Chapter 6: Blood Ties and Betrayals

Everything was normal except for high cholesterol. The doctor’s note said: low-fat, low-sugar diet, cut back on beer.

But there was a black circle around the blood type: AB.

A jolt ran through me. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but now, knowing my blood type didn’t match my parents’, and seeing this report with AB circled, it all clicked.

Last night, I’d come up with a few wild theories. This matched the worst one.

Could Dad have suspected—or even discovered—the truth before he died? Was Thomas Evans my real father?

The thought made me sick, but it also explained a lot.

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On the day of high school registration, Dad said he’d take me.

Early that morning, we drove to Director Evans’ house. I was confused. "Dad, why are we here?"

He smiled, but there was tension in his jaw. "Forgot to tell you, Evans’ daughter is going to your school too, and you’re in the same class."

A laugh came from the porch—Director Evans stepped out with his daughter.

It was my first time seeing her. Her name was Allison Evans.

She was pretty at first glance, but her attitude was sharper than her looks. Maybe it was growing up privileged, but she had a confidence that could turn cold in a heartbeat.

She paused when she saw me, tilting her head at her dad.

Director Evans smiled, "This is Sam, Mr. Whitaker’s boy. He’ll be your classmate—look out for each other."

Dad echoed, "That’s right, Allison, help Sam with his studies."

Director Evans laughed, "Sam’s a smart kid, no need to be polite. Our families go way back..."

"What families? He’s just your driver, isn’t he?" Allison blurted out, her voice sharp, like she didn’t care who heard.

Director Evans and Dad’s smiles froze. I wanted to sink into the ground.

Unfortunately, she ended up as my desk partner. She barely spoke to me all day, just shot me dirty looks.

Later, she asked to change seats. She told classmates my dad was her family’s errand boy, that I was poor and weird. It was humiliating.

She’d wrinkle her nose and say I smelled bad whenever I sat nearby. I checked myself, even asked other kids—they said I was fine. I realized she just hated me.

Some girls told her, "Don’t treat Sam like that, or he’ll snap."

"He wouldn’t dare!" she sneered.

The teacher finally moved me. Only then did I get a break.

In senior year, something happened.

One lunch break, she was on the second-floor balcony with her friends. I was playing basketball below.