Straight Flush

There was no one more terrifying than a mother, especially when she had her mind set on something.

At the worst possible time, mine was determined to make me attend school. Not even Tom could sway her, and he was one of the best agents I knew.

Mom set down a glass of milk. “Don’t look so glum, sweetie. Jefferson High is a wonderful school. Won’t it be nice to spend a few months without looking over your shoulder?”

“The Underground’s been getting dangerously active,” I said. “EAGLE needs me to—”

“You’re a fourteen-year-old boy. You should be worrying about making the football team or passing a math test, not taking down a criminal organization. Now hurry, or you’ll miss the bus.”

I slung my backpack over the shoulder. Mom had bought it for me, gushing over finding one with Darth Vader on the back. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I despised it with every fiber of my being. Just because I liked Star Wars did not mean I wanted to broadcast the fact to the entire school.

“Have fun!” she called.

That wasn’t happening anytime soon. I had watched enough TV to know that the new kid always got picked on until they could prove their mettle. It was like initiation in a wolf pack. Unfortunately, everything about my life that could be considered cool was classified.

There were eleven kids at my bus stop, looking dead-eyed and half asleep. Was Jefferson High filled with zombies?

A slender Asian girl flounced up to the curb, a cup of coffee in her hand. Seeing as she was the only person fully awake, I took the plunge.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m—”

She held up her hand and took a sip of coffee. “I don’t care.”

The boy next to me chuckled. “Tough luck, man. I can’t believe you tried to speak to the Cheryl Lin.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” I asked.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at me like I was an interesting lab specimen. “You’re new, aren’t you? Cheryl’s the most popular girl in school. Her parents are world-renowned scientists who fund practically everything in Jefferson High. The consensus is to keep your mouth shut unless she initiates the conversation.”

The bus pulled up to the stop, the brakes screeching like bats, and the students surged toward the doors in a giant wave.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” the boy called out as the crowd pushed us apart. “That’s a nice backpack you’ve got there.”

I thought he was being sarcastic until I remembered his Empire Strikes Back shirt. The front half of the bus was full, so I claimed a seat at the back instead of trying to squeeze in with someone else.

After a few more stops, many seats had multiple people cramming into them. I felt a little self-conscious about the space beside me. When the bus driver made a left turn, several students murmured in confusion.

The driver smiled at us through the mirror. “We’re making a special stop for a student from one of the inner city communities.”

Cheryl opened her mouth, but the driver continued on. “I know that Jefferson High has a reputation to uphold, Miss Cheryl, but someone pulled some strings for this boy to come here, so I’m afraid it’s all out of our power.”

I wondered what he would look like. Maybe I had been watching too much King of New York because all I could picture was a guy with a buzz cut and tattoos wearing a hoodie.

When the bus jolted to a stop, everyone stood up in their seats.

Instead of tattoos, the boy who got on had a long scar that ran down the side of his face. His blue eyes darted around the bus, searching and assessing, like he was trying to decide if he could take us all in a fight.

I blinked as I realized he had walked right up to me.

“Move over,” he said. “It’s the only empty seat.”

The boy tilted his head back, revealing a pair of wireless earbuds that, last I checked, were far too expensive for anyone living in the inner city to afford. Now that I looked more carefully, the fabric of the shirt appeared to be high quality.

One thing was for sure—there was more to this boy than what met the eye. That made him a person of interest, and in my line of work, interesting often meant dangerous.

Jefferson High, for all its prestige, was not designed with defense in mind. The decorative turrets on the roof were perfect for a sniper, and the bushes lining the sidewalks were thick enough to conceal an assassin. The columns also provided hiding places that would make it easy to slip poison in the pipes to the water fountains.

Paired with the fact that the school held the children of the most powerful people in the country, it was a wonder it hadn’t been attacked. The administrators probably had to pay the Underground to leave it alone.

My first period was biology, and we were supposed to build a model of an animal cell with our table mates. I hoped mine had a good understanding of the subject because my last science class was in first grade where we had learned the names of our fingers.

When the girl to my right grabbed a ball of orange clay and began spouting off a list of complicated terms, I was happy to let her take the lead.

It was going well until she got into an argument with Darren over the number of vacuoles. Michelle, the fourth member at our table, seemed as lost as I was.

The only thing I learned was the fact that the mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell. Even then, it was because of a girl beside us who shouted the phrase every few minutes.

High schoolers were insane.

I fared a little better in math class, though the teacher, Ms. Lamar, spent most of the time lecturing. She had a voice I wanted to record and play back whenever I had insomnia.

The guy sitting next to me kept snatching my pencils. It was annoying, but the worksheets required all my concentration, so I waited until class was over to confront him.

I found him with several of his friends by the lockers. The shortest among them was at least six feet, and they were all heavily built. I was willing to bet a fortune they were football players.

“—glad I took algebra as a junior,” said the guy from my math class. “It’s so easy I won’t even need to study. You should have seen the freshie next to me, though, frowning over basic equations like it was rocket science.”

His friends laughed as I marched up to the group. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

He grinned. “What if I do?”

I held out my hand. “I’d like them back.”

He yanked the pencils out of reach when I tried to grab them. “A little too slow there, buddy.”

A crowd started to gather around us.

“Uh oh,” one of the football players said. “Looks like the freshie’s getting mad. Better watch out, Josiah, he might tattle on you.”

The bystanders tittered. Josiah began a game of keep away with the pencils. Being half a foot taller than me, he had an unfair advantage.

“You have to do a trick before you can get your treat,” Josiah teased. “Though I don’t know why you’d want these back. They’re a dime a dozen at the dollar store.”

“That’s the ghetto boy, sweetie,” said one of the girls in the crowd. “It must have cost his poor mother a month’s salary to afford them.”

She had straight black hair that reached her tiny waist and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“Good point, Cheryl,” Josiah said. “But if he really is from the ghetto, he’s probably involved in all kinds of illegal activities.”

Anger burned in my chest. If I had met the guy on an assignment, I would have taken him out and filed it as collateral damage.

He held up the pencils. “I’ll take these as part of your fine. You have to give me a hundred bucks to pay off the rest. Get your pothead friends to scrounge up the money.”

My vision went red. Before I knew it, Josiah was on the ground, his wrist bent at an awkward angle.

Cheryl ran to him, crying like he was a warrior who had fallen in battle. Her friend, a brunette named Jenny, raced to get a teacher.

That was how I found myself locked in a staring contest with the principal. Rather, he was the one glaring at me while I entertained myself by counting the number of gray hairs in his mustache.

I was at sixty-seven when Josiah entered the office. His arm was in a sling.

“I have called both of your parents,” the principal said, mustache quivering with disapproval. “They should be here any minute now to discuss your punishment.”

“Sir, if I may bring in some witnesses to describe the situation,” Josiah said. “Both our explanations will probably be biased, and it would help to get an objective point of view.”

“Only one student, Josiah. I don’t want to pull too many people out of class on account of some ghetto boy.”

The parents arrived at the same time Cheryl came into the office. Josiah’s father had on a suit, looking to the world like the businessman he was. His mother wore a red cocktail dress with her lips painted to match.

My own mother looked shabby in comparison, though she had worn the jeans without holes today.

“I hope this won’t take too long, Trent,” Josiah’s mother said. “I was entertaining guests in my parlor.”

“Not at all, Darcy,” the principal reassured. “Josiah was injured in an attack by the ghetto student. We need to come up with a suitable punishment.”

“My name is Ace, you know,” I said.

The principal ignored me. “Cheryl, dear, could you tell Mr. and Mrs. Sargon what happened?”

Cheryl launched into an exaggerated tale, making it sound like I had attacked unprovoked, biting and clawing like a wild animal before three of Josiah’s friends had heroically pulled me back.

“It was terrible.” Cheryl shook her head. “He makes me fear for our safety.”

Josiah’s parents looked horrified.

“Our poor boy,” Mrs. Sargon sniffed. “He must have been scared to death.”

“Has it occurred to anyone else, that as Josiah’s girlfriend, Cheryl might have wildly exaggerated the story to make me look bad?” I said. “Josiah was goading me into a fight.”

The principal waved his hand. “Boys will be boys, and boys will tease. However, it is not okay to react to the teasing by mortally injuring someone.”

“I broke his arm, not his neck,” I muttered. “Though I’m starting to wish I had.”

Josiah’s father gasped. “Are you threatening my son?”

“No, just stating how I feel. I hear it’s good therapy.”

“Ace, apologize,” my mother ordered.

“And I decide I don’t want to. What can you do about it, Mother?”

“The boy is a menace,” Mr. Sargon said. “He ought to be expelled!”

The principal sighed. “I wish I could, Roman, but it’s not even in my power to suspend him since the city wants to extend opportunities to students from poor backgrounds. However, he will be on probation, with a student watching him every second, and he will attend detention every day for the next month.”

I shot to my feet. “Who’ll make me, Mr. Giovanni? You?”

My mother grabbed my arm. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, everyone. I’m going to talk some sense into my son.”

Josiah smirked as she dragged me out the door.

The moment we were out of earshot, my mother hissed, “What were you thinking? Picking fights like this at school will get you unwanted attention.”

“I didn’t start the fight, Mother.” I was tired explaining it. “I just finished it.”

“And how are you going to explain the broken bone?”

“I’ll say I took some martial arts classes.”

Mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “You need to control your anger, Ace. I’m just glad it didn’t end in someone’s death this time.”

“Quit acting so high and mighty. You’ve had your share of drug-fueled rages.”

“Don’t bring that up now. I’ve been clean for years.”

“Notice how that only happened after I learned to fight back,” I said. “Got scared? Or was the high no longer satisfying without a punching bag?”

“That’s enough, Jacen!” She slapped me across the face.

I stumbled back.

Mother looked horrified. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” I said. “I know exactly what you meant.”