Malia
By mid-morning of Tuesday, the air in the halls was buzzing and it was not with excitement. Rather it was that sharp buzz that came whenever someone else’s downfall was about to be served up as the new hot topic in school.
As I made my way between classes, snippets drifted past me.
“He skipped detention again—”
“Mr. Gentry had enough—”
“Principal called him down—”
The name on everyone’s tongue didn’t even need to be spoken but I knew it was Maverick Sinclair.
My stomach dropped, a cold weight pulling everything inside me tight.
Yesterday, when I had been stopped after class by a teacher and asked why Maverick never showed up for detention, I’d stammered some non-answer and this probably was the fallout and aftermath.
I sat in my seat, tapping my pencil against my notebook,
