Don't Let Them Normal You

Chapter 6: Built for the Take (Ronan)

Ronan

The lady at the front desk shoved the lanyard at me without even looking up.

"Malloy. Grade twelve."

"Thanks for rollin' out the red carpet," I muttered, and took it.

ID was crooked. Name was spelled right. First-period room scribbled on the back in blue pen.

I stepped out into the hallway and let the door close behind me.

Felt like everyone noticed—even if they didn't mean to.

Not full-on stares. Just those little shifts. A second too long on a glance. Conversations dipping halfway through a sentence. People nudging each other without turning their heads.

They saw me.

Good.

Didn't matter what state you're in—power still speaks the same language.

Still, I hated being here.

I hated how dry the air felt. How the lights buzzed overhead like they were straining to stay on. Hated that I had to start over.

Boston had traffic, noise, fights in stairwells. A rhythm you had to earn.

This place? This place felt like a rerun.

I stepped out of the front office and into the hallway.

Didn't bother checking the room number on the back of my ID. I already knew it.

Room 202.

First period.

Psych.

I moved through the crowd like I'd been here for years, not thirty seconds. Let people shift out of the way. Let them look and then pretend they hadn't.

Didn't matter.

I was here now.

I pushed the door open with one hand and stepped inside.

The room quieted, just slightly. Not enough to notice if you weren't listening for it—but I was.

Teacher glanced up. Didn't say anything. A few heads turned. One girl looked away fast. Another just kept chewing her pen like it was nothing.

I didn't stop walking.

I picked a seat with my back to the wall. Corner, but not the kind you disappear in. I like seeing the door.

Kid next to me was all decked out in school spirit like it meant somethin'.
Back home, that'd get you roasted before first bell.

A girl with bleached hair glanced at me twice. Then whispered something to the kid next to her. He didn't look up.

Teacher launched into something about social schemas. Everyone else opened their notebooks like it was habit.

I didn't.

I watched.

Second period—English.

Room was too cold. Smelled like marker ink and someone's off-brand cologne.

Teacher was late, so everyone talked.

I took the center row, two seats from the end. The kind of seat that makes people ask if it's taken but doesn't invite them to sit.

Someone did.

A tall guy in a faded red athletic shirt with the sleeves cut off rough—like he did it himself. "DICKERSON TRACK" across the chest in cracked white letters. Short blonde hair, huge calves, and a slouch like he couldn't be bothered.