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The cafeteria is abuzz for the following reasons:
1. The upcoming elections and Laura’s surprisingly good
chances of securing StuCo presidency. Every once in a while, someone drops by our table to affirm that they’re rooting for Laura.
2. Emory Richards having gotten beaten up, and
speculations about what may’ve happened to him. One of the most popular assumptions being that Emory got into a fight with a gang. (As if there are any gangs in this state—outside of the mafia of course, and the frat boys.)
3. Emory Richards’ absence from the White Bros™ table. At
Elkwood, you don’t switch tables. At all. Especially not when you’re a regular at Brett’s table. I’m serious. They’re like a cult; when you go in, you can’t get out.
Bros™ at their table, which consists of a multitude of snide comments exchanged between the two groups.
“I can’t believe this,” Yasmine says, hands clasped on top of the table, the light catching on the silver rings slid onto her fingers.
“Is it usually this chaotic?” Laura asks, not removing her gaze from her phone as her fingers fly across the screen.
Stress doodles make up my sheet of paper, and I hum, holding a pen to my lips before responding. “This is crazy, even by Elkwood standards.” I finally get out.
Yasmine’s eyes drift away from me to something behind me. “It gets crazier.”
“How?” I ask, whipping around to look in the direction of her gaze. It’s Emory, hands in pocket, gaze on the floor, lips pulled into a line. He walks directly past Brett’s table, ignoring the jeers from the White Bros™ as he does so.
Gazes subtly travel to his lean figure, eyes calculating where he’s going next. Emory runs a hand through his curls before whipping around as if he’s heading out of the cafeteria.
“Wait!” Laura calls out, waving a hand in the air, the other hand pressing her phone to the table. Emory turns around, raising a finger to his chest. Laura nods quickly, ignoring the curious gazes of the students.
Emory stays still for a moment, debating something with himself before he lets his shoulders sag in resignation and he takes strides over to our table.
Yasmine moves her bag from the seat next to her, lowering it to the floor and allowing Emory to take the seat next to her.
“Hey,” He says, letting out an exhausted breath. Our eyes just stay on him, analyzing the marks and bruises spotting his face.
“Are you okay?” I ask, stupidly. Emory gives me a look, eyebrows raised as if trying to decipher if I’m serious or not. I amend, “What happened? If you feel comfortable sharing.”
Emory leans back in his seat, dry grin curving onto his lips. “What do you think happened?” His eyes carefully drift over to Brett’s table and he shrugs.
“They didn’t.” Laura says, her words slow and enunciated.
“They did.” He chuckles with a nod.
“Please tell me the other guy looks worse. Or you put up a fight. At least.” Yasmine says, sliding a ring off of her pinky finger.
Emory laughs. “I was outnumbered. They were feeling salty,” He shrugs, “Not a big deal.”
Except, it is.
When he doesn’t receive a response from any of us, he speaks again. “They invited me over for a barbecue in Elkwood Park. They were vaping. Not a smoker, so I didn’t. And you know, they started roughhousing, got out of control with the lighters, and then...” He gracefully gestures to the bruises—which we now know are burn marks—on his face.
“That’s disgusting,” Laura says, at the same time I say, “It wasn’t an accident,” and something in my stomach curls in disgust.
“Oh, it definitely wasn’t.” Emory says, casually. “They all started messing with me, you know, pushing and tackling me in particular; that wasn’t a coincidence.” He purses his lips, tilting his head to the side. “Brett was behind it, anyways. Because he’s butthurt about people actually standing up against him and—God forbid—having a different opinion than him.”
“They can’t just do things like that,” Yasmine says, meeting Emory’s eyes. He shrugs.
Except they can, and they’ll get away with it.
“Yeah, well, it’s fine.” He says. “I didn’t lay a finger on them, so I won’t get reported or anything.”
“They should get reported,” Laura says, face tinged with a subtle pink.
“Listen, it doesn’t matter,” Emory laughs, lowly, “Give it a couple of weeks, and I’ll be back to looking like a handsome devil.”
He’s the only one that’s laughing—albeit lowly—and Laura doesn’t seem satiated with his assurance. She rises to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Emory asks, eyebrows knitted.
“I just...” Laura says, not looking back, “I just want to talk to Brett for a bit.”
With that, I almost jump to my feet, because the eerily calm tone to her voice implies that she wants to do a little bit more than just talk to Brett, and I need to be there to stop her.
Seconds away from his table, Brett looks up, seeing both Laura and I approaching, Yasmine choosing to stay at the table and grill Emory about his injuries.
“You can be reported for what you did to him, you know.” Laura says evenly, eyes calmly boring into Brett as the rest of the table draws their attention to the scene.
“What did I do to him?” Brett asks, tilting his head to the side, feigning ignorance. “You don’t have proof for anything.”
“Except,” I say, mouth pulled into a line, “He has bruises and burn marks?”
“Well,” Brett says, eyes lazy and irritatingly supercilious, “He could’ve been messing around the barbecue. Happens all the time.” His eyes harden. “Maybe Emory should’ve been more careful.”
Laura makes a motion towards him, but I tug her back, eyes still firm and dripping with anger.
“Careful,” He laughs, and the White Bros™ laugh along with him. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Not worth it,” I say to Laura as she silently fumes.
“Wouldn’t want to... get hurt or go missing.” Brett chuckles, grey eyes malicious and emotionless as he rises to his feet, looming over us.
It seems like the next few seconds go in a blur, because the rest of the student body falls into the background, and Laura shoves him, so hard that he falls back to his seat, stumbling backwards.
It’s almost like the very foundations of Elkwood shake once her hands come in contact with his chest.
Brett laughs as Laura’s chest heaves up and down, and somehow his laugh is more of a threat than any insult. I pat Laura on the back, tugging her back to the table, tempted to give Brett a well-deserved and overdue slap across the face.
However, common sense wins, and Laura falls into step with me, looking back at Brett’s table, the foreboding laughter echoing behind us.
***
“It’s good that we came here early,” Laura says, both of us leaning against our lockers, seated on the carpeted floor, my fingers flying across the keyboard of my laptop as Laura hovers over my screen.
It’s been half a week since the Brett Confrontation, and it’s safe to say that we’ve transitioned from being hyper-aware of the concerning smirks that Brett sends our way, to focusing back on Laura’s campaign and reaching out to the students. I sneak a glance at Laura from the corner of my eyes. Her features are determined, stance firm, if only slightly rigid.
There’s a silent agreement between the two of us to ignore the whole Brett situation and everything that he said at the cafeteria. Brett’s ego is far too outstretched, meaning that he’s not about to tell the principal that he’s been pushed by a girl.
We aren’t spending time fueling our anxieties and nerves, or overthinking Brett’s every action towards us. After all, he’s a manipulator, hellbent on forcing people to second-guess themselves. We can’t afford to let him win the mental game.
So instead, we’re spending extra time solidifying Laura’s likely victory in the upcoming elections. I glance away from the digital campaign poster I’m creating, and I check the time on my phone. “Students should start arriving now.” Laura says, glancing towards the front door.
As if on cue, the doors are pushed in and students start pouring in. I go back to typing across my laptop as Laura accepts greetings from the other kids.
After a few more minutes of typing, I feel a poke in my arm.
“What?” I ask, and Laura points towards the bulletin board, where a throng of students are loitering, murmuring to each other. Some of them glance over to Laura.
“Um...” Yasmine walks over to us, pushing through the mass of students, a nervous look to her eyes, fingers clutching her backpack as her eyes apprehensively touch ours. “Laura, Amina, you two might want to see this.”
That’s all it takes for Laura and I to jump to our feet, speed-walking to the crowd, who parts for us like the Red Sea, allowing us to push through them.
The white piece of paper I see hanging in the center of the bulletin board causes all air to escape my lungs. It reads:
Student: Johnson, Laura
Grade: 10
Expulsion Date: 16 Dec.
Major Offenses include:
- Physical Aggression
- Truancy
- Insubordination
Previous Suspension(s): 2
I can barely formulate a sentence. Yasmine pushes up beside me, turning to Laura. “Is all of this true?” She asks, then insists, “It can’t be, right Laura? Brett could’ve just made this all up.”
Laura doesn’t answer, just shakes her head again and again.
“Laura,” I say, but she backs away, taking slow steps back before whipping around and rushing out of the school, giving me a glimpse of tear streaked cheeks.
I tear the paper from the bulletin board, crumpling it into a small ball, despite the fact that it’s already too late.
“Where did you get this?” Yasmine hisses, and I notice she’s caught sight of Brett, arms folded and a nauseatingly ugly leer on his lips.
Brett shrugs and responds, “A few weeks ago, I wanted to check if Laura was fit to run,” He waves a hand, taking a step forward, “Asked around, checked in with the principal and voiced my concerns.” Another shrug. “She let me do a little digging because she had the same concerns.” He laughs, hands dug into pockets, “Laura here is a liar and a delinquent.” He tilts his head to the side, still smirking, “Someone like her should’ve never been able to run for president in the first place.”
The crowd disperses as Brett leaves, all of them sending contemptuous looks towards Yasmine and I, leaving us alone by the bulletin board.
My fist tightens around the paper and my heart drops to my feet as I glance in the direction that Laura sped off in. This can’t be right.
Something about this isn’t right.
However, it quickly dawns on me with a startling realization that I don’t know much about Laura Johnson.
A fact that might’ve just caused our chances of victory to dissipate into thin air.
