flip security guards” – on the whiteboard, but instead I’m just sitting there, with a couple of other malcontents I’ve never met and will likely never talk to again, doing absolutely nothing.
Really, that’s probably more punishing for someone like me. I wonder if they know that? Like, if everyone else here has ADHD and they just make all the ADHD kids sit still but all the other ones get, like, corporal punishment or something. No, probably not. That’d be like a dozen kinds of illegal… right?
“Okay, so here’s what I’ve got so far,” Jordan says, spreading a sheaf of papers across the scarred surface of the old foldable poker table in the music hall, with playing cards forming a fine layer underneath. “Ridley’s been written up half a dozen times for excessive force, but nothing ever seems to stick.”
I lean in closer, scanning the documents with a furrowed brow. Disciplinary reports, eyewitness accounts, even a few blurry cell phone videos – it’s a damning picture, one that paints Ridley as a man with a nasty temper and a penchant for violence. “Friends in high places, Jesus. How is this guy still employed?” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Agents of the law protect their own,” Jordan shrugs, a bitter twist to their lips. “Same way they always are,” they sigh. “Circling the wagons. Swimming around like sharks in the water.”
I nod slowly, my mind already racing ahead to our next move. “We need more,” I decide, tapping a finger against my chin. “Something concrete, something that’ll force the school to take action. Clearly, this stuff doesn’t get them fired from whatever position they’re in in the first place.”
“In in?” Jordan asks.
“Shut up, you know what I mean,”
The classroom is empty save for me and Mr. Heckerman, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of papers as he handles paperwork at his desk. I’ve been given the option of “sitting there” or “organizing the textbooks alphabetically by subject”, a mind-numbing chore that seems specifically designed to sap my will to live.
As I work, my mind wanders back to the previous night’s patrol. Jordan and I had split up to cover more ground, each of us tailing Ridley as he went about his evening routine.
Obviously, I feel weird about trailing people, even now. But I felt less weird about trailing a shithead security officer than I did about trailing my dead mentor, so clearly there’s, like, levels here. Scales of weirdness. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. A thread to pull, a lead to follow. Suddenly, the prospect of spending my afternoons in this stuffy classroom doesn’t seem quite so daunting.
The streets are quiet, deserted save for the occasional passing car as Jordan and I trail our target from a distance. Ridley doesn’t seem to notice us – or if he does, he gives no indication, his gait casual and unhurried as he makes his way down the sidewalk.
“You got eyes on him?” Jordan’s text message pops up on my phone, little more than a burst of letters on the screen, a passing glance and then they’re gone.
“Yeah, I’m about half a block back,” I text back, keeping myself silent. “Headed east on Cambria, just crossed Trenton.”
A pause, typing indicator. Stops. Starts again. Stops again. Then: “I think he’s headed to that dive bar on Aramingo. Wild guess. Just a hunch.”
I resist the urge to snort out loud at that. Of course the racist rent-a-cop with a hair-trigger temper would spend his evenings drinking in some sketchy hole-in-the-wall. It’s almost too perfectly on-brand.
“Copy that,” I confirm instead. “I’ll hang back, you get a closer look. Call it if things get hairy.”
A moment later, their slight form detaches itself from the shadows shrouding a nearby alleyway, dressed up only as a civilian examining the space rather than their more intimidating – and noticable – superheroic form. Then, they melt into another alley, disappearing from view with all the practiced ease of a professional spy.
All that’s left is for me to wait – and try not to dwell too hard on the myriad ways this little investigation could potentially end up blowing up in our faces.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The steady cadence of the clock is like a leadweight around my neck, each passing second weighing me down a little more. I slouch deeper into the uncomfortable desk, fingers drumming out a mindless rhythm against the scarred wood as I struggle to keep my mind from going completely numb.
Is this what it feels like to be slowly crushed beneath the inexorable march of time itself? Because if so, I think I’d almost prefer getting drop-kicked straight through the next batch of evil plans the Kingdom cooks up. At least then, there’d be some action, some forward momentum to propel me through the monotony.
As it stands, though, the only thing propelling me is an overpowering sense of restless boredom. I huff out a frustrated sigh, flopping back in my chair and allowing my eyes to drift lazily across the room.
Mr. Heckerman is watching me from his customary perch behind the teacher’s desk, his expression a mask of disapproval so deeply carved it might as well have been chiseled from granite. I meet his gaze and hold it for a few defiant seconds, chin tilting upwards in a silent challenge.
Then, abruptly, I look away – turning my focus back towards the ticking clock as I try in vain to will the second hand to move just a little bit faster.
“Okay, talk to me,” I say without preamble as Jordan slips back through the ratty curtains separating the storage area from the main room. “What’d you find out?”
They shrug, one shoulder hitching upwards in a dismissive gesture. “Not a whole hell of a lot,” they admit, dropping down to sit cross-legged amidst the cluttered detritus. “Your boy Ridley seems to be a real regular at that dive, though – the bartender knew him by name.”
I frown, mulling that over. “So he’s got ties to the area, at least,” I muse. “Maybe some kind of… I don’t know, illicit business interests or something?”
Jordan snorts at that, rolling their eyes skyward. “Unless his ‘business interests’ involve getting shitfaced on Yuengling and picking fights with other drunken assholes, then probably not,” they counters. “From what I could gather, he’s just your garden-variety raging alcoholic with a shitty day job and a mean streak a mile wide.”
Well, that’s… underwhelming, to say the least. I purse my lips, disappointment and frustration warring for dominance somewhere deep in my gut.
“So we’ve got jack shit, is what you’re saying,” I conclude flatly. “Wonderful.”
Undeterred, Jordan shakes their head – a tiny, tight motion, but one filled with grim determination nonetheless.
“Not nothing,” they insist, fixing me with that intense stare I’ve come to recognize as their ‘Determined Face.’ “We’ve got a lead, at least. A thread to start pulling on.”
I raise my eyebrows at that, skepticism written plain across my features. Jordan just smirks, leaning back on their palms with a casual shrug.
“Hey, you want to crack this asshole’s secrets wide open or not?”
The clock mocks me, its insistent ticking filling my head like a relentless drumbeat. I glare at it balefully, counting down the seconds until the end of the period with all the intensity of a bomb technician tensed over a tangle of live wires.
Across the room, Mr. Heckerman clears his throat – a pointed noise clearly intended to remind me that my baleful glowering isn’t going unnoticed. I straighten up in my seat with a huff, pretending to busy myself with the battered stack of texts arrayed across the desk in front of me.
It’s a fruitless effort, though. No matter how hard I try to focus on the mindless drudgery of re-alphabetizing and re-shelving, my thoughts just keep spiraling back to the previous night’s activities – trailing Ridley to that dive bar, the (lack of) revelations gleaned from Jordan’s undercover op.
There’s got to be something more to the guy, some crucial piece of the puzzle we’re still missing. I just can’t shake the feeling that if we can find it, if we can dig deep enough to uncover that one critical lead, then everything else will start unraveling like a ball of yarn kicked down a hill.
My pen taps out a percussive rhythm against the desktop, frustration and impatience beating a staccato cadence as my eyes drift back towards the clock. C’mon, I think, willing the second hand to move faster. Hurry up, damn you…
“Well, well, well,” Jordan murmurs, studying the grainy image on their laptop screen with a mix of satisfaction and thinly-veiled disgust. “What do we have here?”
I lean in closer to get a better look, my brow furrowing almost immediately. The picture – clearly screengrabbed from some kind of security or traffic cam footage – shows a slightly blurry, but still unmistakable figure emerging from the dingy doorway of what looks like… a bar? Maybe some kind of hole-in-the-wall watering hole, if the flickering neon signs are anything to go by.
It’s the man himself, though, that has my gaze narrowing in recognition. Even filtered through the low-res graininess, there’s no mistaking that hulking form, that shitty combover and ruddy, flushed complexion.
“Amazing. An alcoholic goes to a bar. What will you think of next time we go stalking someone, Jordan?” I ask, skeptically.
Jordan scowls, lips quirking into a thin, predatory smirk. “I promise, this is interesting. South Philly, just off the waterfront,” they confirm. “Real classy little spot, too – the kind of dive where they wipe the urinal cakes on your glass instead of a towel.”
“Why don’t you tell me why this is important rather than about the bar itself?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. “So far we’ve got a week full of nothing interesting in particular while this guy and his friends have been doing their best job to make me late for classes over and over again. Is there anything actionable here, or is this guy just a garden variety asshole?”
Jordan smiles. “Patty’s? I mean, it’s a little interesting.”
“Is that what it’s called?” I grumble. “Cool! Amazing!”
“Yeah. Remember how every other place was just a random bar that he liked to go to to cause himself liver damage? Up and down Aramingo we go?” Jordan asks, rhetorically.
“Get to the point, Jordan,” I respond, my patience growing thin.
Jordan rolls their eyes at me. “It’s a cop bar, you doofus.”
“And what does this mean to me?” I challenge.
Jordan laughs. “Cops are inherently untrustworthy and are doing crimes constantly. But, even if they weren’t…”
Connor peeks over the couch. “I’m listening.”
“Go away, shrimp,” Jordan waves him away with a hand before clicking over to the next tab on their browser screen. “This cop bar has a cape team.”
“Ah,” I mumble.
Jordan clicks to another tab. “A cape team with a noted record of drunkenly harassing civilians.”
“Ah?” I ask.
Jordan clicks through the news site, and back onto their open traffic cam’s connection. They point at the screen, and I recognize the vague, grainy-colored silhouettes of familiar faces and bodies. That high and tight bun of Officer Nguyen I’d recognize anywhere. “And every single mall cop that’s been on your dick this week is a regular there.”
“Ah.” I say, with a bit of finality, nodding my head in agreement. Yes, I understand now.
Time to go pulling threads.
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