Mr Popular

Chapter 6: The Long Way Down

The camera flash was a momentary needle of white light against the afternoon glass.

Maya noticed it first. She bolted toward the window, throwing it open just in time to catch the rustle of dry bushes near the courtyard wall. A dark figure in a hooded rain jacket scrambled over the brick perimeter, vanishing into the gray drizzle of the alleyway beyond.

"Did you see who it was?" Julian asked, his voice low, his fingers still stained black from the charcoal.

"Too fast," Maya said, her hand resting on the wet window frame. "But they weren't taking pictures for the yearbook."

Julian’s phone buzzed in his pocket—a sharp, violent vibration that felt like an extension of the pain in his shoulder. He pulled it out with his right hand.

It wasn't a text. It was a group notification from The Westbridge Wire—an anonymous, student-run gossip blog that operated on encrypted forum servers. The header flashed across his screen in dark crimson text:

THE KING IS DEAD: VANCE CUT OFF, RUNNING WITH OUTSIDERS. PHOTO EVIDENCE ATTACHED.

Julian tapped the thread. The image taken three seconds ago through the art room window was already live. It showed Julian standing beside Maya, charcoal dust on his skin, his letterman jacket absent, looking disheveled and stripped down. Beneath the photo was a detailed, terrifyingly accurate summary of his conversation with his father—including Arthur Vance’s threat to strip him of his car, his tuition, and his home.

The leak hadn't come from Tyler. Tyler didn't have access to the hallway when Arthur was shouting outside the door.

The leak had come from Principal Davis’s office.

"They're burning the ships," Julian whispered, his thumb scrolling past hundreds of comments dropping in real-time. The commentary was brutal, a feeding frenzy of students who had spent years bowing to the Vance name, now eagerly tearing into his carcass.

"Who owns that blog?" Maya asked, stepping up behind him to read the screen.

"It's anonymous," Julian said. "Or it used to be. But the domain host was paid for by the student council budget two years ago." He looked up, his jaw tight. "Chloe."

Before Maya could reply, the art room door opened once more. This time, there was no loud bang, no violent rattle.

Marcus Brody stepped inside. He looked enormous in the small room, his broad shoulders filling the frame, but his face was devoid of its usual booming warmth. In his left hand, he held a dark leather duffel bag.

"Your dad just called my father," Marcus said, his voice flat, heavy as iron. "He told my dad that if I let you stay at my house tonight, he’s pulling his company’s sponsorship from my brother's division-one training program."

Julian felt a cold wave wash over his stomach. "Marc..."

"I brought your extra clothes from your locker," Marcus said, tossing the heavy duffel onto the art table. It landed with a dull thud. "Your locker combination's been changed by the administration, by the way. Code of conduct violation. Pending investigation."

"Investigation for what?" Maya demanded, stepping forward. "He didn't break any rules!"

Marcus didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Julian, a painful mix of disappointment and anger burning in his chest. "Possession of unapproved materials on school grounds. Someone tipped off the district board that Julian’s been using non-prescribed painkillers for his shoulder. They searched your locker twenty minutes ago, Vance."

Julian’s breath hitched. "I haven't taken anything! The ER gave me basic anti-inflammatories!"

"It doesn't matter what you took!" Marcus finally shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "They found a bottle of targeted narcotics behind your playbook, Julian! It has your name printed on the label!"

The room dropped into absolute zero.

Planting prescription narcotics in a student locker was a federal offense—a move designed not just to ruin Julian’s high school reputation, but to ensure a criminal record followed him for the rest of his life. This wasn't high school petty drama anymore. This was a systematic destruction engineered by someone with heavy resources.

"It was Tyler," Julian said, his blood turning to ice. "Or my dad's lawyers."

"It doesn't matter who it was," Marcus said quietly, stepping back toward the hallway. "The school board called the county sheriff. They’re on their way right now to conduct an official search of your car in the parking lot."

Julian looked at the duffel bag, then at the key fob in his pocket. The black SUV in the parking lot didn't belong to him—it was in Arthur Vance’s corporate name. If the police found planted evidence in that car, Julian wouldn't just be homeless by sunset; he’d be sitting in a county holding cell before nightfall.

"Where are your keys?" Maya asked suddenly, her voice razor-sharp, cutting through the panic.

Julian pulled out the key fob.

Maya snatched them out of his hand, grabbed her dark raincoat from the hook by the door, and looked Julian dead in the eye. "Marcus, where is the sheriff parked?"

"They're coming through the main gate near the front lot," Marcus said, his eyes widening. "Why?"

"Julian, take your bag and hit the back stairs by the boiler room," Maya commanded, her posture stiffening into total military focus. "The alley behind the cafeteria leads straight to the old train tracks. Don't use the roads."

"What are you going to do?" Julian grabbed her arm with his good hand. "Maya, no. If they catch you with that car—"

"They won't catch me," she said, cutting him off with a look so fierce it made his heart stop. "I'm driving your dad's expensive SUV right through the front gate toward the highway. The police will follow the car. It buys you twenty minutes."

"Maya, that's grand theft!"

"It's not grand theft if I have the keys and your permission," she snapped, shoving him toward the back exit of the art room. "Now go! Before the squad cars lock down the perimeter!"

"Where do I meet you?" Julian asked, his mind racing, his body trembling from the violent surge of adrenaline.

Maya unclipped a bronze key from her key ring and shoved it into his right palm.

"The old lumber yard off Route 9," she whispered, her breathing fast. "The green shed at the back. Don't trust anyone on the main road. Not your friends, not the teachers, nobody."

She turned and sprinted out the main door toward the parking lot.

Julian stood in the center of the quiet art studio for two seconds, the cold bronze key burning in his palm. He looked at Marcus.

Marcus stood by the door, his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. "I didn't see where you went, Vance," Marcus said quietly, turning his back to the room. "Run."

Julian hauled the heavy duffel bag over his right shoulder, ignoring the lightning bolt of pain that shot across his injured left side, and ducked into the dark service stairs leading down to the boiler room.

Outside, the first sound of police sirens began to wail through the heavy rain.