Chapter 2: The Code, the Fight, and the Truth

Brandon’s cheeks burn with anger. He blurts out, "Mrs. Thompson, I want to report him."

She glances at him, annoyed. "Report what?"

"He’s not even poor," Brandon says, almost shouting. "He just runs his phone business to save up for World of Warcraft."

Mrs. Thompson frowns. "What’s World of Warcraft?"

"It’s a video game," Brandon explains, "but you have to pay to play."

I can’t believe this is happening. Even now, he’s throwing me under the bus for playing a game.

Mrs. Thompson looks at me like I’m dirt. "You’re in junior year—the most important year of your life. Your grades here determine your whole future. And you’re playing games? You’re letting your parents down."

I don’t get it. I only play sometimes to relax, not because I’m lazy or don’t care. Does that really mean I’m letting my parents down?

I look at Brandon, feeling raw. "Can you knock it off? Your mom could be waiting to see you one last time. If you keep fighting me, you might never get to her."

Mrs. Thompson shouts at me to shut my mouth. Brandon shouts louder. Then, before I can react, he swings at me, landing a punch right in my face. Not finished, he shoves me down, grabs my shirt, and spits in my face, yelling, "It’s your mom who’s going to die! I’ll say it a hundred times—it’s your mom!"

I’ve had enough. I swing my hand and slap him, hard. The smack echoes in the room. Brandon looks shocked, like he can’t believe I actually hit him.

"Calm down!" I yell. "Your mom is actually in trouble. Who would joke about something like this? Jokes are for friends, Brandon. No one wants to be friends with someone who pulls pranks with people’s phones."

I mean every word—no anger, just the plain truth. But Brandon only gets angrier. He lunges at me again, and soon we’re both swinging, rolling on the floor, until the whole class is yelling and some of the kids are calling for Mrs. Thompson to break us up.

But Mrs. Thompson just looks at me, unimpressed. "He hits you, you deserve it."

Then she turns her back on us, walks to the whiteboard, and addresses the class like nothing’s happening. "Listen up, class. I know you’re young, and you like to joke around, especially you boys. But jokes about each other’s mothers are out of line. Don’t ever go there."

Some of the class nods. Brandon, now sitting on top of me, suddenly starts sobbing. I’m not surprised. We’re all just kids, and the smallest thing can set us off. He probably thinks Mrs. Thompson is standing up for him, and that’s enough to break him.

Mrs. Thompson keeps going. "Other teachers might just scold you, but I won’t. If you insult someone’s mother, you deserve a slap. Remember that. Play around, joke around, but don’t ever joke about someone’s parents. Everyone, repeat after me."

I just stare, dumbfounded, as the whole class actually chants, "Play around, joke around, but don’t joke about parents." The whole thing feels surreal, like we’re stuck in some kind of weird cult ritual, everyone chanting while a real emergency is happening outside.

Mrs. Thompson faces me, her tone icy. "Now, both of you, apologize to each other. Out loud, right now. Admit you were wrong."

I just stare at her, numb. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?

She keeps going. "Let me make this clear: if you don’t apologize, you don’t need to be in this class. Insulting classmates, running a business, playing games—I can’t teach someone with such poor character. If you keep this up, the school will expel you."

I take a deep breath. "Mrs. Thompson, maybe you should be careful. If you keep this up, the school board might not let you keep your job."

She goes red and hurls a piece of chalk at me. It hits me in the head, but I don’t care. I’m past caring. I snatch the broken phone off the podium and make for the door.

She shouts after me, "What do you think you’re doing?" But I’m already gone. I have to get that message out, have to call Brandon’s dad. There’s a real person waiting in a hospital bed, and I’m the only one who knows.

Everyone in the room gasps as I shove past. Mrs. Thompson screams, "Rebellion! This is outright rebellion!"

I ignore her and reach for the door. But before I can leave, Brandon cuts me off, rage burning in his eyes. Without warning, he kicks me hard in the stomach. I double over, the phone clattering to the floor.

He stands over me, voice shaking. "You’re not going anywhere."

I look up, breathless. "Are you nuts?"

Brandon snarls, "It’s April Fool’s. I just wanted to mess with you, I didn’t think the teacher would take your phone. I was gonna say sorry, but you went too far."

"What are you even talking about?" I ask, genuinely baffled.

He shouts, "The phone’s gone, I’ll pay you back. It’s just a cheap Android. But you cursed my mom—that’s messed up. Say you’re sorry."

Before I can answer, Mrs. Thompson stalks over, grabs my arm in a vice grip, and drags me to the front of the room, shoving me under the whiteboard so hard my back hits the wall. Pain zings down my spine.

She’s glaring now. "You don’t like my rules, so you act out? Fine. You want your parents involved? Bring them in. I dare you."

My hands are shaking. "If you don’t believe me, just call his family. Please."

She sighs, exasperated. "Fine. I’ll call. I’ll settle this once and for all." She looks at Brandon. "What’s your dad’s number?"

Brandon fumbles. "I don’t remember my dad’s. Only my mom’s."

Mrs. Thompson dials his mom’s number. The call rings and rings—no answer. Her brow furrows.

I try not to scream. "Of course no one’s answering! She’s in the hospital, probably unconscious!"

Brandon, almost in tears, screams, "It was your mom who got hit by a car!"

Now Mrs. Thompson starts to look unsure. Something isn’t adding up.

She says, "Fine. I’ll check the office records for your dad’s number—"

But before she can finish, Brandon shouts, "He’s doing this on purpose! He always helps parents reach us. He knows my mom works night shifts and sleeps during the day. When she sleeps, her phone’s on silent!"

Mrs. Thompson stares at me, almost impressed. "You’re really something, you know? If you put this effort into your studies, you’d be top of the class."

I snap. "Are you nuts?"

She reels, like she’s never heard a student say that. "What did you just say?"

I don’t back down. "Think about it. His mom gets hit after work, goes to the hospital. His dad waits, tries not to bother him so he can focus on school, but when things get serious, he finally reaches out. That’s what parents do."

Mrs. Thompson’s jaw clenches. She struggles to keep her temper. "Fine. After class, I’ll get his dad’s number from the office. If you’re lying, you’ll be expelled."

I can’t hold back. "Why wait? This is urgent. Just give me my phone back."

She shakes her head. "The office key is with the vice principal, and he’s at a meeting. You’ll have to wait."

"Enough!"

The word cracks through the classroom like thunder. I look up. My best friend, Marcus, is standing, eyes blazing, hands shaking as he pulls his own phone from his pocket.

Mrs. Thompson snaps, "What now?"

Marcus doesn’t even look at her. He locks eyes with me and asks, slow and steady, "Are we brothers or not?"

Something inside me softens. "Brothers."

He nods, takes a deep breath, and wedges a metal ruler under his phone’s screen. We’ve been through worse—like the time we both got detention for swapping answers in Spanish class. "We’ve got the same model. Here—take my screen. If you’re lying, Mrs. Thompson, take my phone too. Expel me, I don’t care. I believe him."

Mrs. Thompson looks at us like we’ve lost our minds. "You two are nuts."

Marcus pries the screen off, careful but quick, and hands it to me. The ribbon cable is still attached, but with help from a couple tech-savvy classmates, we get it hooked up to my ruined phone. Someone grabs a charger. The whole class crowds around, nobody daring to breathe too loud.

Mrs. Thompson taps her watch, muttering about wasted time and lost learning, but nobody listens. For once, it feels like we’re all on the same team.

The phone flickers, half-alive, the screen held together by a prayer and a nest of wires. I press the power button. The boot screen comes up—thank God. I open the text messages app, everyone leaning in.

But the screen is blank. No messages.

I want to scream, to smash something myself. Instead, I just stand there, blinking back tears. Mrs. Thompson sneers. "Well? Where’s the big emergency? You wasted all our time for nothing."

I scramble, trying every app, but nothing works. "When you smashed it, you must’ve damaged the memory. Nothing loads right."

She’s done. "That’s it. You’re finished here. I’ll have you expelled for this circus. And everyone who helped—expect detention slips."

She points at Marcus. "You too. Didn’t you say you’d take the fall with him? Pack your stuff and get out. Both of you."

Marcus looks pale but manages a shaky grin. "It’s fine. That’s what brothers do."

The teacher just rolls her eyes. "Trust him all you want. But you’re both gone. Have your parents pick up your expulsion papers."

Marcus quietly starts gathering his things. I just stand there, fists clenched, fighting the tears. I did nothing wrong. Why do I have to pay for this? Why did I drag Marcus down with me?

Mrs. Thompson glares, then grabs my backpack, crams my books in, and throws it at me. "Pack up and get out. I don’t want to see you in my class again."

I pick up my bag, shoulders sagging. Finally, some of the other kids try to step in.

"Mrs. Thompson, maybe he’s telling the truth."

"Yeah, just let him apologize. Expulsion’s too much."

Brandon looks betrayed. "He cursed my mom! You’re all taking his side? What about me?"

The others just look away. They’re tired of his pranks, tired of this mess. Jokes are for friends, and right now, nobody wants to be Brandon’s friend.

Mrs. Thompson snaps, "Quiet! One more word and you’ll join them outside."

Everyone falls silent. I wave off any last sympathy. "It’s fine. I’ll be back, anyway."

She scoffs. "If you come back, I’ll teach this class standing on my head."

I look at Marcus. In this crazy moment, we both crack a smile, like we’re the only sane people left. We stand side by side, and he throws his arm around me. "Let’s bounce."

Just as we turn to go, my ruined phone, jury-rigged to Marcus’s screen, suddenly starts ringing. The ringtone blares, slicing through the tension like a siren. For a split second, nobody breathes. My heart stops—because maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance.