Chapter 2: Uprising in the Conference Room

I gave Tyler a gentle shove, and he burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the corridor and turning heads. Even when he was up to no good, it was impossible to stay mad at him for long.

"Mr. Foster, I’ll pick you up after school. Madison Billiards!"

He shot me a thumbs-up and sauntered off, acting like he was on top of the world. I let out another sigh, wondering for the hundredth time how I’d ended up as the unofficial life coach for the town’s most notorious rich kid.

Tyler Maddox—chauffeur, housekeeper, endless allowance—was the son of Charles Maddox, the wealthiest man in town. Their mansion on Oak Hill was the kind of place you’d see in a movie: circular driveway, marble fountain, and a line of luxury cars parked out front. Last year, back at his fancy prep school, Tyler got into a fight and stabbed another kid in the eye with a pen. He spent a few days in juvie, and his dad had to pay out a fortune to smooth things over.

After that, Mr. Maddox pulled every string he had to get Tyler transferred here, and he specifically requested that I be his homeroom teacher.

On Tyler’s very first day, he tried to swing a chair at me during class.

The memory still cracks me up—he was all talk, no bite. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I knocked out his front tooth with a single punch, and he ended up with a crown before the semester was over.

That afternoon, Tyler tried to have me jumped by thirty wannabe tough guys in the school parking lot. But the second they saw me, they scattered like pigeons. Rumors about my past have a way of keeping trouble at bay.

Truth is, I’m not exactly a model citizen myself—or at least, I wasn’t, back in the day.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been hand-picked after graduation to take over the infamous problem class.

But Tyler, ever the opportunist, has made full use of my reputation. Whenever he’s in a jam and can’t go to his dad, he comes straight to me.

So when it’s time to teach, I teach. When it’s time to protect, I protect. They’re my students, after all—my responsibility, for better or worse.

Today was teacher evaluation day. I pushed open the heavy conference room door, nodded at Principal Hanley on stage, and stepped inside.

The room was freezing, the air thick with the stale smell of burnt coffee and old paper. Hanley sat at the front, stone-faced as always, his eyes sweeping the room like a prison warden. The teachers around me looked tense, fiddling with their notebooks or whispering behind their hands. The scrape of chairs and the low hum of the PA system only added to the tension. We’d all gotten used to Hanley’s hard-nosed attitude, but nobody liked it.

Once everyone had settled, Hanley started in.

"Some of you here lack ability and professionalism, but when it comes to wasting the school’s budget, you’re in a league of your own. We have a budget to stick to. Every dollar counts at this school."

His complaints echoed over the speakers, bouncing around the sterile conference room.

The teachers all looked up, nervous, each one wondering if they were the target. No one dared meet his eye.