Our butts have barely touched the seats when the bell for second period rings, a dull, tragic echo of how close we were to being truly late. Again.
Mr. Halford sends us one last "I'm watching you" look as we gather our things and shuffle out, dodging stares and a few whispered "legends" from classmates. Zoe blows a kiss at no one in particular. I roll my eyes so hard I almost sprain something.
Our next stop is history class—Room 3B. The Room of Eternal Dryness.
But today, weirdly, we are focused. Laser-focused. Possibly traumatized into silence. The adrenaline's still wearing off, our lungs still remember running from The Gatekeeper, and we don't want to push our luck twice in one morning.
Mr. Barnes, our history teacher, drones on about colonial trade routes like he's been personally wronged by the 1600s, but we're dialed in. For once. Heads down. Notes semi-legible. Not a single doodle of a pirate cat in sight. Zoe even whispers to me, "Are we… actually behaving?"
I whisper back, "I think we're in shock."
She nods, scribbling Mercantilism: the original scam in her notebook.
For the next Thirty minutes, we are model students.
Quiet. Attentive. Not even a whisper of sarcasm.
It's haunting.
Mr. Barnes doesn't even notice at first. He's too deep into the historical weeds, rambling about trade monopolies like he's narrating a crime documentary. His voice is flat—classic monotone with a hint of midlife crisis—but today, it hits different. Maybe because we're actually listening. Maybe because our brains are still in survival mode and clinging to any stable information like it's a flotation device.
"Now," he says, pacing slowly across the front of the room being the world's most unimpressed TED Talker, "mercantilism was essentially an economic system that believed a nation's power depended on its wealth—primarily in gold and silver. So, the more a country exported, and the less it imported, the better."
Zoe leans over and whispers, "Basically, the OG hoarders."
I snort, almost choke on it, and quickly cover it with a cough. Mr. Barnes glances up, suspicious, but keeps going. "Colonies existed for the benefit of the mother country. Resources went one way, manufactured goods came back the other. A closed loop of control, wealth, and exploitation."
Zoe raises her hand. Raises. Her. Hand. Like an alien has taken over her body. Because Zoe hates history. Me too.
Mr. Barnes pauses, clearly stunned. "…Yes, Zoe?"
She smiles sweetly. "So, you're saying Britain basically treated the colonies like a sugar daddy with a shopping addiction?"
A few giggles break out. I press my lips together hard to avoid howling. Mr. Barnes blinks a few times, stares at Zoe like he's not sure whether to give her detention or a scholarship. "…Sure," he finally mutters, returning to his notes. "If that metaphor helps you remember."
I scribble Sugar Daddy Britain in the margin of my notebook in all caps and underline it twice.
The lecture rolls on. Triangular trade routes, ship manifests, rum, slaves, spices, more gold. Zoe starts sketching a ship with a grumpy face and a speech bubble that says, Stop colonizing me.
Mr. Barnes starts handing out a worksheet called "Economics of Empire," which sounds like a Netflix original I wouldn't watch but now might actually pass a quiz about. I mean, what is happening? We're learning. We're absorbing. We're like students in one of those coming-of-age movies—before the tragic mid-semester collapse.
I look at Zoe, who's staring down at the worksheet with the same intense focus she usually reserves for TikToks of raccoons eating grapes.
Suddenly—THWACK!
The sound echoes off the walls like a gunshot. Everyone jumps. A few people gasp. I flinch so hard I almost knock my water bottle over.
Mr. Barnes has hurled his chalkboard duster—yes, hurled it—across the room with the righteous fury of a man who's had enough. The duster hits the back wall with a thud and explodes into a cloud of chalk dust and broken dreams.
We all turn. Of course we do. Because we all know who the target was before we even look.
Reggie.
Freakin' Reggie.
He is lounging in the far back corner like he's posing for a rebellious boarding school magazine spread. Head tilted against the wall. Hoodie half-zipped like he's perpetually between nap and nightclub. Arms crossed. Legs stretched out. Not a care in the known universe. He opens one eye lazily.
Mr. Barnes is fuming. "Mr. Maddox," he says in a tone that suggests violence but is legally required to remain professional, "do you plan on joining us in the land of the conscious today, or is my teaching not exotic enough to compete with your dreams?"
The class snickers.
He yawns. Yawns. Then stretches as if he's waking up from a luxury spa nap and not, you know, dozing off in history class. His hair is annoyingly perfect, even messed up. That artfully ruined kind of perfect that looks like it took two hours to not try.
Someone near him whispers, "God, even the way he sleeps is hot."
I want to throw a pencil at them. Zoe actually does. She misses.
"Wasn't sleeping," he mutters. "Just thinking. About history. Deeply." He says in that voice. That low, rumble-under-the-skin voice that sounds like a warning label.
Half the class groans. The other half swoons.
Mr. Barnes rubs his temples. I know he regrets every career decision that led him to this exact moment. "One day, Mr. Maddox, your charm will stop working."
Reggie leans back again. "That sounds like a future me problem."
He's that kind of annoying magic that, if charm, audacity, and undeserved academic excellence had a baby, and that baby was really good-looking and owned expensive sneakers. Reggie leans his chair back again, clearly unbothered by the near-assassination attempt via duster. He doesn't even look at the worksheet. He's the definition of that annoying phrase—effortless.
A walking contradiction.
Rich kid. Good hair. Better jawline. Zero manners. Straight A's and detentions, all in the same breath. Misses class like it's a hobby, shows up late, sleeps through entire lectures—and still somehow tops every single exam.
He's also got the shortest fuse in school.
Someone breathes too loud near him? Fight.
Someone bumps his desk? Fight.
Someone looks at him? Fight.
Once, in the cafeteria, someone took the last chocolate milk and he flipped a tray over. Full WWE mode. Fighting is basically his favorite subject.
I don't even think he wants to be liked. But of course, girls like him anyway. That's the worst part.
"Pick up the duster, Reggie," Mr. Barnes says, tired like he's aged five years in the last five seconds.
Reggie tilts his head. "You threw it. You pick it up."
Gasps. Real ones. We're in a courtroom drama and someone just screamed Objection! with no warning. I glance at Zoe. She's got popcorn eyes. She lives for this. So do I, honestly.
Mr. Barnes exhales. He's trying not to combust. "Do I need to send you to the principal's office?"
Reggie shrugs. "Do what you got to do."
Reggie just keeps leaning back in his chair like he's sunbathing on a yacht and not seconds away from academic warfare. The confidence this guy walks around with could fund a small country.
Mr. Barnes finally says after a long sigh, voice clipped, "If I see you sleep again in the class, you're out."
Reggie holds up his hands in mock surrender, all lazy grin and villain energy. "Not sleeping anymore."
Mr. Barnes does the classic slow nod, the universal teacher sign for I am choosing peace because I've already taken two antacids today. Because he knows, we all know, there's no use arguing with him or sending him to the principal office again and again. He's going to get away with everything.
"Everyone, turn to page 172," he mutters, like if he pretends that just didn't happen, maybe the universe will cut him some slack.
Zoe flips her book open with dramatic flair. "I swear," she whispers, "if he wasn't such a menace, he could be a model. Or like… a movie villain. The hot kind."
"He already is," I mutter, watching Reggie casually pick up the duster—not because he was asked again, but just to prove he gets the final move. He spins it in his fingers like it's a drumstick, then drops it right back on the floor.
Thud.
Petty. Precise. Infuriating.
Such a rich brat.