Mornings at the Home
The group home mornings were always the worst. The boys woke up restless, bumping into each other in the narrow hallway, half-dressed, voices loud. The staff barked out orders about chores, breakfast, and curfew reminders like it was a military drill.
Jayden kept his head down, brushing past Terrence and the others, but he felt their eyes on him. The fight at school had made him a bigger target. Some saw him as dangerous. Others saw him as easy bait.
At the table, his oatmeal sat heavy and gray. Terrence leaned across with that smirk Jayden hated.
"Your girl still ignoring you, Scrap?"
The others laughed.
Jayden didn't look up. He shoveled another spoonful of oatmeal, slow, steady. He could feel the rage rising — hot in his chest, buzzing in his ears — but he swallowed it back.
"Not today," he muttered under his breath, pushing away from the table.
The staff barely looked up as he dumped his tray. They didn't care unless blood hit the floor.
---
School Pressure
School was no better.
The teachers had stopped trying. Every raised eyebrow, every pointed glance at his record reminded him he wasn't a student — he was a case number. He heard them in hushed tones when they thought he wasn't listening:
"He's smart, but he won't last."
"It's only a matter of time."
In history class, while the teacher droned on about wars fought centuries ago, Jayden sketched in the corner of his notebook. Lines and shadows spilled across the page, forming a boy behind bars.
When the teacher caught him, she sighed, tapping her desk with the ruler.
"Mr. Carter, care to join us in the real world?"
He looked up, his voice low but sharp. "This is the real world."
The class chuckled. The teacher frowned.
Another mark in his file.
---
Escalation
It wasn't long before Marcus found his moment.
In the hallway between classes, he shoved Jayden again, books scattering across the floor.
"Oops," Marcus said, grinning. "Clumsy foster kid."
Jayden froze. His pulse hammered. He bent down, grabbing his books, jaw locked tight.
"Careful," Marcus sneered, leaning down. "Don't want to end up back in juvie, right?"
Something in those words snapped. Not because Marcus was wrong — but because he was right.
Jayden's fist clenched. His whole body screamed to fight. But Malik's voice echoed faintly in his head: Not every fight is worth your peace.
He closed his eyes, sucked in a sharp breath, and walked away.
The laughter followed him down the hall, each sound like a knife.
But for the first time, he hadn't swung.
---
Reflection
That night, back in his room, he pulled out his sketchbook.
He drew until his hand cramped — jagged lines, heavy shadows. He drew the group home walls, the school hallways, the reflection of himself in the cracked mirror. He drew Tasha's eyes, not smiling this time but looking at him the way she had the day she walked out — hurt, confused, distant.
Then, on the last page, he wrote in shaky letters:
If I can't fight them, who do I fight?
He stared at the words for a long time.
He didn't know the answer.
---
The Night Talk
Later, Ms. Delaney stopped by, knocking gently before stepping in.
"You've been quiet today," she said.
"Yeah," Jayden muttered.
"Good quiet or dangerous quiet?"
He smirked, just a little. "Both."
She studied him, arms folded. "Jayden, I know you think the world already decided who you are. Angry. Broken. Dangerous. But you're not done writing your story. You're fourteen. There's more left than you think."
Her words landed heavy. He wanted to believe her.
But part of him still thought he was bent too far to straighten out.
When she left, he opened the sketchbook again and traced over the crooked heart he'd drawn for Tasha.
Bent, yeah.
But maybe not broken.