Two

Our butts have barely touched the seats when the bell for second period rings, a dull, tragic echo of how close we were to being truly late. Again.

Mr. Halford shoots us one final look as we pack up, the kind of stare that says I've got my eye on you two disasters. A few of our classmates whisper things like "absolute legends" as we shuffle past, and Zoe, being Zoe, blows a theatrical kiss into the air like she's accepting an Academy Award for Best Performance in Academic Chaos.

I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall right out of my skull.

Next stop: Room 3B. Also known as The Graveyard of Dreams, The Place Where Joy Goes to Die, or as it's officially called, Mr. Barnes's history class.

But here's the weird thing today, we're actually focused. Like, genuinely paying attention. Maybe it's the leftover adrenaline from our morning escape routine, or maybe we're still in shock from successfully outrunning a grown man, but something has shifted. We slide into our usual seats in the middle row, pull out our notebooks, and for the first time this semester, we look like actual students instead of refugees from a caffeine overdose support group.

"Are we... actually going to behave today?" Zoe whispers, opening her notebook to a fresh page instead of the usual doodles of celebrities she wants to marry.

"I think we're traumatized into compliance," I whisper back, uncapping my pen like I'm preparing for surgery.

Mr. Barnes shuffles to the front of the classroom, looking like a man who's been personally victimized by every historical event he's ever taught. His tie is slightly crooked, his coffee mug has a suspicious brown ring around the bottom, and his hair looks like he's been running his hands through it since 1987.

"Today," he begins in that monotone voice that could put insomniacs to sleep, "we're discussing mercantilism and colonial trade routes."

Normally, this would be our cue to start passing notes about weekend plans or debating whether hot dogs are sandwiches. But today? Today we're actually listening. Taking notes. Being the kind of students our parents think we are when they brag to their friends.

"Mercantilism," Mr. Barnes continues, pacing slowly like he's delivering a eulogy for the concept of fun, "was an economic theory that dominated European thinking in the 16th and 17th centuries. The basic principle was simple: a nation's power depended entirely on its wealth, particularly its stores of gold and silver."

He draws a crude diagram on the whiteboard—arrows pointing from "Colonies" to "Mother Country" and back again in an endless loop.

"The goal was to export more than you imported, to maintain a favorable balance of trade. Colonies existed purely to benefit the mother country. Raw materials went one way, manufactured goods came back the other. It was a closed system designed to concentrate wealth and power."

Zoe raises her hand, and I nearly choke on my own saliva. Zoe never raises her hand in history class. She once told me that history was just "a bunch of dead people making bad decisions," and she wasn't interested in learning from their mistakes.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence, blinking at her raised hand like it's some kind of optical illusion. "...Yes, Zoe?"

She grins that sweet, innocent smile that usually means trouble is about to happen. "So you're saying Britain basically treated the American colonies like a really controlling boyfriend who monitors all your spending and tells you who you can hang out with?"

A ripple of giggles spreads through the classroom. I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Mr. Barnes stares at Zoe for a long moment, probably trying to figure out if her analogy is brilliant or grounds for detention.

"That's... actually not a terrible comparison," he admits, looking slightly disturbed by his own agreement. "The relationship was inherently unequal and exploitative."

I scribble Britain = controlling boyfriend in the margin of my notebook and draw little hearts around it.

"The triangular trade system," Mr. Barnes continues, warming to his subject in the way teachers do when they remember why they got into education in the first place, "connected Europe, Africa, and the Americas in a complex web of commerce. Ships would carry manufactured goods from Europe to Africa, trade them for enslaved people, transport those people to the Americas under horrific conditions, then return to Europe with raw materials like sugar, tobacco, and cotton."

He draws the triangle on the board, each point labeled with a continent, the arrows between them looking like the path of some terrible, endless cycle.

"It was incredibly profitable for European merchants and devastating for millions of African people who were stolen from their homes and families."

The room gets quiet in that heavy way it does when you're suddenly confronted with the reality of how awful people can be to each other.

"But here's what I want you to understand," Mr. Barnes says, leaning against his desk with the intensity of someone who's finally got his audience hooked. "This wasn't just ancient history. These economic systems shaped the world we live in today. The wealth that built European empires, the underdevelopment of African nations, the racial hierarchies that still exist—all of it traces back to decisions made in boardrooms and royal courts hundreds of years ago."

Zoe is actually taking notes. Real notes. Not her usual stream-of-consciousness observations about whether historical figures would be good at modern dating apps. I'm writing down actual facts and dates instead of planning my lunch order.

This is unprecedented.

Mr. Barnes starts handing out worksheets titled "Economics of Empire," and for once, I don't immediately start planning how to copy answers from the smart kid next to me. I'm actually curious about this stuff.

That's when it happens.

THWACK!

The sound explodes through the classroom like a gunshot. Everyone jumps. Someone actually screams. I flinch so hard I knock my water bottle over, sending it rolling across the floor with a series of hollow thunk-thunk-thunks.

Mr. Barnes has launched his whiteboard eraser across the room with the precision and fury of a major league pitcher. It sails through the air like a chalk-dusted missile and slams into the back wall, exploding in a cloud of white powder.

We all turn to look at the target, though honestly, we already know who it is before we even swivel our heads.

Reggie Maddox.

He's sprawled in his usual spot in the far back corner, looking like he's posing for the cover of Bad Boys Monthly. His chair is tilted back at an angle that defies both physics and school policy, his long legs stretched out into the aisle like he owns the place. His hoodie is unzipped just enough to be distracting, his dark hair is perfectly messy in that way that probably takes an hour to achieve, and his eyes are closed like he's taking a peaceful nap in a five-star hotel instead of blatantly disrespecting our teacher.

The eraser has left a white chalk mark on the wall right above his head, like a cartoon outline of where his brain should be.

"Mr. Maddox," Mr. Barnes says, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage, "would you care to join us in the land of the conscious, or should I arrange for a pillow and blanket to make your slumber more comfortable?"

A few people snicker nervously. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a spoon.

Reggie opens one eye slowly, like he's a lazy cat being disturbed from a sunbeam. He stretches his arms above his head with deliberate slowness, making this soft humming sound that somehow manages to be both innocent and infuriating.

"Wasn't sleeping," he says in that low, gravelly voice that sounds like it belongs in a movie trailer. "Just processing. You know, absorbing the historical significance of economic exploitation through meditative reflection."

Half the girls in class actually sigh out loud. It's disgusting.

"Right," Mr. Barnes says, his eye twitching. "And I suppose your 'meditative reflection' includes drooling on your desk?"

Reggie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins that crooked smile that's gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten. "That's just how intensely I was concentrating."

I want to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. With corners.

The thing about Reggie is that he's an absolute contradiction wrapped in expensive sneakers and unearned confidence. He's the kind of guy who shows up to class twenty minutes late, sleeps through the entire lesson, and still somehow scores higher on tests than people who actually study. He's got more money than most adults, a car that costs more than my parents' mortgage, and the kind of face that makes teachers forget why they were angry in the first place.

He's also got a temper that could power a small city.

I've seen him get into fights over the stupidest things. Someone accidentally bumps his desk? Fight. Someone takes the last slice of pizza at lunch? Fight. Someone looks at him the wrong way in the hallway? Congratulations, you've just volunteered for an impromptu boxing lesson behind the gym.

Last month, he flipped an entire lunch tray because someone took the chocolate milk he wanted. Just picked up the whole thing—food, utensils, drinks, everything—and sent it flying like he was starring in his own personal action movie. Got suspended for three days and came back like nothing happened.

"Pick up the eraser, Reggie," Mr. Barnes says, each word carefully measured like he's defusing a bomb.

Reggie tilts his head, studying our teacher with the casual interest of someone examining a mildly amusing bug. "You threw it. Seems like a 'you' problem."

The audacity is breathtaking. The entire class collectively inhales like we're witnessing someone poke a sleeping dragon with a stick.

Zoe grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "Oh my God," she whispers, "this is better than Netflix."

Mr. Barnes's face goes through several interesting color changes—pale pink to red to a concerning shade of purple. You can actually see him counting to ten in his head.

"Mr. Maddox," he says finally, his voice deadly quiet, "do I need to escort you to Principal Rodriguez's office? Because I'm sure she'd love to discuss your attitude problem. Again."

Reggie shrugs, the movement casual and infuriating. "Do what you gotta do, teach. I'm not exactly attached to this place."

And that's the thing about Reggie that makes everyone simultaneously want to punch him and ask him out—he genuinely doesn't care. About school, about rules, about consequences, about what anyone thinks of him. He walks through life like he's immune to the normal social contracts that keep the rest of us in line.

It should be insufferable. And it is. But it's also kind of... impressive? In a terrible, no-good, very bad way.

Mr. Barnes stares at him for what feels like an eternity. You can practically see the internal battle happening—his desire to maintain classroom authority warring with his knowledge that sending Reggie to the office is basically a reward, not a punishment.

"If I catch you sleeping in my class again," he says finally, "you're out. Permanently."

Reggie holds up his hands in mock surrender, grinning like he's just won something. "Crystal clear, Mr. B. Eyes wide open from here on out."

The nickname makes Mr. Barnes's eye twitch again, but he just turns back to the whiteboard and continues his lesson like the last five minutes didn't happen.

"Everyone turn to page 172," he mutters, sounding like a man who's seriously reconsidering his career choices.

The class rustles with the sound of pages turning and whispered commentary. I steal a glance at Reggie, who has indeed picked up the eraser—not because he was told to, but just to prove that he does things on his own terms. He spins it between his fingers like a drumstick, then deliberately drops it on the floor again.

Thud.

The sound echoes through the sudden silence like a gauntlet being thrown.

Petty. Calculated. Absolutely infuriating.

"Such a spoiled brat," I mutter under my breath.

"Such a hot spoiled brat," Zoe corrects, not bothering to whisper.

"That doesn't make it better!"

"Doesn't make it worse either."

I hate that she has a point.

Mr. Barnes pretends not to notice the eraser situation and launches into a detailed explanation of sugar plantations in the Caribbean, probably hoping that if he talks loud enough, he can drown out the sound of his own sanity slowly cracking.

The rest of the class passes without major incident, though Reggie makes a point of stretching dramatically every ten minutes, just to remind everyone that he's still there and still completely unbothered by authority.

When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of second period, he's the first one out the door, moving with that lazy confidence that suggests he has somewhere very important to be—probably the parking lot where he'll spend third period smoking behind his ridiculously expensive car.

"Same time tomorrow, Mr. B!" he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the hallway.

Mr. Barnes just stands there, staring at the chalk outline on his wall like it's a crime scene.

"I should have been a librarian," he mutters to himself. "Libraries are quiet. Peaceful. Nobody throws things in libraries."

Zoe and I pack up our things, still buzzing with secondhand drama.

"Think he'll actually get kicked out?" she asks as we head for the door.

I watch Reggie's retreating figure through the window. "No," I say. "Guys like that never face real consequences. It's like they're protected by some kind of rich kid force field."

"Lucky bastard."

"Lucky, gorgeous bastard," I correct.

Rich kids. They live in a completely different universe than the rest of us, one where rules are suggestions and consequences are for other people.

Must be nice.