Chapter 3: Alleyway Showdown

Just then, both Julian and I turned to see Travis leaning in the doorway, holding a baseball bat, his tone lazy but menacing.

"Transfer kid, meet me in the alley after school. Don’t chicken out!"

My heart skipped a beat. Was it happening again? In my last life, Julian got his worst injuries from Travis’s gang.

When I found him, he was covered in bruises and had to miss two months of school. When the teacher asked, he just said he fell at home. Looking back, maybe he’d already lost the will to fight by then. His parents were gone, no one loved him, and I didn’t know if he had any other family. Julian never liked talking about home.

Travis was still waiting. I glanced at Julian. He looked as cold and distant as ever, like nothing could touch him, his dark eyes flat and unreadable.

I didn’t have time to think. I was afraid he’d get hurt, so I said sternly, "Julian, don’t listen to him. I’ll walk home with you. I’m going to get Ms. Foster."

He pressed his lips together, his face cold. "I won’t walk with you."

He made sure I heard him. "Especially not today."

"What, worried I’ll get beat up with you?" I tried to joke, saying what he was really thinking.

Julian’s handsome face tensed, eyes locked on mine. I wanted to reach out and pinch his cheek, laugh, and say, "Even if you’re mad, I’m sticking with you. You can’t shake me." I wanted to tell him, stop pretending—you don’t know I’ve been reborn. I was ready to stick to him all day.

But just before school let out, the class president said Ms. Foster wanted to see me in the office. I rushed there and back, but when I returned, the classroom was empty. My heart sank. Oh no.

I was sweating with worry. Help! I only remembered Julian was beaten in an alley, but not which one. The streets near our school were a maze.

Suddenly, I remembered that people with autism often stick to routines—even their walking routes. My classmate Lila had mentioned seeing Julian on the No. 11 bus a few days ago. I ran straight to the bus stop, hoping I was right.

I found them in an alley nearby. Before I even got close, I heard the familiar voices.

"Hey, didn’t you hear me say to wait?"

"You think you’re hot stuff? Just because girls write you love letters? Think you’re better than me? Secretly laughing at me behind my back?"

Another voice chimed in, mocking, "Boss, don’t say that. This kid’s autistic—he probably doesn’t even understand human language."

"Ha, true."

"Hey, maybe he walks like a penguin too?" One of the thugs started waddling around. "Like a penguin!"

"Ha ha, you’re a riot. You deserve an Oscar, man."

In the dark alley, Travis and his crew had Julian surrounded. His white shirt was already dirty, shoe prints all over it. He gripped the chipped wall, back straight, head high, holding back anger as he growled, "Get lost."

That’s what I saw when I walked in. Travis was about to throw a punch but stopped when he saw me, his expression shifting.

"Well, the orphan girl showed up too. Two birds with one stone."

Julian saw me, his dark eyes flickering with worry. His voice was hard. "Autumn Carter, this has nothing to do with you. Leave. Now."

Hearing my name from him, I actually felt a little comforted. My dumb desk mate did remember me after all.

"What, you’re here to save the orphan, not the damsel?" Travis sneered.

I knew I’d get beat up if I went over, but for some reason, I wasn’t scared. I puffed myself up. "Hey, Travis, don’t get cocky. I already told Ms. Foster."

"You little snitch!"

Thugs like him hated tattletales. Travis, furious, swung his bat at me.

"Autumn!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for pain—but nothing happened.

I opened my eyes to see Julian standing in front of me, arms wrapped protectively around me.

The bat landed hard on Julian’s arm. WHAM. He didn’t make a sound.

"Damn, tough guy," Travis jeered, and swung again.

Julian shielded me, his dark eyes locked on mine. I screamed, "Are you hurt?"

He glanced at me, worry in his eyes, blood trickling from his brow. "No."

I clung to his sleeve, about to admit I was scared, when suddenly, the quiet, battered boy snapped. He grabbed Travis’s bat, eyes wild, and fought back, punching and kicking Travis until he collapsed, howling in pain.

The other thugs tried to help but were scared off by Julian’s crazed glare, cursing as they backed away.

"Shit, he’s a psycho! A maniac!"

"Yeah, if a psycho kills someone, it’s not even a crime—but we’ll end up in jail if we mess with him!"

Psycho… maniac… the words hit Julian like stones.

Julian’s eyes were bloodshot. Travis writhed on the ground, but Julian didn’t stop. I panicked, afraid he’d go too far, and rushed over to pull him back.

"Julian, that’s enough!"

He looked at me, the rage in his eyes ebbing at the sound of my voice.

"Get out of here!" I shouted, hands shaking.

The thugs scrambled to drag Travis away.

Now it was just me and Julian. He picked up his dirty backpack, shot me a blank look, and walked off.

I followed. "Why are you following me?" he snapped.

"I’m worried about you," I replied, smiling.

"Aren’t you afraid I’m crazy? I’m mentally ill, you know! Stay away from me!"

His eyes were red, hurt. I grabbed his sleeve, looked him in the eye, and said sincerely, "Julian, you’re not crazy. You’re a good person."

He was silent for a moment, then turned away, quickly wiping his tears before walking on. I caught up, chattering away.

"Is your arm okay?"

"None of your business." He was tall and walked fast.

Actually, he didn’t walk like a penguin at all. His autism was mild—only noticeable up close.

When he ignored me, I tugged his backpack, looking up, whining playfully.

"Hey, Julian, forget the dividing line. Can we be friends?"

"Hey, Julian, you don’t know how long I looked for you today. I’m so thirsty now."

He finally stopped, looked at me, lips pressed tight, then silently handed me a box of strawberry milk—the one I’d given him that morning.

I grinned, warmth flooding my heart. "So you didn’t throw it away."

He frowned. "You really do talk a lot."

"I do, but you’re really cute too." I teased, standing on tiptoe.

The warm sunset fell across the maple trees, our shadows intertwined on the ground. The corners of his mouth twitched, almost smiling. I pointed ahead, cheering, "The No. 11 bus is here!"

In my last life, Julian was always picked up by a private driver. People with autism hate crowds—taking the bus was a big deal.

Because of the alley fight, we were late, and there weren’t many students left at the stop. I followed Julian onto the bus. He didn’t swipe his card or pay, just handed the driver a hand-drawn star card. It looked oddly familiar.

Then he handed another, a bit nervous. "Two, please," he said, pointing at me.

The driver took it, excited. "Oh, it’s you, Star Kid! You’re late today—Mr. Harris was worried sick, thought something happened to you. What happened to your clothes?"

He glanced at me, noticing my dirty uniform. "And you are?"

I poked my head out from behind Julian, realizing what was going on. I closed the transit QR code on my phone and introduced myself sweetly, "Hi, I’m his classmate. We ran into a little trouble on the way, but it’s all sorted now."

The driver breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, good, as long as you’re both okay. Take care of him, all right?"

Later, I learned that the first time Julian took the bus, he didn’t know how to pay. The driver told him to pay before boarding, and he handed over a hundred-dollar bill. It was rush hour, and the driver was flustered, snapping, "Kid, how am I supposed to make change for a hundred? Everyone uses cards now—don’t you know to bring small bills?"

Julian didn’t understand, just kept apologizing and boarded anyway. Since he always took the same 6 p.m. bus, the driver—Mr. Harris—realized something was off and guessed he was a little different, maybe mildly autistic. Mr. Harris felt bad for yelling and barely ate for days. Seeing Julian always carrying his sketchpad, he made a deal: every bus ride, Julian would give him a star card. One hundred dollars for fifty rides.

Today, Julian was late. Mr. Harris looked everywhere for him, worried something had happened, and told the other drivers to be on the lookout for a kid with star cards—don’t be surprised, don’t scold him. He’s sensitive. If you see him, let him know so he doesn’t worry.

There really are a lot of good people in the world.

On the bus, I thanked Julian and gave him a thumbs up. He really was amazing.

There were no seats left, and more people kept getting on. I could tell he was getting anxious, shrinking into himself. I took his hand. He glanced at me, visibly relaxing, his palm sweaty.

I had to stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, "Julian, if it’s too crowded, don’t just push through. Say ‘Excuse me,’ okay?"

He clutched his backpack, star-bright eyes meeting mine. "Okay."

Then I watched him stammer out, "Excuse me," to the boy blocking his way. He was learning.