A prefect chemistry
I used to think the worst part of high school was the cafeteria food. That was before I had to walk the gauntlet of the Eastside parking lot every morning like
I used to think the worst part of high school was the cafeteria food. That was before I had to walk the gauntlet of the Eastside parking lot every morning like a target on two legs. Guys from the South Blocks don’t walk into Eastside High without turning heads. Not unless they’re asking for a fight—or trying to prove they’re better than the bloodline tattooed across their skin.
The wind carried the sharp scent of burning rubber and cheap cologne as I crossed the campus. Hoodie up, hands in pockets. My black boots scuffed across the cracked pavement, every step echoing in the tension-laced silence.
“Yo, fire boy,” someone muttered near the entrance.
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