The rain had stopped by the time I reached Crestwood’s front courtyard, but the damage had already been done.
Students were gathered in clusters, whispering, filming, laughing—phones pointed like weapons at the center of it all. In the middle, my grandmother stood, her coat soaked, curls frizzed from the drizzle, her back ramrod straight as she faced down Jordan and two of his usual shadows.
Jordan was smiling like he was on stage. “Come on, old lady. Just say it. Kneel and beg, and maybe I’ll forgive your little grandson’s temper tantrum.”
The crowd chuckled.
“Show some humility,” one of his cronies added.
My blood boiled.
I shoved past a pair of junior girls, storming into the circle like a bull.
“Grandma!” I shouted, voice cracking with urgency. “Get up! You don’t have to talk to
