THE WAITRESS AND THE HEIR

The bell had not even finished ringing when I was already on my feet. I moved with the kind of quiet urgency that came from three years of practice, sliding my notebook into my bag and stepping into the aisle before most of the other students had even closed their textbooks. Beside me, Sage rose more slowly, head slightly lowered, dark hair falling forward like a curtain. I waited the half-second it took for her to reach my side, then started walking. We never left a classroom at the same time as the crowd if we could help it. Timing mattered. Too early and we stood out. Too late and the hallways turned into hunting grounds. The safest window was narrow, and I had learned to measure it by instinct. Legacy Prep’s main corridor stretched ahead of us in polished tile and pale lockers. Voices bounced off the high ceilings—laughter, shouting, the scrape of shoes. I kept my gaze forward, never lingering on any face longer than a fraction of a second. Looking too long invited attention. Looking down made you look weak. The middle ground was a careful, neutral stare that gave nothing away. Sage walked half a step behind me, close enough that I could feel her presence without needing to check. It was an old arrangement. I took the front. She stayed in my shadow. If someone was going to be hit first, it would be me. We turned left at the junction near the science wing, avoiding the wider central hall where the popular students tended to gather between periods. The longer route added almost a minute to our walk, but it was quieter. Fewer eyes. Fewer chances. My shoulders remained tight the entire way. I had stopped noticing the tension years ago. It lived in my body now—in the way my fingers curled around the strap of my bag, in the way my breathing stayed shallow until we reached the next doorway. Some days I wondered what it would feel like to walk these halls without calculating every step. The thought never lasted long. Wondering was dangerous. It made you careless. A group of juniors passed us going the opposite direction. One of the boys laughed too loudly at something his friend said. My body tensed on reflex before I registered that the sound wasn’t directed at us. Beside me, Sage’s steps faltered for half a second. I slowed just enough to keep us together without making it obvious. “It’s fine,” I murmured, barely moving my lips. Sage didn’t answer, but she stayed close. We reached the stairwell and took the side steps instead of the main ones. The main staircase was brighter, more open, and more likely to contain people who enjoyed an audience. The side stairs smelled faintly of floor cleaner and old paper, and the lighting was weaker, but they were rarely crowded. I preferred them for that reason alone. On the second-floor landing, I paused just long enough to glance down the hall toward our next class. Clear. No familiar faces waiting. I continued forward. Three years of this had taught me the map of the school better than any official tour. I knew which water fountains were safe to stop at and which ones sat too close to the lockers of people who liked to start trouble. I knew which teachers left their doors open between periods and which ones disappeared the moment the bell rang. I knew the exact number of steps between the end of this corridor and the classroom door that would give us cover. Sage had learned the same map, but she still moved like someone who expected the ground to drop out from under her. The scars on the right side of her face—two long, pale lines that cut from brow to cheek and across the edge of her mouth—made her a permanent target. I had stopped counting how many times I had stepped between her and someone’s fists or someone’s words. It didn’t matter. I would keep doing it. We passed a bank of lockers. Someone had left a backpack half-open on the floor. I stepped around it without breaking stride. Behind me, Sage did the same. The air in the hallway felt thicker than it should have. Or maybe that was just the usual weight of being watched even when no one appeared to be looking. I had learned that the absence of immediate danger didn’t mean safety. It only meant the danger hadn’t chosen its moment yet. Our classroom was three doors down. I counted them under my breath without realizing I was doing it. One. Two. Three. The door stood open. I stepped inside first, scanning the room in a single sweep—empty desks near the back, a few students already seated, no one who usually caused problems. I moved toward the two seats we always took, the ones closest to the wall and farthest from the center of the room. Sage slid into the chair beside me a moment later. Only then did some of the tightness in my chest ease. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough that I could set my bag down and pull out my notebook without my hands shaking. I stared at the blank page in front of me and tried to slow my breathing. Around us, the room filled gradually. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed near the front. The teacher’s voice drifted in from the hallway as she spoke to another staff member. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. I still couldn’t fully trust them. Sage sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, hair still falling forward. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. The older scars were familiar by now, but familiarity never made them easier to look at. They were a reminder of what this place could do when no one intervened. Of what it had already done. I looked away before she could notice me staring. I had made a promise to myself a long time ago—quiet, unspoken, but solid. As long as we were in this school, I would stand between Sage and whatever came for us. It didn’t matter that I was tired. It didn’t matter that some mornings I woke up already dreading the walk from the parking lot to the front doors. The promise held. The final bell rang. Students finished filing in. The teacher closed the door and began taking attendance. I kept my eyes on my notebook, pen resting uselessly against the page. My pulse had started to settle, but the familiar exhaustion remained, settled deep in my muscles and behind my eyes. Surviving the hallway was only the first part of the day. There would be more corridors. More calculations. More moments where I would have to decide whether to keep walking or step in front of someone else’s cruelty. I was already tired. And the day had only just begun. Outside the classroom window, the late summer light fell across the school grounds in clean, bright lines. It looked peaceful from a distance. I knew better. Peace at Legacy Prep was just the space between incidents. It never lasted. I turned my attention back to the front of the room as the teacher began the lesson, and forced myself to focus. One period at a time. One hallway at a time. That was how we had made it this far. That was how we would keep going.