The one whose mother worked a cash register.
People at schools like Redwood never said those things to your face at first. They let the rumors soften you up before the cruelty arrived in public.
By the second week, the rumors had already done their work.
I knew when people looked at me, they weren’t really seeing me. They were seeing the story they had built from scraps—my plain clothes, my silence, the fact that my mother drove an old car that rattled at stoplights, the way I never joined conversations about ski trips or second homes or whose father knew which senator.
I wasn’t mysterious.
I was just tired.
My mother and I had moved three times in fourteen months. We had left behind an apartment, then a town, then most of the life we used to call ours. By the time I got to Redwood, I had already learned that silence was often cheaper than explanation.
Alex Kane interpreted silence as weakness.
Most people did.
He was the kind of person who had been rewarded for taking up space his whole life. Tall, broad-shouldered, loud in the deliberate way that rich boys often are, he moved through the school like he had inherited it along with his last name.
In a way, maybe he had.
His father’s name was on the science wing.
His father’s name was on the gym renovation plaque.
His father’s name showed up at galas, scholarship breakfasts, district fundraisers, and every conversation teachers had in lowered voices when they thought students couldn’t hear.
At Redwood, Alex didn’t need to be smart. He didn’t need to be kind. He didn’t even need to be careful.
He only needed to be a Kane.
The first time he spoke to me, he shoulder-checked me in the hallway and smiled when my books slipped.
The second time, he asked if my shoes came from a donation bin.
The third time, he asked whether my mother scanned groceries or just stacked them.
His friends laughed every time.
