THE BAIT

CHAPTER TWO

By the time the school day ended, my head hurt. Not from learning anything — honestly, I barely heard half of what the teachers said — but from holding in so much nervous energy that my jaw was locked. Every minute of that first day felt like someone had put a spotlight on me, even though nobody actually cared.

I walked out of the school gates fast, almost running, pretending I was just in a hurry. The weather had gotten hotter. Sweat stuck the back of my shirt to my skin. I tugged at my backpack strap, breathing through the tightness in my throat.

All I wanted was to get home.

I needed silence.

I needed space.

I needed to breathe without thinking about people staring at me.

The bus came late. I stood alone at the stop while other students got picked up by shiny cars. One girl even had a driver dressed in full uniform open the door for her, like something from a movie.

I looked at the road instead of her.

When the bus finally came, it wheezed like it was tired of being alive. Paint faded. Seats torn. Windows stuck open. I dropped into a seat near the back and closed my eyes, pushing the day away.

Jack crossed my mind.

His stare.

The way his friends gathered around him like bees to sugar.

The sound of laughter he didn’t even need to make.

There was something weird about the moment he looked at me — like it mattered, even though it shouldn’t. I pushed the thought aside. People like him didn’t notice people like me. I was invisible.

The bus rattled to a stop near my street. I got off and walked quickly, heart sinking with every step. The houses here were nothing like Westvale. They sat close together, small paint-peeled walls, bent fences, cracked steps. Laundry hung outside because dryers cost money.

Our house was the third one from the end — white, once. Now the paint just peeled like dead skin. One window was cracked, taped back together. The roof leaked when it rained.

I stepped inside.

The air smelled like whiskey and sweat.

Dad was home.

And drunk. Again.

He was passed out on the couch — one arm hanging off the side, his shirt open, belly rising and falling like he was struggling to breathe. Bottles littered the floor near his feet. One was empty. One half full. One tipped over, dripping slowly onto the carpet.

I closed the door quietly.

If he woke up, there would be a fight.

“Dad,” I whispered anyway, just to check. “Are you okay?”

No answer.

His face was red. His hair messy. His breathing loud. I crouched beside him, checking his pulse the way my mom had taught me — she used to be a nurse before she got sick.

His heartbeat was steady. Slow, but steady.

He’d live.

Again.

I exhaled and stood up. My stomach tightened from hunger, but we barely had food at home. I checked the fridge. Half a loaf of bread. A little peanut butter. One apple.

I ate nothing.

The food needed to last.

I went to my room. The walls were thin. I could hear water dripping in the bathroom even though the tap was off. I threw my backpack onto the mattress — no bed frame underneath, just the mattress on the floor — and sat beside it.

My head hurt worse now.

I stared at my hands. They shook a little.

Mom.

I needed to visit her.

I checked the time. 5:02 p.m. Visiting hours ended at six. I still had a chance. I changed clothes quickly, grabbed the apple, and left the house quietly.

Outside, the sun was fading. The sky turned orange, then purple. I walked fast toward the bus stop. My legs ached. I didn’t care. The hospital wasn’t close, but I knew exactly how long it took to get there — forty-five minutes if I caught the bus on time.

When I got to the stop, two people were already waiting.

Aunt Grace.

And Elijah.

My cousin.

“Alex!” Aunt Grace smiled when she saw me. “Good timing. Come here.”

Her arms wrapped around me before I could react. She smelled like soap and cooking spices, warm and familiar.

“How was school?”

I shrugged. “Fine.”

Her eyes softened. “You’re lying.”

I didn’t argue.

Elijah raised his hand for a fist bump. He was my age — seventeen — but taller and louder and always dressed neatly.

“You survive the rich people?” he teased.

“Barely.”

He laughed. “Knew it.”

The bus arrived, and the three of us got on. Aunt Grace paid for my ticket before I could stop her.

At the hospital, the smell hit immediately — disinfectant and sickness. It always pulled something tight inside my chest. I walked quickly toward Room 214, my heart pounding faster with every step.

When we reached the doorway, I paused.

Mom lay in the bed, small under the blankets, her head wrapped in a scarf. Her eyes were closed. Machines beeped softly beside her.

She looked tired. Too tired.

A nurse adjusted something on the drip line, then smiled at us.

“She’s awake,” the nurse said gently. “Go ahead.”

I stepped closer, trying not to cry. Mom opened her eyes slowly. When she saw me, her face lit up — not with pain or fear, but love.

“My Alex,” she whispered.

I leaned down and hugged her. Her body felt fragile — bones sharp, muscles thin. She held onto me like she didn’t want to let go.

“How was school?” she asked quietly.

I forced a smile. “Good.”

“Tell me everything.”

I sat beside her bed. Aunt Grace and Elijah sat on the sofa near the window, talking softly.

I told Mom about the building, the classrooms, the fancy students, the fountain, the teachers. Everything except the truth.

I didn’t tell her I felt invisible.

Or stupid.

Or terrified.

Or hungry.

I definitely didn’t tell her about Dad.

She didn’t need more pain.

Mom smiled at me as I talked, her eyes shining with something I hadn’t seen in a while — pride.

“I’m so glad you got in,” she whispered. “You deserve that school, Alex. Don’t forget that.”

I nodded. But the words felt heavy.

Elijah leaned forward suddenly. “Any cute boys there?”

I choked. “What?”

Aunt Grace slapped his shoulder lightly. “Leave him alone.”

Mom laughed — a soft, warm sound. The kind I missed.

The nurse came back to check her temperature and blood pressure. When she left again, the room got quiet. Mom squeezed my hand.

“How’s your father?” she asked.

My chest tightened. “He’s… fine.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“You don’t have to protect him.”

I looked away.

She sighed. “I’m sorry you’re handling everything alone.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Her eyes softened. She brushed my cheek with shaking fingers.

“I love you, Alex.”

“I love you more.”

Visiting hours ended too soon. Aunt Grace hugged Mom goodbye and told her she’d come again tomorrow. Elijah told her jokes until she laughed. I stayed quiet, memorizing every line on her face.

When we left the room, my stomach twisted. Every goodbye felt like a risk now.

Outside, the air was colder. Aunt Grace offered for me to sleep at her house, but I shook my head.

“I have homework,” I lied.

She touched my arm. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will.”

Elijah ruffled my hair. “Don’t let the rich boys bully you.”

I gave a small smile.

“I won’t.”

On the bus ride home, I stared out the window, thinking about Mom. The chemo made her weaker every time. Her smile was thinner. Her laugh was quieter. She wasn’t getting better — everyone could see that.

By the time I reached my street, my face felt numb.

When I stepped inside the house, Dad wasn’t on the couch anymore. He was standing in the kitchen, drinking straight from the bottle.

He barely noticed me walk in.

“Where you been?” he slurred.

“Hospital.”

“You go every day?”

“Yes.”

He drank again. Hand shaking.

“You think she’s coming back?” he muttered.

I didn’t answer.

His voice rose. “I SAID — you think she’s coming back?”

I froze.

“I hope so,” I said finally.

He threw the bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall and shattered.

“She’s not coming back!” he shouted. “She left us! That’s what people do — they leave!”

My throat burned.

“She didn’t leave.”

“She LEFT,” he repeated, voice cracking. “And she’s dying, and when she dies, there will be NOTHING left!”

He stumbled backward, breathing hard. I stayed still.

He wiped his face, shaking. “Why you even go there? Huh?”

“Because she needs me.”

“And what about ME?” he yelled. “Who needs ME?”

I looked at him. Red eyes. Unshaven face. Shirt stained. The kind of broken that turns sharp.

“I do,” I whispered.

Something in his expression changed. He stared at me like he didn’t recognize the words. Then he laughed — short and bitter.

“No you don’t.”

He walked past me, bumping my shoulder hard, and disappeared into his room.

I stood there alone, glass pieces around my feet. The house was silent again.

I picked up the broom and swept the floor slowly, carefully, breathing through the sting in my eyes. When I finished, I washed the dishes, wiped the tables, folded the blankets on the couch — anything to keep moving.

Because stopping meant thinking.

And thinking hurt.

When the house was quiet, I went to my room, closed the door, and lay on the mattress staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow I had to go back to Westvale.

Back to the perfect halls.

Back to the whispering students.

Back to Jack.

I turned to my side, curling into myself.

I hoped sleep would come fast.

It didn’t.

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