Chapter Seventy Four - A Drunken Mess

The school halls were quieter than usual. Most students were still in class, laughter and conversation muffled behind closed doors. Jackson walked slowly, dragging his feet, trying to stretch out the time before he had to face her—the headteacher. He'd only been to her office once before, when he'd gotten caught sneaking a lighter into school "as a joke."

This time felt different. He wasn't a kid pulling stunts anymore. He was just... failing.

He paused outside her door, hesitated for a second, then knocked once.

"Come in." came her voice from within—clear and calm, like she'd been expecting him all day.

He opened the door and stepped in, shrugging his hoodie tighter around himself like armor. Her office was warm but sterile: all mahogany shelves, framed university degrees, and a faint smell of chamomile tea.

"Jackson," she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. "Sit."

He obeyed wordlessly. Slouched immediately. His knee bounced under the desk, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear.

Mrs Calvert studied him for a moment over her glasses before setting her pen down on a folder marked with his name in red.

"Thank you for coming down."

"Didn't really have a choice." he muttered, not looking at her.

"No." she replied, her voice level, not unkind. "But I'm glad you're here anyway."

She opened the folder and took a breath. "Let's get right to it. You've missed thirty-six days of school this term, Jackson. Your teachers report you're barely handing in assignments—when you're here at all. Your grades are failing across the board. And, Jackson..." She hesitated.

He already knew what was coming.

"There have been reports." she said gently, "Of you drinking alcohol during class. Out of a water bottle."

He didn't answer. Just stared at the wall, jaw clenched.

"Mr. Hawthorne saw you pour it into your water bottle during second period English. He didn't say anything at the time because he was worried confronting you might escalate things. But he documented it. And it's not the first report."

Jackson didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just said, quietly, "I know."

"Can I ask you something?"

He nodded stiffly.

"Why are you drinking? During the day. At school."

His throat tightened, but he surprised himself by answering.

"I've always been drinking." he said flatly.

That caught her off guard. She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not new." he said, finally meeting her eyes. His voice was steady, but there was something hollow in it. "I started when I was twelve. Stupid shit—just sips from the cabinet. My grandfather used to have this drawer in his kitchen filled with little bottles. I'd steal one, sneak it to my room, mix it with juice. Made it easier to sleep."

Ms. Bellamy sat back slowly, listening.

"But back then I cared," he continued. "I hid it. I was careful. I kept it together enough so no one noticed. Or if they did, they didn't say anything."

He looked down at his hands.

"Now I don't care anymore. So I let it show. What's the point in hiding it?"

Silence fell heavy in the room.

Mrs Calvert leaned forward, voice softer now. "What has changed, Jackson?"

He gave a bitter laugh. "Everything."

He picked at the sleeve of his hoodie, then said, "My grandma was murdered, Mrs Calvert. Like, actually murdered. In her own house. We still don't know who did it."

Her breath caught, but she didn't interrupt.

"And my sister... Harper... She was doing better. We all thought maybe we'd get her back. Then she got triggered by something, and now she's back at Warren. Like it's some fucking hotel she just checks in and out of."

His voice cracked at the end. He looked away.

"I get home and everything's too quiet, or too loud. My mom and dad are tired all the time trying to deal with grandma's murder. Aura's trying to hold herself together like she's some kind of saint. And Harriet's... off doing her own thing again, Harper's suffering in Warren and Cody's breaking apart. 

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, quickly, like it was no big deal.

"I drink because it helps. It shuts it up. The noise. The questions. The guilt. The... emptiness. It helps me forget, just for a little while."

Mrs Calvert didn't speak right away. She gave him space.

When she finally did, her voice was still gentle. "That's a lot, Jackson. Too much for one person. Especially someone your age."

"Yeah, well," he muttered, "that's the Baldwin way, right?"

She exhaled through her nose. "Look, Jackson... I'm not here to lecture you. I'm not here to shame you. But I am here because I'm scared. For you."

He looked at her, surprised.

"You're only in your first year of high school. This is the year you're supposed to start figuring things out. But instead, you're barely showing up. Your teachers are worried you're going to have to repeat the year. And if that happens, I'm worried you'll just give up completely."

He stared at the carpet.

"I don't want that for you." she said. "You are smart. Maybe not in the ways school measures, but it's there. You're capable. But you are hurting, and trying to outrun it with alcohol isn't going to heal anything."

He didn't speak, but his eyes shimmered.

"I want you to meet with Marcie—our student counselor. You don't have to pour your heart out on the first day. But you need someone to help you carry this."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll have to take further action." she said. "I don't want to suspend you. But we have a duty to protect you from harm. And whether you see it or not—right now, you are your own worst harm."

He nodded slowly. Then whispered, "Okay."

Mrs Calvert stood and walked around the desk. She didn't touch him, didn't force anything. Just handed him a folded piece of paper with a room number and time.

"Monday morning. First period. Just show up."

Jackson took it and stood, the paper crumpling slightly in his grip.

"Jackson?"

He paused at the doorway.

"You are not broken. Just bruised. And bruises fade."

His throat was too tight to answer. He nodded and left.

Out in the corridor, the school felt loud again—buzzing with life and plans and futures. He walked toward his locker, the paper still in his hand, the promise of something different tucked somewhere between the shame and the silence.