The silence that followed Derrick's declaration was fragile, a thin sheet of glass waiting for a hammer. The air in the room remained charged, heavy with the scent of Derrick's cologne and the suffocating pressure of twenty-five pairs of eyes staring at the back corner of the room. Mel felt like he was caught in a spotlight he hadn't asked for, his heart still performing a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs.
He tried to focus on his notebook, his fingers trembling as he gripped his pen, but the physical presence of Derrick beside him was like a gravitational pull. Derrick didn't turn away; he didn't start unpacking his bag. He simply sat there, leaning back, his shoulder nearly brushing Mel's, watching the front of the room with a bored, kingly indifference.
Then, the heavy oak door of the classroom swung open with a violent bang that made Mel flinch so hard his pen skidded across the page, leaving a jagged black scar on the paper.
"MEL!"
The roar echoed through the hallway before the person even stepped inside. It was a voice Mel knew too well—a voice that usually preceded a long afternoon of misery.
Instinctively, Mel's chair scraped against the floor. His knees knocked against the underside of the desk as he tried to stand, his first impulse always being to make himself small, to apologize, to comply before the storm hit.
"I—I have to—" Mel stammered, his face pale.
Suddenly, a heavy, warm weight landed on Mel's thigh.
Derrick hadn't even looked over, but his hand had reached out, firm and immovable, pinning Mel to his seat. The heat of Derrick's palm through Mel's trousers was startling, a brand of solid heat that anchored him to the spot.
"Sit down," Derrick said. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a low, vibrating command.
"But he's—"
"Let whoever is shouting your name walk in on his own two feet," Derrick interrupted, his eyes fixed on the door. "You aren't a dog. Don't go running because someone whistled."
A second later, Jacob stormed into the room.
Jacob was the School Disciplinary Prefect, a title he wore like armor. He was tall, thin, and moved with a sharp, angular aggression. His uniform was pressed so tightly it looked painful, and his face was twisted into a mask of habitual irritation. As the son of the Principal, Jacob didn't just walk through Crossfire Academy; he owned it.
His eyes were locked on Mel like a hawk spotting a field mouse. He marched down the aisle, his shoes clicking sharply against the linoleum.
"Mel! Why are you sitting there?" Jacob demanded, reaching the desk and slamming a hand down on the wood. "The library. Why hasn't it been swept? Why are the books still piled on the return cart?"
Mel's voice trapped itself in his throat. "Jacob, I... I just got here. The bus was late, and I was going to go as soon as—"
"I don't care about the bus!" Jacob hissed, leaning down, invading Mel's space. "You were late yesterday, and you were late today. That's double the punishment. You think just because class is starting you can skip out? Get up. Now. Before I make sure your record has more than just 'tardiness' on it."
Mel began to shift again, his eyes darting to the door, the familiar fear rising. Jacob's face was inches from his, his hand rising—not quite a fist, but a threatening gesture, a finger pointed dangerously close to Mel's eye as if he were seconds away from a physical reprimand.
"I said, get up," Jacob snarled, his hand twitching upward.
The air in the room turned ice-cold.
Before Jacob's hand could move another inch, a blur of movement intercepted it. With the speed of an elite athlete, Derrick reached up. His fingers wrapped around Jacob's wrist with a sickeningly solid thud.
The classroom went dead silent.
Jacob froze, his arm suspended in mid-air, held captive by Derrick's grip. He looked down at the hand on his wrist, then up at the stranger sitting next to Mel.
"Did you hear the explanation he gave you?" Derrick asked.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a terrifying, jagged edge. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, which was somehow worse.
"What?" Jacob sputtered, his face flushing with a mix of shock and rage.
"He said the bus was late," Derrick repeated, his grip tightening. Mel could see the skin around Jacob's wrist turning white. "He said he was going to do it. Are you deaf, or just remarkably stupid?"
A collective gasp rippled through the room. No one—no one—talked to Jacob like that.
"Let go of me!" Jacob barked, trying to wrench his arm away. But Derrick didn't budge. It was like Jacob was trying to pull his arm out of a stone vise. "Do you have any idea who I am? I'm the Disciplinary Prefect! My father is—"
"I don't care if your father is the King of England," Derrick interrupted, finally turning his head to look Jacob in the eye. "You're standing here barking like a stray in the middle of a classroom. You're making noise. You're distracting me. And you're hovering over him like you think you're something special."
Derrick's eyes darkened, a predatory glint appearing in the depths of his pupils. "He'll do the punishment when class is over. Until then, you're going to walk out that door, or I'm going to make sure you can't use this hand to point at anyone for a month."
"You... you're the new student," Jacob breathed, his voice trembling with fury. "You have no idea what you're playing with. You're dead. Both of you."
Jacob looked at Mel, his eyes full of venom. "Oh, I see how it is, Mel. You found a bodyguard? You think because you've got a big, dumb jock to hide behind that you're suddenly brave? You're going to regret this. I'm going to make your life a living hell."
Derrick didn't wait for him to finish. With a sharp, dismissive motion, he shoved Jacob's arm away. The force of it sent the Prefect stumbling back two steps, his hip hitting the neighboring desk with a loud clatter.
"Get out," Derrick said, turning back to the front as if Jacob had already ceased to exist. "You're boring me."
Jacob stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his face a mottled purple. He straightened his blazer, his eyes darting around the room at the whispering students. "You'll regret this, newcomer," he spat. "And you, Mel... count your days."
Jacob turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming even louder than before.
The classroom remained in a state of shock. Mel was trembling, his hands buried in his lap, his mind racing. He could hear the whispers starting up like a swarm of bees.
"Is he crazy? Jacob's dad is going to expel him by noon."
"He doesn't know how things work here."
"Mel is so dead... Jacob never forgets a grudge."
Mel felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He risked a glance at Derrick. The athlete hadn't moved. He was calmly reaching into his bag to pull out a single, pristine notebook.
"Derrick," Mel whispered, his voice barely audible. "You... you shouldn't have done that. He's the Principal's son. He really will make trouble for you."
Derrick leaned closer, the scent of his cologne wood hitting Mel again, grounding him. He didn't look at Mel, but his voice was a warm, secret hum in Mel's ear.
"Let him try," Derrick said. He glanced at Mel out of the corner of his eye, a small, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. "Besides... I don't like people who bark at things that belong in my space."
Mel's heart did a slow, heavy roll. His space? . The class thought Derrick Shane was a dead man walking.