aubrey

4 | ♠️ | -- logged

Daniel is sitting on the curb outside the front doors when his mom's car pulls into the pick up lane. He doesn't wave—he never waves—but instead stands, adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, and walks toward it.

She looks tired. She doesn't look tired in a sleepless way, but tired in the way one's face settles when they've done the same thing they don't want to do over and over.

"Hey," she says quietly when he opens the door.

"Hey."

He gets in. The door closing feels louder than it really is.

She drives out of the parking lot, silent until they're on the road. "They called me."

Daniel stares out the window, watching the school get smaller in the distance. He counts to seven in his head before replying. "I know."

Neither of them speak. The road noise fills the space where anyone else would be having a lively conversation. Not them.

"I just—what happened, Daniel?" she says finally. Her voice is careful in a strained way.

"I was late," Daniel says. The safest answer, even though whatever he says will garner the same reaction.

She exhales. "Again?"

He doesn't reply. There's nothing to say.

"They told me you argued with your teacher, too," she adds. "What's that about?"

"I didn't argue," Daniel replies. Then, more quietly. "I just talked to him."

He can almost hear her grip on the steering wheel tighten. "Daniel."

"I wasn't being rude, mom."

"I'm not saying you were," she says quickly. "It—This keeps happening, Daniel. Why?"

He knows the question is rhetorical. He knows that neither of them know why. Daniel presses his forehead against the window. The glass is cold. He focuses on that.

"Weekly check-ins and reports. Really, Daniel? You couldn't get through one day without being an issue?"

He doesn't say anything, instead continuing to stare out the window. He knew that part was going to make it home with him.

Her purse shifts when she takes a turn, something inside it rattling softly. He doesn't look.

"Your car still isn't ready," she says after a moment. Changing the subject. "The shop says maybe Friday."

"Okay."

"I know it's annoying," she adds. "It's—I don't want you walking. I know how kids can be when there's nobody around."

"It's fine."

Another pause.

"Daniel… I need you to try," she says quietly. "I can't keep doing this—I can't put you in another school, or handle leaving work for meetings and phone calls. You need to try. Meet me halfway. Please."

"I am," he says, even though it comes out flat.

She doesn't argue. That almost makes it worse.

They drive the rest of the way home in silence.

The silence isn't comfortable. It never is—it just stretches, heavy and awkward, as if both of them are waiting for the other to say something that won't make it worse, something normal.

He watches the traffic lights change. Red. Green. Yellow. The pattern is predictable, doesn't change. He keeps his eyes on it until his mom drives through the intersection and the rhythm is broken. He hates that he doesn't even get to drive himself home from this. That he has to sit here and be quiet and let it happen.

The house smells like that lemon cleaner his mom always uses in the kitchen. The kitchen itself smells like something burned. Whatever was supposed to be dinner originally.

His mom kicks off her shoes by the door as Daniel does the same. Left shoe, right shoe, line them up against the wall.

"I'm going to make some tea," she says. "Do you want some?"

"No."

"Okay."

He walks to the door to his bedroom and stands there briefly. He doesn't know why. Maybe, subconsciously, he's waiting for his mother to say something else.

She doesn't.

He opens the door and promptly closes it behind him. Didn't feel right. Again. Better.

The room is exactly how he left it this morning. His bed is made, his desk is clear. Everything is exactly where he left it for the first time today. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the wall.

He knows he should do homework. He wants to do it, even. But he just… doesn't.

He opens his notebook regardless. If only to stare at it. The lines seem to blur together if he looks too long. He closes it again. It feels pointless. Even if he does everything right tonight, tomorrow will still find a way to go wrong.

After a few minutes, he hears voices downstairs. Normal voices shift to hushed ones, and then he hears the clink of a mug being set down too hard. He presses his palms into his ears as hard as he can. He doesn't want to hear what comes next.

He still does.

Dinner is quiet.

Daniel's dad left earlier. He'd felt the door slam from his room. The echo still feels like it's hanging in the air. As if the house hasn't settled from it quite yet.

His mom picks at her food, and Daniel doesn't touch his at all.

"Your dad will be home late again." she says eventually.

Daniel looks up. That means he'll be tired. And already irritated about something else.

"Did you tell him?" Daniel asks.

She hesitates. "I did, but not the whole thing."

He nods. That's worse, it always is. That means it's going to come up again later, when everyone is already tired, and it's going to turn into a bigger thing.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Daniel," she says, staring down at her plate instead of at him. "This happens every time, and I swear to God it's getting worse."

Daniel stares at his plate.

"I've tried so hard as a parent, I… You don't get how hard this is. I don't understand where I went wrong for this to keep happening, Daniel. I don't understand why you keep doing this."

He swallows.

"I know you get overwhelmed at school. But that doesn't mean you get to shut down or disrespect adults when something goes wrong."

"I'm not shutting down or being disrespectful," he says.

She finally looks at him. "Then what are you doing?"

He doesn't answer.

She sighs and rubs her forehead. "I just want you to act like a normal kid."

Yeah. Right.

—

Later, when she thinks he's asleep, he hears the medicine cabinet open and close. He shares a wall with the wall it's on. He doesn't know exactly what she takes, just that she's always careful with it. Locks it. Checks it. Except when she doesn't.

He wonders if what she takes is because of him.

That thought makes his stomach hurt.

He continues counting the stars on his ceiling until he falls asleep.

He wakes up later to the sound of voices. Loud ones. His dad is home.

He stays in his room.

The voices downstairs are muffled through the floor, but he can still tell when they start getting sharper—when his mom's voice goes tight. When his dad's voice gets louder.

He presses his pillow over his ears and counts the stars on the ceiling again. One hundred forty-three. That number doesn't change, which is the point. He touches his thumb to each fingertip as he does so, then again, and again, because it feels wrong. Nothing feels right, not now.

The arguing fades into hushed, angry murmurs. He can't hear the words, but they're shaped a way he knows. He knows when his dad says something that makes his mom go quiet. Can tell when she starts crying despite trying not to.

He knows the sickening crash sound from when his dad gets too angry.

This is his fault. Somehow, it always is. No matter how quiet he is, how careful, how hard he tries to stay out of the way.

He thinks about how easy it would be to vanish. Disappear into the background. To stop being the thing people have to deal with—the problem that keeps moving schools and conversations.

3 | ♠️ | — processed

Daniel is already sitting when the door clicks shut behind him.

The clock on the wall ticks. It's quiet enough that it feels loud. Daniel watches the second hand move, but not the numbers. The seconds feel longer than they should, and he wonders how long he's been sitting here already. Long enough that his legs have started to feel heavy—in a way that if he stays much longer, he may not want to move at all.

The office smells of stale coffee, or maybe coffee that was brewed a few hours ago. Daniel notices this because there really isn't much else to notice. Everything is beige. Beige brick walls, beige desk, beige carpet that isn't really carpet because it's thin and flattened to the floor.

The assistant principal is about as interesting as the room. Neat, short hair, collared shirt, blue tie. He isn't old per se, but not exactly young. He looks as if he's been doing his job too long to be particularly surprised or interested by anything. He doesn't sit right away. The silence stretches long enough that Daniel starts counting his breaths without meaning to. He stops at seven, which is when the assistant principal finally sits.

"I'm Mr. Harris, one of the assistant principals here." he says, already turning to his computer at his desk. The screen clearly matters more than whether Daniel is actually listening. As always. The monitor is glowing in his glasses faintly as he scrolls.

Daniel doesn't attempt to look at what's on it. He knows already.

"So, Daniel," Mr. Harris says, folding his hands on the desk. "Transferring halfway through the year can be difficult. Most students and teachers already have their routines and all."

Daniel nods.

"We got a report from your English teacher, Mr. Goode, about what happened in class today," Mr. Harris continues. His voice is calm. Steady. As if this is a daily occurrence, like there's been countless others in this position through the years he's been here. "There were some concerns about your tardiness, but more about your behavior in the classroom."

Daniel keeps his eyes on the desk.

"And when we look at your records from your previous three schools," Mr. Harris adds, glancing at the screen, "we see similar concerns, especially during transition periods."

There it is. Daniel doesn't bother asking what the notes say. He already knows—late arrivals. Attitude problems. Difficulty adjusting. It's written nicer in the file, but it always means the same thing. He's the problem bouncing around in the system, and in that system, he isn't a person. He's a number. Everything always seems to return to numbers. They run his life. In some district office somewhere, he's just a number flagged on a screen.

Daniel feels something settle in his chest—it's not panic, not anger, not anything. Just the feeling that this is already decided. There's no conversation to be had, not really. He's just here because he has to be, because this is the procedure, this is the explanation.

"We really do want to make sure you're getting the support you need, Daniel." Mr. Harris says. "But we also need to be clear about expectations, especially when you're joining classes that already started."

Daniel nods once more. It feels automatic.

"What happened today?"

He thinks about how hard it would be to explain all of it. How long it would take. How, even if he said it perfectly, it would still sound like an excuse.

"I was late," he says.

"Yes," Mr. Harris says. "And then?"

Daniel shrugs.

"There was an issue with how you spoke to Mr. Goode."

Daniel's jaw tightens. "I wasn't trying to be disrespectful."

"But that's how it came across," Mr. Harris replies. "When a student challenges the authority of a teacher, even in private, it's something we take very seriously."

Daniel looks back down at the desk. He doesn't say anything, it'll only make it worse.

"Teachers need to be able to manage their classrooms without students trying to undermine them," Mr. Harris continues. "Especially when they're already dealing with full classes and mid-year transfers."

Daniel almost laughs at that. It doesn't make it out.

"So what happens now?" He asks. He knows already.

Mr. Harris turns back to the computer. "You'll be called down weekly to meet with your counselor. Just to make sure you're adjusting right—your teachers will also be sending us weekly reports."

Daniel stares at the desk. Weekly. That means there's a target on his back—this is about more than today, it's about everything he does from this moment forward. Every class, every teacher. They'll assume they know him before he even opens his mouth.

"And I'll be calling your mother this afternoon." He adds.

Daniel thinks about his mom's voice when she's tired. The medicine cabinet that she always locks, apart from when she forgets. About how his dad will probably hear about this later and start another fight that no one ever really wins.

"We truly want to see you thrive, Daniel." Mr. Harris doesn't look up at him. "I don't want to see any more behavioral reports about you. Everything is a two-way street, meaning we need to see work on your end as well."

Daniel still doesn't say anything.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" Mr. Harris asks.

Daniel thinks about how every time he's been in this chair, in every school he's ever been in, explaining makes it worse.

"No." he says quietly.

Mr. Harris studies him briefly. Daniel knows that look, he's trying to figure out whether he 'cares' or not. He must land on the former, because he sighs quietly before he speaks.

"Alright. Head to your third period class. I'll be following up with your mother."

Daniel nods and leaves, wondering if that means she'll already be tired when he gets home. He doesn't say anything, because anything he says will make this worse. When he steps back into the hallway, it's quieter than it was at lunch. Most people are already in class.

He doesn't go straight to class. He stops in the stairwell and sits on the step, staring at the wall. Longer than he means to—he doesn't realize how long he's been sitting there until the bell begins to echo through the halls.

The sound doesn't really snap him back into anything. All it tells him is that he's late. Again. There's another door he should be behind right now, and another teacher that's taking his name down in their notes.

He stands anyways. Staying here won't make it better, it just makes him later.

He starts down the stairs slowly, trailing his hand along the railing. The metal is cool against his palm. Something solid. He presses his thumb into the edge of it hard enough to leave a faint mark. Only to prove something will stay where he puts it. Something won't shift when he's not looking.

The rest of the day doesn't feel like that at all. It's just things that keep happening to him, another situation, another incident. Something else that isn't his fault but somehow is.

He thinks about his mom getting that call—the way she'll sigh before saying anything to him, because she knows what it's about. She'll tell him that it's fine, that they'll deal with it later. Later will turn into another argument with his dad, one where he sits against his door and tries his hardest to tune it out.

If he's even home tonight.

That thought is heavier than the others.

2 | ♠️ | — overflow

The hallway is too loud. Too many voices, too many lockers slamming, and too many footsteps that don't line up into anything close to predictable. Daniel keeps his head down and walks faster, still counting.

Nine steps to the corner.

Three past the vending machines.

Left.

It's passing, and he has a class, but the bathroom feels like it could be safe. Just for a few minutes. He slips inside, and thankfully, it's empty. It's quieter in here. Not quiet, but it's contained, at least. He knows the hum of the lights and the drip of the sinks. Those sounds are predictable and stay where they're supposed to. He goes for the second stall from the end. Always the second if it's open. He locks the door and leans his forehead against the cool metal, only for a second.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

His hands are shaking. He presses them flat against his thighs, counts his fingers. One through ten. Too fast—again.

It doesn't help.

His chest feels tighter instead, like the air is getting thinner, like the walls are smaller than they were a moment ago. He can't focus on his breathing too hard or it's as if he forgets how to.

Okay.

Okay.

He drops onto the toilet lid and stares at the floor. The tiles in here are cracked in places, with thin dark lines that split the white into pieces. His eyes trace across the cracks, following each one until it meets another.

Seven.

No. Eight.

He has to start over.

Someone comes in, laughing too loud. A door slams. Daniel flinches, breath too loud, too fast. Too obvious. Daniel freezes, and his breath catches halfway inhaled, his lungs burning as he waits for the voices to fade and the door to shut again.

When it's finally quiet, he lets the air out. His chest aches. His heart is going too fast—he presses his palm against his chest like he can hold his heart still. Counts the beats. Misses one. Starts over. He should go. He knows that. He knows there's another class. Another teacher. Another door that he's already late for.

But his legs won't move yet.

He presses his palms together until it stings. Counts to thirty.

Okay.

Okay.

Daniel stands up and the room tilts. He sits back down immediately, head between his knees, waiting for the world to stop sliding around in his vision.

This is stupid.

It's fine.

It's not.

He tries again, and this time he stays standing, even though his hands won't stop shaking. He stares at them for a moment before unlocking the stall and stepping out. Going to wash his hands—they aren't dirty, but that's part of it now. Stopping means starting over. Daniel studies his face in the mirror for a moment. His face is too pale. His eyes look wrong, as if they don't belong to him.

He can't look anymore. He splashes cold water onto his face, waits five seconds for it to drip down into the sink. He does this three times before the ache in his chest is dull enough to continue.

When he steps out, the hallway is empty and it makes his stomach drop. Daniel glances at the clock, and it's seven minutes into the period. His class is somewhere upstairs, across the building. If he's remembering correctly, which he should be.

Great.

He starts out walking, then faster, then a half-run. On his way up the stairs, he miscounts and stumbles, gripping the railing to keep himself upright. By the time he reaches the classroom door, he can barely catch his breath.

He stands there for a moment. Counts to three. Then enters.

The door clicks behind him as he walks into the room. Not loudly, but loud enough.

"Nice of you to join us."

Daniel freezes halfway between the door and the nearest desk. He glances at the teacher, who is standing at the front of the room. Arms crossed, looking directly at him. His face is telling, as if this is exactly what he expected.

"You're late," he says.

"Sorry." Daniel swallows.

"I'm not particularly interested in your apology," he snaps back. "More interested in your explanation."

Daniel doesn't respond, can't. His head is still buzzing and it feels like there's nothing but static inside his skull.

"Well?"

"I—" He stops, tries to gather his thoughts, tries again. "I'm—"

The teacher interrupts, glancing at his watch. "You were eight minutes late. Which was a choice, not a mistake."

There are people snickering. Daniel keeps his eyes down, on the floor. He can't figure out if he's angry or upset, but he can't speak or he'll get himself into more trouble.

"I don't tolerate tardiness," the teacher continues. "It tells me two things. One is that you're disrespectful and will continue to be an issue in my class, and two is that you don't care enough to take my class seriously."

"That's—"

"Stop." the teacher snaps at him. "You don't interrupt me, you don't walk in whenever you feel like it, and you don't waste my time or anyone else's. If you didn't feel like coming to class, you shouldn't have come at all."

Daniel's hands curl into fists. He forces them to relax.

"Take a seat."

He moves quickly, too quickly to think through it, and drops into the nearest empty chair without counting, without checking the exits, without lining anything up. It feels wrong immediately. He feels nauseous.

"We were discussing the new unit. If you'd been here on time, you might actually know what's going on."

Daniel stares at his desk. Heat crawls up his neck and into his ears, like everyone can see exactly how difficult it is for him to try not to breathe too fast.

"And after class," the teacher adds, turning back to the board, "you and I are going to have a conversation about expectations."

Of course they are.

Daniel keeps his eyes on the desk while the teacher launches back into the lesson as if nothing happened. Something about chapters and "you were supposed to read this over the weekend." Obviously, Daniel did not. He hadn't been here yet.

He grips the edge of his desk, knuckles pale, and forces himself to sit still. Every instinct in his body is telling him to move, to fix the way he's sitting, to make the space correct. He tries to ignore it.

The teacher calls on someone to answer a question. Daniel doesn't hear it, because he's counting the dots in the laminate of the desk. Tiny, dark specks, repeating in the same uneven pattern.

Twenty-three.

Wrong.

He restarts.

Someone answers. The teacher responds. The class moves on. Daniel catches half of it. Ish. He doesn't have his notebook out on his desk like he should, no pencil. He knows he should be taking notes.

Time is crawling, and the clock is making an audible tick that he can feel in his jaw and the back of his throat. He feels like throwing up. He glances at the door over and over.

When the bell finally rings, the sound makes him flinch once more. Chairs scraping, people standing, mentions of where people are going for lunch.

Daniel is frozen, unable to look up. Or move. Or breathe.

"Everyone else, you're free to go." the teacher says, already gathering papers up on his desk.

It's always the same pattern. The room emptying too fast. Again.

Daniel stays seated, hands folded so he doesn't start counting again. He stares down at the desk, listening for the door. The noise of the hallway dulls once it closes, which makes this slightly more bearable.

The teacher takes his time before getting to him, straightening a folder and checking something on his computer. Daniel doesn't need to see the screen to know what it says. He's been here before. Too many times.

Daniel finally looks directly at him, and the teacher meets his gaze. He doesn't look straight at his eyes, focusing on his nose instead.

"Stand up." he says, his voice sharp.

Daniel does. Slowly.

"I want to be extremely clear," the teacher says. "You do not start the year by showing up late and talking back to me. That tells me you think you can test boundaries. It also tells me you think you're smarter than everyone, that the rules don't apply to you."

Daniel's jaw tightens and his fists clench, but he doesn't speak. He looks down. He forces his hands to relax.

"I've been doing this a long time," he says. "Students who come in like that? Always trouble. Always have an excuse, a reason why it's not their fault. You know what normally happens to kids like that? They burn through schools, teachers get tired of them. Administrators get tired of them. Eventually, there's nowhere else left to send them."

Daniel finally looks up. Still not at his eyes.

"That's not—"

"Save it," the teacher snaps. "I don't need your version of the story. I've heard it a hundred times from kids who thought they were different. I'm going to tell you right now, you're not. So here's how this is going to work. You keep your head down, you follow instructions, and you stop making yourself a problem as a cry for attention. If you don't do that, I promise, this will be another short stay for you."

Another.

That word is just him twisting the knife. He's being cruel.

"I'm not interested in wasting my time on someone who clearly doesn't want to be here."

Daniel's mouth moves before he fully decides to speak.

"That's not true."

The teacher's eyes flick up. "Excuse me?"

"I do want to be here," Daniel says, and now that he's started, he can't stop himself. "I was late because I— I wasn't just wandering around. I didn't skip your class. I didn't decide not to come."

"And yet," the teacher replies flatly, "here we are."

"That doesn't mean I don't care," Daniel says. His voice is shaking now, and he hates it, hates that it's giving him away. "You don't know shit about me."

The teacher lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, I know enough."

Daniel's hands are clenched into fists again, which he doesn't remember doing. "You think you do," he says. "But you don't."

The room goes very still. Quiet for a moment.

The teacher straightens, his expression immediately hardening. "That's enough."

He turns toward his desk and picks up the phone. Daniel's stomach drops.

"I need to send a student down," the teacher says into the receiver. "Okay. Thank you."

He hangs up and glares at Daniel. "You're going to admin."

Daniel knows why, but his heartbeat is so loud he can't think, so the next words are a question he knows the answer to. "Why?"

"For arguing with me," the teacher replies. "And for showing a complete lack of respect since the moment you walked into my classroom." He points towards the door. "Go. Now."

Daniel stands there for a moment too long. He feels like he's trying to wish himself out of existence. This went sideways too fast. He turns and leaves.

The hallway is nothing like it was between classes. It's worse. Packed, people shoving past each other in uneven waves.

Someone bumps his shoulder. "Learn how to fucking walk."

He doesn't respond, forcing himself forward, slipping between groups and keeping his head down. Every sound feels to close and too sharp. Laughter, yelling, sneakers squeaking. He can't count his steps because he keeps losing track every time someone cuts in front of him or slams a locker shut.

He gives up counting and just tries to think about nothing. The noise follows him all the way to the front. He can hear it through the walls, as if the entire building is buzzing. His hands are shaking again. He shoves them in his pockets so people can't see.

He gets to the front office and looks at the secretary, who stares right back at him. "Name?"

"Daniel," he replies. It doesn't feel like enough. She probably needs his last name. "Atlas."

She types something into the computer. Because of course she is.

"Have a seat," she says, nodding at the chairs against the wall. Daniel sits, stares at the floor. Counts the tiles before he realizes he's doing it and forces himself to stop.

It doesn't help.

The office door opens a minute later, and the assistant principal steps out.

"Daniel Atlas?"

Daniel stands.

"Come on in," the assistant principal says.

He follows him in, the noise of lunch fading behind him as the door closes.

Another note.

Another meeting.

Another phone call home.