1917

January 21, 1918

In an unexpected departure from our usual lectures on wars and battles, today’s history class drifted into the cold depths of the Titanic—a story as grand in ambition as it was tragic in its demise. The discussion centered on the role human arrogance played in that catastrophe, and the room buzzed with insight. I found myself wishing you’d been there; the revelations came fast, sharp, and strangely moving.

At one point, I couldn’t resist muttering, “Next time, don’t call your ship unsinkable.” Expecting a reprimand, I braced myself—but Mrs. Pinkton only smiled and nodded, amused by the blunt truth. Encouraged, she asked, “What else do you know about the Titanic?” I admitted—mildly embarrassed—that my knowledge barely scratched the surface.

  Her response was gentle. She shared something I had never heard: the ship’s band refused to abandon their instruments. They kept playing as the Titanic sank, music rising over the screams and chaos. The room fell silent.

  “That’s insane!” Michael blurted, capturing the awe all of us felt.

  Mrs. Pinkton’s light joke about abandoning her own ship quickly spiraled into darker questions—morality in the face of death. When I told her she’d feel guilty leaving people behind, she prodded, “Wasn’t it every man for himself on that ship?” I could only nod. “Yes—unfortunately, the people turned to animals there.”

  The room dimmed into a somber hush. Mrs. Pinkton bowed her head. “We won’t ever forget this tragedy of our time.” A tear shone in her eye.

  Instinctively, I stepped forward and hugged her. She accepted it without hesitation.

  From the back, Michael added with earnest conviction, “It’ll be in the history books someday—I swear it.” Mrs. Pinkton nodded but warned us in a trembling voice, “History distorts truth. I wonder who they’ll blame. History tends to defend a preferred side.” She speculated aloud that future generations might paint the captain and crew as victims of a freak accident.

That suggestion lit a fire in me.

  Accident my a*s. The captain should have shown more caution. Sailing through icy waters demanded vigilance, not pride. If even one iceberg could doom the ship, then the logical answer was painfully simple: don’t tempt fate. Their arrogance sank the Titanic—and carved a wound in history that still bleeds.

English Class

Our next period felt worlds away from steel hulls and icy seas. We shifted to Emerson’s serenity, and I chose The Garden for my reading. Peace lasted all of ten seconds. Abel slid into the seat beside me and stabbed my arm with his pencil.

  Mrs. Walter’s voice cracked like a whip. “Abel, what in God’s name is wrong with you?”

  He muttered a flimsy, “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  She glared—stone-hard, unamused. “It better not.” Abel smirked, shallow and defiant, but the truth was obvious: the reprimand stung him more than he’d admit.

  Still, the whole incident left nerves crawling beneath my skin. His retaliation always came. I’d seen him climb into his family’s Metz Model 25, polished to a blinding shine, his father flicking cigarette ash into the grass with utter carelessness—like fire was someone else’s problem. Wealth wrapped them like armor. And Abel wielded that entitlement like a weapon.

  His cruelty wasn’t random. It was inherited—old money, old arrogance. My family lived simply. Worked hard. The contrast gnawed at me, breeding a resentment that felt justified.

Science Class

Walking into Mr. Casio’s classroom felt like stepping into sanctuary. For the first time all day, Abel’s shadow didn’t loom over me. If heaven were a feeling, it would be the relief of that room.

  Today, though, heaven came with a scalpel. We were dissecting a pigeon—or maybe a dove. Either way, guilt pricked my conscience. Last year’s frog dissection hadn’t bothered me; frogs freak me out. But this felt wrong, like trespassing on something gentle.

  My thoughts drifted, darker than I intended. I pictured the poison dart frogs we’d studied. Part of me wished Abel would meet one. Their toxins end lives in a heartbeat. Cruel, yes—but the idea felt like justice in miniature.

  “Are you alright, Jeremiah?” Mr. Casio’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

  “I just think this assignment is morally wrong,” I said.

  He nodded, sympathetic but unyielding. “We’re required to teach it. Unless you want me to fail you?”

  I sighed. “Fine. I’ll cut the damn pigeon.”

  “Language,” he warned.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  But once I started the incision, curiosity slipped past guilt. Inside, I found the gullet—the pouch where pebbles were stored. Intriguing, in its own strange way.

  Mr. Casio shrugged. “I don’t much fancy pigeons.”

  “Yeah,” someone chimed in, “they just poop on cars and eat trash.”

  “Precisely!” he laughed, turning it into a shared joke.

  I kept exploring, lifted the pigeon’s heart, and called out, “Guys, look at this!”

  Instant regret. The chorus of gagging nearly drowned me.

After School

But the day’s real terror waited outside. Abel blocked my path, shoved me to the ground, and scattered my books into the dirt.

  My anger snapped like a brittle twig. “What gives, Abel? Daddy don’t respect you?”

  It was the wrong move.

  He punched me hard enough to flare stars in my vision. “Oops,” he mocked.

  “You’re a real piece of crap!” I spat, shaking.

  “At least my father isn’t a coal miner,” he sneered.

  “My father loves me!”

  “I doubt that.” He spit on me, then walked away.

  “Go to hell!” I yelled.

  “Oh, I’m already there. Right with you…”

  His laughter echoed long after he vanished. That line—at least my father isn’t a coal miner—cut worse than the punch. But I swore he’d pay for it someday.

  And then fate intervened.

Abel’s next stunt wasn’t petty. It wasn’t a joke. He tried to set the forest on fire.

  That was when certainty crystallized: Abel Simmons wasn’t just a bully.

  He was dangerous. He was reckless. He was pure scum.