Chapter 2.
1345 Words
“Attention, everyone.”
Drake froze at the sound of the deep, commanding voice echoing from within.
He took one last glance at his reflection in the foggy glass door. His hair was a little wild, his rumpled shirt stretched at the sleeves, black pants creased and faded. His shoes. God, his shoes, looked like they’d witnessed two world wars and were gearing up for a third.
“I’ll survive,” he whispered, lifting his glasses and shoving open the door.
The moment he stepped into the room, silence crashed over him like a wave.
Dozens of eyes turned, each one heavy and sharp. They sliced through him, scanning every frayed thread, every flaw, every secondhand story etched into his clothes.
Drake stiffened. He wanted to say, “Ever seen a broke kid before?” but instead, he offered a strained smile. Awkward. Small. Surviving.
At the front stood Xander. The tall prefect from earlier—shoulders squared, voice steady.
“This is Drake. Just Drake. He prefers to be addressed by his first name only. He’s a scholarship student joining us starting today—”
“Isn’t he from that orphanage dump down the hill?” a boy’s voice interrupted from the back.
Murmurs followed. Then laughter.
“You can tell,” a girl giggled. “What’s that he’s wearing? Did his great-grandma knit that shirt during the war?”
The class burst into howling laughter.
Drake bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. Don’t react. Don’t flinch. Just smile. Just pretend you’re not bleeding inside.
“Oh? That’s your reaction to compliments?” another boy chimed in. Steve. The same jerk who had splashed water on him from earlier, now lounging in his seat like he ruled the place.
Drake dropped his gaze.
“Xander, don’t you think Miss Granny was being disrespectful when she called you over—
“Shut the f**k up!”
The class went dead quiet.
Even the air seemed to pause.
Drake blinked up. That voice. It wasn’t Xander’s. It came from somewhere else. It carried authority, precision, finality. No one dared laugh anymore.
Xander cleared his throat and spoke again, voice quieter now, “Introduce yourself.”
Drake’s gaze drifted across the room... and stopped.
There.
Sitting near the windows with the light slicing across his sharp jawline, eyes down on a tablet like he wasn’t even part of this world, was Miguel Sanchez.
Miguel.
Miguel.. fucking.. Sanchez.
Drake’s mouth went dry. His knees almost buckled.
He felt his heartbeat trip over itself.
Was this real? Or was he hallucinating from hunger and sleep deprivation?
Miguel Sanchez. Child actor turned global popstar. The boy whose face was on the posters behind Drake’s bed. His private obsession. His only light during those long nights alone in the orphanage.
And now, he was here?
And he just shut down the entire room with a single sentence?
“Are you going to speak, or just stand there drooling?” Xander muttered near his ear.
Drake blinked out of the fog. “Uh—I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize. Introduce yourself,” Xander snapped.
Drake cleared his throat, heart still punching against his ribs.
“H-hi. I’m Drake. A transfer student. On scholarship.” He hesitated. “I… hope to make some good memories here.”
The class didn’t clap. They didn’t smile.
“Nice speech for someone who probably can’t afford lunch,” someone whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Drake swallowed and sat in the silence. He looked at Miguel again.
Still unreadable.
Still untouchable.
A girl stood up and, without hesitation, walked over to Miguel’s desk. She sat on his lap, gracefully, like she’d done it a hundred times before. Miguel didn’t even blink.
Drake’s stomach twisted.
“Sit next to Steve,” Xander said, turning away.
Drake’s feet moved unwillingly. That empty seat beside Miguel stayed empty, mocking him.
“Right here, Mr. Thrift Store,” Steve said, tapping the seat beside him with exaggerated flair.
Drake sat. His fingers tightened around the straps of his worn bag. “Ignore it,” he whispered to himself.
But Steve wasn’t done. “Is that bag older than you?”
Snickers erupted.
Drake pressed his lips together and opened his notebook, a secret journal disguised as a rough pad. He started writing. Scribbling thoughts. Anything to stay grounded. Anything to stop looking at Miguel.
But the insults didn’t stop. Not during English. Not during Math. Not even when the teacher walked in.
By then, Drake was floating somewhere between hope and shame.
“Mr… Drake, was it?” the teacher asked.
Drake looked up, caught off guard. “Sir?”
“I asked you a question.”
“I—” he blinked. “Sorry. Could you repeat it?”
“You’re the special needs one, right?” the teacher said bluntly. “Let’s see if you even last until midterms.”
Drake’s stomach twisted.
“I’d like to answer, Mr. Rowland.
The voice came like thunder.
Everyone turned.
Miguel.
He didn’t even lift his gaze from his tablet. Still seated, he cast a glance at Drake, then spoke up. “In Sonnet 18, Shakespeare uses metaphor and seasonal imagery to convey the transient nature of beauty and the eternal nature of verse.”
Applause followed. Real, thunderous applause.
Drake blinked down at his notebook, suddenly warm despite the cold stares around him. He didn’t know why… but he was glad Miguel had answered.
When the bell rang, Drake packed up faster than anyone. He wanted to be out. Out of the class. Out of the hallway. Out of this entire stupid dream.
But just as he stood, his foot caught on something.
He crashed to the floor with a loud thud.
“Broke, dumb, and blind too?” Steve laughed. “You okay, Mr. Thrift Store?”
“You put your foot there on purpose!” Drake snapped, adjusting his glasses.
“Oh? He talks back?” someone gasped.
“Isn’t he scared of Steve?”
“I’m Drake.,” he hissed, rising on trembling legs, jaw clenched. “And no—I’m not scared of you.”
Steve’s face darkened.
“You’ll regret that.”
Drake turned to walk away. Each step felt like defiance. Like breathing for the first time in years.
Then it happened.
A punch to the back of his neck. Sharp. Brutal.
He gasped and fell again.
“You think you can talk back to me?” Steve spat.
“Get on your knees and apologize to the Savior of Brian’s Academy,” someone shouted.
“Do it!” Steve yelled, kicking his ribs hard.
The crowd gathered like vultures. Phones came out. Someone screamed with laughter. Others grumbled in disapproval, yet none of them dared save him.
Drake curled in on himself, pain flooding his body. His bag spilled open, the secret journal sliding across the floor and vanishing under a desk.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Just survive. Just—
“Is this worth your madness?”
The room snapped still.
Miguel’s voice cut through the chaos like steel.
Everyone turned.
Miguel stood at the door, flanked by Xander and a striking girl with fierce eyes. Marcia.
He took one step inside. The crowd parted like water.
He didn’t even look at Steve. Just kept his eyes on Drake, lying curled on the floor.
“This one?” Miguel asked, nodding toward him. “This orphan boy in tattered shirt…is he really worth your madness?”
Steve stammered. “Wha—?”
Miguel finally looked at him.
“I don’t like wasting my time on noise.”
Then he crouched slowly beside Drake, who could barely look up.
“You,” Miguel said quietly, just for him. “What’s your name again?”
Drake’s eyes widened.
“M-Miguel…” he whispered.
Miguel tilted his head slightly. “Good. Remember mine.”
He stood. Turned to Steve, in a very low whisper, “If you ever touch what’s ….mine again, I’ll show you madness.”
- Writer
