Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
I woke up before the alarm even blared.
A sharp, electric current of anticipation was already humming under my skin, making sleep impossible. The anticipation for today did not allow me to sleep for even a second further. I stared at the ceiling in the pre-dawn darkness. It's been three weeks. Three long, agonizing weeks of recovery, of nightmares, of frustrating introspection. My cracked ribs were no longer a searing pain, my eye was completely healed up, but the memory of the humiliation was still fresh.
The basketball season begins in less than two weeks. There is so much to be done and not much time to do it in. I had a team to build. A tyrant to overthrow. A reputation to reclaim.
I got up and started getting ready. I moved through the motions of showering and dressing with a new, careful awareness of my body. I took a deep breath, testing my ribs. Nothing. Just a faint, dull ache, a buzz once in a while, where the agonizing, stabbing pain used to be. The pain was now finally fading. I was close. Close to 100%.
I got downstairs to find Erin and Mom having breakfast. Erin was methodically drowning a waffle in syrup, and Mom was sipping coffee, her eyes scanning a tablet.
"Morning," I said, grabbing a plate.
"Good morning, honey. How are you feeling today?" Mom said, her voice a little too jovial, her eyes scanning me with that familiar, overprotective intensity she'd had since the hospital .
"Morning, Mom. I feel okay," I said, sliding onto a stool.
I looked around the empty kitchen. "By the way, did Dad leave early?"
I saw it. Just for a split second, a tensioned expression tightened her eyes and mouth before she smoothed it away into a casual smile. "Yes, he did," she said, a little too brightly. "He left early because of urgent work."
I filed it away. It was probably just regular Dad stuff. As a general, his "urgent work" could mean anything from a budget review to a genuine national emergency. He has many emergencies to handle, so this is normal for him. I had my own battles to fight.
I stuffed some bread into my mouth before eating my eggs quickly. I wasn't hungry, but I needed the fuel. I drained a glass of orange juice and stood up. "I'll see you in the evening," I said, grabbing my bag.
"How are you really feeling?" Mom asked again, her gaze fixed on me. She asked again this time with a little more emphasis.
"Mom, I'm okay," I told her, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "You needn't worry anymore." I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, then did the same to Erin, who barely noticed, her attention fully on her sugary masterpiece. "Bye, bug. Bye, Mom."
A short drive with Harris and I was at Palisades High. The same knot of anxiety and anger from my first day tightened in my stomach. I'd been humiliated in that gym. I'd been beaten in a fight, and then I'd been beaten in a one-on-one .
I stepped out of the car, pulled my hood up, and kept my head down. I just wanted to get to class. I didn't want the confrontation, not yet. I entered the school building, going straight to class.
But you can't be nearly six feet tall and invisible.
I heard the whispers as I walked. I saw that many people seemed to recognise and point fingers at me. Their expressions were mixed. Some were curious. Some were mocking—the "freshman hotshot who got his ass handed to him." Some were... wary? It confused me. Did they know who I fought? Did they know Damien? I just pushed through, my gaze fixed on the floor.
I finally got to class and slipped inside, the familiar, chaotic noise of homeroom washing over me. And then I saw her.
She was already there, in our usual spot, a book in her hands. She looked up as I approached, and a genuine, uncomplicated smile lit up her face. The knot in my stomach didn't just loosen; it evaporated. After the emotional turmoil of our fight over the Wyoming kiss and the agonizing, necessary reconciliation that simple smile meant everything to me now.
I walked up to her desk, not caring about the other students, not caring about the fact that class was almost about to start. I dropped my bag, bent down, and kissed her. A real kiss. warm, and firm, and full of all the things I couldn't say.
I pulled back. Alex was surprised, her cheeks flushing a bright, beautiful red. I knew she was thinking that Brad is not usually so openly intimate, especially in school.
"Brad," she whispered, her eyes wide. "What was that for?"
I smiled, the first genuine, uncomplicated smile I'd had all morning. "I wanted to do it, so I did."
The bell rang, and the teacher entered the class, but I didn't hear a word. I just sat down, the familiar, comforting presence of Alex beside me, and for the first time in three weeks, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
"Alright students, we are nearing the very end of Algebra I, and we will be studying Polynomials today. Polynomials are..." The teacher, Mr. Baum, continued his lecture, his voice a monotonous drone that faded into the background.
I was tuning in and out. My mind, supercharged by an INT stat of 41 and a functioning Memory Palace, had absorbed the entire 9th-grade curriculum months ago. This was just review. I looked around the classroom. Pat was sitting two rows behind me toward the window. He'd been in my homeroom, a small, familiar comfort in this new, chaotic environment. When he saw me staring at him, he nodded, and I did the same.
I then looked for the people I had gotten to know quite well over the past week and a half in Krav Maga. To my left, right at the front, sat a blonde. Her long hair was tied into a ponytail as it fell over her back. She was wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans. From the get-up alone, I could figure out that this was Kat Stratford. She was laser-focused on the board, her posture sharp and attentive. I then looked backwards in the same direction and saw Bianca sitting right towards the end of the class, attentively jotting down points. Her nails were polished, and she wore a blue bangle on her right hand. She, in stark contrast to her sister, was wearing a sort of skirt with a belt on it, much more girly than Kat. She noticed me staring at her and gave me a small, friendly wave. I just nodded to that.
"Mr. Naird!"
The loud voice of Mr. Baum shattered my observations. He had discovered me not paying attention. I turned and stared back at him. He was a portly man with a tired expression that now settled into disappointment.
"I'm sorry, sir, I got lost in thought," I said, injecting a note of faux pas into my voice.
"It would seem that your thoughts align more with the back wall of this classroom than they do with the board at front, Mr. Naird," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you enlighten us? Share your thoughts on the subject at hand. Come on, solve this problem." He gestured with the marker towards me, a clear challenge.
It would seem I couldn't get out of this situation with a simple remark. A ripple of snickers went through the class. I stood up, ignoring them, and walked to the front.
"The marker, Mr. Naird," he said, holding it out.
I took the marker. On the board, he had written a single, unfactored expression. Factor: 3x³ + 6x² - 4x - 8
I looked at it for a second. Factoring by grouping. Simple. I went up to the board and began solving it step-by-step.
My first line was to separate the terms: (3x³ + 6x²) + (-4x - 8)
I heard a few whispers behind me. I moved to the next line, factoring the GCF from each binomial. 3x²(x + 2) - 4(x + 2)
I underlined the common factor, (x + 2), a small, almost unconscious flourish of a teacher explaining a problem. Then, I wrote the final answer. (3x² - 4)(x + 2)
I put the cap back on the marker and placed it in the tray. The entire process had taken less than thirty seconds. I turned to Mr. Baum. His mouth was slightly open, his look of disappointment replaced by one of genuine surprise.
"That... is correct," he said, clearing his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Naird." He looked me over, his eyes sharp and appraising. "Please, meet me after classes at the end of the day."
"Oooohh," the class taunted, the assumption clear: I was getting detention. I ignored them, went back, and sat down.
"What happened?" Alex asked quietly from the seat next to me, her first unprompted words to me all morning. "I'll tell you later," I whispered back. She just nodded, her eyes flicking to Mr. Baum before returning to her own notes.
The rest of the classes passed in the same old drab manner. In between one of the periods, Pat caught up with me at my locker. "Brad," he said, his voice low. "Just a heads-up. The seniors have started a smear campaign against us."
I stopped trying to jam my Lit book into my bag and looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"Steve and his crew. They're telling everyone we're 'rowdy' and 'thuglike,' that we started the fight by disrespecting them. They're trying to poison the well before we even get established."
I thought back to the looks I'd gotten in the hall that morning. The whispers. "I remember students pointing at me, making crude remarks. I thought it was something like that." "Thanks for the info, Pat. We handle it by winning. Damien doesn't care about talk".
"Right," he said, nodding.
Just then, Bianca walked up, a bright smile on her face. "Hi, Bradley!"
"Hey, Bianca," I said, managing a small smile. "Bianca, this is Patrick Verona. Pat, this is Bianca Stratford. We're in the same homeroom and Krav Maga class."
"Nice to meet you," Patrick said, giving her a polite nod.
"You too!" she said.
"Yeah," I said. "I was about to head for lunch. You want to have lunch with us?"
"Oh, I'd love to!" she started, then her face fell. "But I already promised some other girls I'd sit with them. First-week politics, you know? I can't skip out."
"No problem," I said. "Next time." She smiled gratefully and hurried off, waving. As she left, I scanned the hall. Curiously, Kat had not come to talk to me, nor even looked in my direction, despite being right behind Bianca in the hall. She was deep in a book, as if the hallway didn't exist. She was an enigma.
Finally, classes got over after another 3-4 periods, and lunch started. Alex, Patrick and I headed to the cafeteria. As we walked, I tried to break the persistent silence with Alex. "So, Bianca and Kat were the girls I told you about. The ones from my Krav Maga lessons. I was looking for them in class when Mr Baum caught me hence the confusion"
"Oh," Alex said. "I'd like to meet them next time." She was mulling it over. She didn't say anything else.
At the cafeteria, we all met up with Leo, David, and Mandella. The table felt like two separate islands. Alex and Mandella immediately dove into their own topics, some intense debate about a book they were both reading, their voices low and animated. The rest of us fell into our own conversation.
"So, practice," Leo said, stabbing a tater tot. "What's the plan? We gonna have to deal with those senior assholes again?"
"We deal with them by being better," I said, my voice low. "Damien's the one in charge. He respects skill, nothing else. We drill, we get our timing down, and we take over. That's the plan."
"Good," David rumbled, tearing into a sandwich. "I owe Steve a screen. A hard one."
"He's already talking," Patrick added. "Told Brad about the smear campaign."
"Let 'em talk," I said, my gaze drifting over to Alex, who was now laughing at something Mandella had said. "We've got work to do. Once we handle the things on court these guys will fall in line automatically. Besides do you guys really care what a bunch of high schoolers who haven't even seen us play yet think about us. Our game will do the talking for us."
"Hell yeah dude" Leo said excitedly patting my back.
As our discussions continued, the bell for lunch being over finally rang. The conversation about the seniors and practice was cut short.
"Alright," I said, standing up with the group. "I have to go meet Mr. Baum for a bit, and then I'll join you at the locker room."
"Try not to get detention, man," Leo said with a grin.
"Yeah, try," I said, though I felt no humor. I was just annoyed. This meeting was a distraction.
I navigated the post-lunch chaos of the hallways and made my way to the teacher's office. It was a large, noisy room with a dozen desks crammed into it. I found Mr. Baum at his, grading papers with a red pen. He looked up as I approached.
"Ah, Mr. Naird. Thank you for coming," he said, inviting me to sit down in the rickety wooden chair beside his desk.
"No problem, sir. You wanted to see me?" I asked, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.
He finished marking a paper and set it aside, steepling his fingers as he looked at me over his glasses. "Yes, yes. Bradley. That was a... very impressive piece of factoring you did in class today. You solved it with a speed and efficiency I rarely see, even in my senior students."
"Thanks. I've just done a lot of factoring," I replied.
"I'm sure," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Which brings me to my reason for calling you here. I am the faculty advisor for the Palisades Math Club team. We have a major state competition scheduled for this winter, and after seeing your work, not to mention your exam scores, I believe you would be an invaluable, perhaps even our number one, asset to the team."
My heart sank. This was the last thing I had time for. A club.
"Sir, I appreciate the offer," I said, trying to be reluctant but polite. "But I don't think I'll have the time."
"Nonsense," he said with a wave of his hand. "It's only two afternoons a week. Surely you can spare that for an academic pursuit?"
"It's not that, sir. I have basketball practice every other day after school. We have a high school tournament to win, and as a freshman, I need to put in double the work to even get noticed."
Mr. Baum's expression soured. He leaned back in his chair and casually dismissed basketball as being not worth pursuing. "Ah, yes. Basketball. A... noble hobby." He said the word 'hobby' like it was something he'd scraped off his shoe. "But surely, a young man with your clear, provable intellectual gifts wouldn't let a game get in the way of a true academic challenge? A competition that could actually mean something on a college application?"
That did it. The condescension. The casual, arrogant dismissal of the one thing that defined my entire existence in this world. It incensed me. The cold, the impatience I'd been carrying since lunch got over turned into a sharp, icy point.
"Mr. Baum," I said, my voice dropping, calm but in a very heavy tone, my gaze locking onto his. "To me, basketball is more important than any math competition or Olympiad."
Mr. Baum was shocked, his jaw tightening. He was clearly not used to being challenged, especially by a fourteen-year-old. "Mr. Naird, I... I didn't mean to offend. I'm merely suggesting that you are very gifted and should give some serious thought to your academic pursuits."
"I have," I said, stopping him. "And I'm telling you, basketball is my pursuit. I use math for basketball. I use physics for my shots. I use geometry for my plays. It's all just a tool to serve the game." I leaned forward slightly. "I can easily pass ninth-grade Algebra right now. I could test out of tenth-grade Geometry, too. I'm in this class because I'm required to be. I'm on the court because I choose to be."
His shock turned to visible offense. "That is a very overconfident statement, young man. borderline arrogant."
"It's not overconfidence if it's true," I replied, my patience completely gone. I'd spent the last three weeks being called weak, a "pansy", a "little shit". I was done placating.
Mr. Baum stood up, his face flushed with indignation. "Well. If that's your attitude, then perhaps the Math team isn't for you," he said stiffly.
"Yeah, it isn't," I agreed, standing up as well. "Can I be excused now?"
He just nodded, too angry to speak. I headed out of the office, my blood pumping, his dismissive words—"a game", "a hobby"—echoing in my head.
The disrespect was staggering. It wasn't just the seniors, or Damien. It was the whole world, trying to put me in a box, to tell me what I was, what I should be.
I felt an even greater fire in me to prove myself on the court today. I started walking faster towards the gym, ignoring the dull ache in my ribs. I needed this practice. I needed to hit the court so hard the floorboards rattled. I would show all of them, the seniors, Damien, and Mr. Baum, exactly what my "game" was worth.