The sky had already darkened over Beverly Hills High School, gray clouds gathering like a bruised ceiling. Isaac Wilson, nineteen, sat crumpled against the brick wall near the supply closet alcove, his cheek throbbing from a fresh bruise. His backpack lay torn open, books scattered in the dirt with pages curling in the damp. He was in his second senior year, held back by family chaos that had shattered his focus.
It had started in Ms. Carter's history class. She'd been riding Derek, who'd been talking and making noise throughout the lesson. As the football team's linebacker and self-proclaimed king of the class, he'd decided he wouldn't pay attention.
"Derek, if you don't know the Treaty of Versailles, then don't bother coming to my class. If you cause more noise or trouble, I will make sure to have you in detention," she snapped. Then she asked the question again, this time to the room.
Derek's glare swept the classroom. Everyone felt it. No one dared answer.
"Mr. Wilson, care to enlighten us?" Ms. Carter called.
Isaac looked up and pointed to himself. "You mean me?"
Ms. Carter frowned. "Are there other Mr. Wilsons in this class?"
Isaac muttered under his breath, "Why'd this bitch have to choose me?" He tried to keep it low, but the students around him heard it and laughed. Ms. Carter's frown deepened.
"What did you say?"
"It was a slip of the tongue," he said quickly.
"Are you going to answer or not?"
He could feel Derek's glare burning into his back, but he answered anyway. He couldn't risk getting on the teacher's bad side; he didn't plan on repeating this grade again. "It ended World War I in 1919 and set Germany's reparations."
The room froze. He'd expected this kind of reaction since it was clear he had just gone against Derek.
"Well, very good. For a moment I thought you'd say you didn't know. In that case, I would have gladly given your test score a failing grade."
Isaac breathed a quiet sigh of relief. At least I saved myself this time. But I'd better be ready.
When class ended, about ten minutes before school let out, they waited just long enough for the hall to thin. The patience was almost sweet.
"Hey, genius," Derek said, steering Isaac into the alcove by the supply closet. Two other guys, Brock and Mikey, flanked him, wearing easy smiles like they were about to pose for a photo.
"I'm—" Isaac started.
"Sorry?" Derek supplied. "Yeah. Good. Start there."
"Think you're smart, Wilson?" Derek snarled, slamming him back against the wall. Isaac's glasses flew crooked, one lens spider-webbing with cracks.
"I'm sorry, man, I didn't mean—"
A fist slammed into his gut, chopping the breath out of him.
"'Sorry' don't cut it," Mikey said, driving a punch into Isaac's shoulder. "You made Derek look dumb."
"I'm sorry, I swear!" Isaac gasped, curling inward. Brock grabbed his bag, ripping it open and tossing books to the ground.
"Nerd shit," Brock laughed.
Derek leaned close, breath hot against Isaac's face. "You should've known this was coming. I gave you the glare to shut the hell up. What were you trying to prove, that you're some kind of big shot?"
"I… you don't understand. I can't fail this grade again," Isaac said. "She called on me. I wouldn't have answered otherwise."
Derek nodded like it was reasonable, then drove a short jab into Isaac's ribs, the kind you only learn after a hundred drills. Air folded out of Isaac as he doubled over coughing.
"Hey," Mikey said with faux concern. "You okay, little man?"
"I'm sorry," Isaac said again. It came out thin, bent around pain. "I'm… I'm sorry."
"Head up," Brock said. Isaac obeyed. The next hit split his lip. The one after puffed his cheek. He didn't lift his hands. Didn't try to block any of it. He knew for a fact that people who fought back got suspended. Not like he could even fight one of them, let alone all three together. It was best he took the beating like a good boy than have things get worse than they already were. Even with all that, he didn't think he was going to last much longer. But it seemed luck was on his side. Derek threw a final punch at his left cheek, which swelled up instantly. Then spat on him, the wet glob slapping against his shirt. "Stay down, loser. Try that stunt again and I'll make it worse."
They swaggered off laughing as the bell signaled the end of the day.
Isaac sat there panting, the taste of blood metallic in his mouth. Growing up on New Ashen's rough edges, he'd been the skinny kid and an easy target. This was nothing new. He wiped his face, winced, and squinted at the ground around him. Everything was a blur without his glasses. He patted the dirt with his hands, feeling around until his fingers brushed the cracked frames. He picked them up and slid them on. The left lens was spider-webbed so bad he could barely see through it, but it was better than nothing.
He started gathering his books. Pages were torn. His math textbook was soaked. His bag's strap dangled, useless.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered, shoving the books inside. "Same old shit."
He stood up and brushed the dirt from his jeans, glanced around to make sure no one had seen any of it, then made his way outside. The sky had turned the color of dirty metal. Thunder rolled, slow and threatening, like a truck idling on a hill. Students ran for the parking lots. A few boyfriends held jackets over girlfriends as they sprinted. Someone's dad honked twice and yelled through a cracked window. A beat-up Civic fishtailed on wet asphalt and righted itself with a curse.
The sky rumbled, promising rain. Isaac hugged his torn bag to his chest to shield his books. "How much more pathetic can I be?" he said aloud, starting down the sidewalk. A passing student shot him a look, but Isaac didn't care. Talking to himself was normal. People thought he was off sometimes, but it was how he coped.
"Nineteen and still getting my ass kicked. Thought it'd stop by now. Guess not." He gave a bitter laugh. "Can't even fight back. Look at me, skinny, weak. But to be fair, those football guys are jacked. Any more of their punches and I'd be done for. Not like anyone would care."
He looked at his wristwatch, cracked but still ticking. It read 4:07 PM. He had to be home by 5:00. That rule was drilled into him. The sky growled again and the rain began in earnest, soaking his hoodie. He had no umbrella or jacket with him, so him and his bag were getting heavier by the second.
He trudged toward the expressway where a crosswalk led to his neighborhood. Cars sped by, spraying water. At the crosswalk he waited for the light, shivering as the rain picked up.
A sudden boom shook the ground like a mini earthquake. Lightning cracked down the middle of the road, so close Isaac felt the vibration through his sneakers. Cars swerved. Horns blared.
"Holy shit," he whispered, staring at the strike point. There would have been an accident if the driver hadn't yanked the wheel in time. The asphalt looked scorched, but something was off. It seemed to cave inward, like a crater. He squinted through the rain, but between the downpour and his smudged, cracked glasses he couldn't really make it out. The walk sign flipped to green. He hurried across, and halfway through he realized his eyes kept drifting back toward the crater.
Up close, it was deeper than he'd thought. A jagged hole in the road. In its center lay something pitch black, darker than anything he'd ever seen, like it swallowed light. He stepped closer, not paying attention to his surroundings, ignoring the fact that he was still partially in the road.
Inside was a book. Ancient looking and heavy, bound in black leather with a cover seemingly untouched by the rain. Gold metal reinforcements framed its edges, etched with faint runes that pulsed with their own light. A strange lock like mechanism held it shut. It looked like something pulled from a museum, ancient enough to have lasted thousands of years, like an artifact from the B.C. era.
He bent down and tried to lift the book out. Rainwater was already filling the crater, but the thing resisted. The instant his fingers slid under the edge, weight hit his arms like he'd grabbed a crate of bricks. His wet shoes squeaked. He wobbled.
"What the… since when do books weigh—" He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. The gold edge was shockingly cold. He hauled, forearms burning. The book came free with a sucking sound.
He hugged it to his chest. It felt heavier than his backpack, impossibly heavy for its size, when the thing was no bigger than a small Bible.
"Hey, kid!" a driver shouted, leaning out his window. "Get the fuck out of the road! You wanna die?"
Isaac snapped out of his daze as horns blared. "Sorry, sorry!" he called, stumbling to the sidewalk with the book clutched tight. The driver, a middle aged man with a woman in the passenger seat, shook his head.
"Kids these days, looking for suicide in the street," he grumbled.
His wife said, "Told you the city's different from the countryside."
Isaac bowed, still apologizing as their car peeled away. He looked at the book one last time, then slid it into his torn bag. The weight dragged the strap deeper into his shoulder and he winced. Between the bruises from the beating and the weight of this thing, his body was already begging him to stop.He glanced at his watch. 4:24.He started walking again, head down, the taste of blood still lingering on his lip.
"Thirty minutes," he told the storm. "I can do thirty."