The double doors hissed open like the jaws of some glass and chrome-plated beast. Joel stepped into the atrium. His small hand instinctively flexed, grabbing for Lulu's leash. Nothing. He shook his fist loose, a hot, sharp sting.
“Damnit!”
The early morning light slanted through enormous windows, bouncing off polished concrete floors so clean they mirrored the panic in Joel’s UV-blocking shades. The place was a monument to Frank Lloyd Wright, all concrete skeleton and cold, floor-to-ceiling glass. It should have blended with the trees outside. Instead, it just felt like a sterile, high-design box.
He’d chosen the hoodie deliberately—his armor. Faded pink, rhinestone-studded "SWIFTY" blazing across his chest. A dare. An external declaration. “Come at me,” it screamed. “I dare you.” The polar opposite of what he felt on the inside, like it’s always been.
He hadn’t taken ten steps inside before the scent hit him—not manure, like he’d asserted in the argument he'd had with Robert on the way to Oakland. This was much worse, institutional floor cleaner and teenage aggression. A terrible combination.
Joel’s stomach lurched when he saw two shadows detach from a cluster of lockers. Oh, shit, here we go. Zane, built like a linebacker stuffed into a varsity jacket two sizes too small, and Darrel, taller, leaner, with a smirk that could curdle milk.
"Whoa, check the ghost," Zane snorted, blocking Joel’s path. His sneer lingered on the rhinestones. "SWIFTY? That like… your boyfriend’s name?"
Darrel circled, a shark scenting blood. "Nah, man. It’s what he does when he runs from mirrors." His laugh was a harsh bark. "Look at this freak show. Pink on pink on pink. You blind and albino?"
A shove. Hard. Joel stumbled, his shades slipping.
"Ooh, pretty pink shoes!" Zane mocked, kicking Joel’s ankle. "Bet they match your purse."
Another shove from Darrel sent Joel crashing into the lockers. Metal rang out. The sound ripped through the atrium. Joel scrambled to right himself, heart hammering against his ribs.
"Give me that!" Zane yanked the backpack off Joel’s shoulders. The strap tore. Books, sketch pads, Joel’s precious limited-edition Gucci wallet spilled across the floor.
Darrel scooped up the wallet, waving it like a trophy. "Ooh la la! Fancy! We got us a new Coin in the house Zane!"
Joel lunged— "Give it back!"—but Zane shoved him down hard. His palms scraped raw against the concrete.
Darrel hurled the backpack down the hall. It skidded, scattering papers. "Fetch, Fido! Oh wait—" He grinned, vicious. "Fetch, Frosty."
Coach Thompson was surrounded, in a mini huddle, with some of his basketball team members, chatting about the upcoming season. The commotion ripped his focus away. Down the hall, near the main entrance. A flash of pink. Pale skin. White hair.
Now, Zane and Darrel had Joel cornered. Coach's fists clenched, his jaw tightened. Zane laughing as Joel scrambled for his scattered things. Darrel kicking a sketchpad—a delicate pencil drawing of a dragon mid-flight—across the floor.
"Pathetic," Zane sneered, towering over Joel. "Go back to your spaceship, freak."
"Adams! Webb!" Coach Thompson's voice boomed, like a gunshot, over the clangor that always filled the halls before classes started every morning. The roar of voices fell to hum of hushed whispers. Heads turned. Zane and Darrel froze.
The crowd of students parted, like the Red Sea for Moses, as he walked toward them, every step measured. "You boys got a problem?" Coach's six-foot seven-inch stature was intimidatingly high, but his voice was low, controlled. Ice.
Coach Thompson, P.E. teacher and beloved head of Oakland Prep's basketball team, the Wildcats. He was known to students only as 'Coach' or 'Coach Thompson', no one seemed to know his first name. But nobody really cared so much about his name as they did about him, and their star player, Sam Hughes, the team captain. As the pride of the school, their leadership of the winningest basketball team in the district for five years running.
Coach stopped a foot away from Zane, his shadow swallowing the boy. "Adams. Webb." He didn't look at Joel sprawled on the floor. His gaze pinned Zane. "You lost something?" A nod toward Joel's scattered belongings. "Pick it up."
Zane hesitated, smirk faltering. Darrel shuffled, eyes darting.
"Now!" The word cracked like a whip. Zane flinched. Darrel scrambled, grabbing Joel's backpack, stuffing books and papers inside. Zane snatched the Gucci wallet from Darrel's hand, wiped imaginary dirt off it, and dropped it into the bag like it burned.
Coach turned to Joel, still on the floor. He offered a hand. "You alright?"
Joel recoiled instinctively. "Fine," he muttered, scrambling up himself. He snatched his bag, clutching it to his chest like a shield. "Was just quicker than I expected. I thought I’d at least get to put my stuff in my locker first."
Coach studied him. The rhinestones. The hoodie. The white hair peeking from under the hood. His expression softened. "You're the new student, Tait.”
Joel nodded, his voice was small and shaken, his eyes fixed on his scuffed sneakers. "Joel."
"Coach Thompson. Welcome to Oakland Prep, Joel." He glanced at Zane and Darrel, now frozen like statues. "You two. My office. After school." He ordered.
They slunk away, shoulders hunched.
Coach Thompson watched them go, jaw tight. Then he turned back to Joel, who stood rigid, knuckles tight around his backpack strap. Sunlight caught the rhinestones on his hoodie—tiny defiant stars against faded pink. "Locker 217," Coach said, voice low. "Next to mine." A nod toward the faculty wing. "Less traffic."
Joel’s eyes widened behind his shades. "A locker next to a teacher’s? Unheard of. Why?" The words slipped out sharp, suspicious.
Coach Thompson leaned against a locker, the metal groaning under his weight. "Three reasons." He ticked them off on thick fingers. "One: My office is ten steps away. Two: Webb and Adams avoid this hall like plague rats. Three—" He paused, gaze locking onto Joel’s trembling hands. "You fight like you’re drowning. But you ain’t drowned yet."
Joel’s knuckles tightened around his backpack. "I don’t want pity." His voice stronger, filled with offense.
"Wasn’t offering any, Joel." Coach Thompson retorted, pushing off the locker. "Just strategy. Survival ain’t pity." He jerked his chin toward the faculty corridor. "Locker’s yours. Combination’s your birthdate—month, day, year. The administration loves predictability, not disruption of the status quo."
Joel hesitated, his delicate fingers digging into the strap of his frayed backpack. The scent of industrial cleaner and teenage sweat choked the air. Coach’s gaze stayed steady—no pity, just assessment. Like sizing up a wounded player. Does he know? Joel’s mind raced. About my past? Or am I just another freak to manage?
"Strategy," Joel echoed, voice brittle. "Like chess?"
Coach Thompson's eyebrow twitched—almost imperceptible. "Something like that. Chess teaches patience. Street fights teach survival." He turned toward the faculty wing, motioning Joel to follow. The hallway thinned, lockers replaced by frosted-glass office doors labeled "ADMIN" and "COUNSELING." Joel’s footsteps echoed too loud.
Locker 217 stood wedged beside a dented steel door stenciled "THOMPSON." Coach spun the dial. "Birthdate?"
"Left to 02. Right past it to 23. Left to 11," Joel mumbled.
The lock clicked open. Inside gleamed untouched metal—no graffiti, no dust. Sanctuary.
Before Joel could speak, Coach Thompson’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, jaw tightening. "Gotta take this call. Stay sharp, Joel."
Coach vanished down the hall, leaving Joel alone. Sanctuary? We’ll see about that.
Joel pulled his phone from his pocket as he leaned against his locker. His delicate, white thumbs began madly tapping against the screen. Well, Mom, I’m off to a great start. *smirk emoji* Made it 10 feet inside before they got me. 'On the bright side', it was only name calling and shoving, this time, not a punch in the face. So, not my worst first-day on record. But It’s still early, the first bell hasn't even rang yet. *Angry face emoji* His text jabbed at her previous instructions to look on the bright side of things. Also, need a new backpack. They ruined mine.
Joel switched his sunglasses for his tinted prescription glasses, adjusted his hood and began finding his way to his homeroom class. When he rounded a corner, he ran smack into Zane, who was lying in wait.
"Watch where you're going, freak!" Zane hissed, grabbing Joel's hoodie with both hands, shoving him against the lockers, easily lifting, Joel's 101 pounds, up onto his tiptoes. The metallic clang echoed down the empty corridor.
Joel's glasses slid down his nose, revealing wide, panicked eyes. "Get off—"
"Shut it, freak." Zane leaned in, his breath sour with cheap energy drink. "Coach ain't here now." He jabbed a thick finger into Joel's chest. "You think you're safe? You ain't." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper as he looked Joel up and down. "Your queer kind ain't wanted here. And Coach can't protect you, all the time. So watch your back, Ghost."
Darrel materialized beside them, smirking. He leaned on the locker next to Joel, leaning in but whispering loudly. "Yeah, faggot. You should tell mommy to take you back to where you came from. I'm sure she'd be really upset if her little alien science experiment got hurt."
Faculty voices were moving in their direction,
"Darrel." Zane said, flatly, pointing with his chin. "This ain't over, freak, we're gonna get you, Coin boy." Zane released Joel with a final slam against the lockers before they disappeared around the corner.
Joel sagged against the lockers, heart hammering. His hands trembled as he adjusted his hoodie. Bright side? That's bullshit. What bright side? And what the hell is a Coin boy? He took another deep breath in an attempt to steel himself with enough positive energy to make it to homeroom.
As he tentatively made his way down the too-bright, cavernous hall, he passed a group of kids laughing by the lockers, talking about a movie they all saw together at the theatre. Seeing the way they effortlessly existed, their camaraderie, their friendship. One girl touched a boys arm as she held her stomach while laughter spewed from her lungs. After the events of the past thirty minutes, the reality of being a social pariah, and a person who’s mere existence in their shared space, instills fear and fans the flames of hate in the weak minded, while everyone else seemed to just glide through life effortlessly, was just too much.
A deep, mottled flush crawled up his neck, making the veins there stand out. His thoughts immediately went back to the recurring conversation he has with his mother. His hands began to tremble, his pace quickened.
“You are so beautiful, Joel. Those bullies, they’re just jealous of you, so they lash out. They can’t see how wonderful you are. This is only temporary.” His mother’s optimistic voice echoed in his mind.
“No, mom, the names that bully’s call me are accurate. I am a freak, a snowman, an alien. And my IQ is more of a burden than a gift, it only adds one more degree of separation between me and the rest of the world.”
The conversation always varied slightly each time it replayed in his mind, but the essence remained the same.
I’ve always known I’m not like other kids, Mom, and I was okay with that, because I do actually love myself. I know I’m beautiful. I feel beautiful most of the time. Because, I believed you when you told me that I was special because I was so unique. But the world doesn’t want unique Mom! It only wants similarity.” His breathing became labored. “I just want to be normal, like the other kids. I want to know what it’s like, to blend in with the crowd, to go unnoticed for an entire day! I want just one fucking day, to not be the target of cruel jokes and glaring stares, the kicking, the punching, the spitting. I’m tired of carrying a change of clothes in my backpack every day because, inevitably someone dumps milk on me, or paint, or dog shit! It’s all too much! I can’t take any more of this. Is it all worth it? Tell me, mom! What’s the benefit of being a genius when you get the shit beat out of you all the time? The fem gay boy everybody despises? The alien outcast? Huh? While everyone else seems to just glide through life effortlessly. Huh? Why mom? So much for being a genius, I can’t even answer that question? I’m tired, mom. I’m just so tired. My life is just one torturous day after another, mom. I don’t know if I have the strength to carry on. Or should I even carry on at all? I just want it to end. Maybe I should just end it all and be done. Nobody would have to look at this alien again. I wish I could talk to mom about this, maybe Ms. Janet, but not mom, it would hurt her too much.
His eyes began to swell with tears as his imaginary conversation progressed. Feeling a breakdown coming on, he found the nearest boy’s restroom before losing it completely. He locked himself into a stall, and hoped, with any luck, he could silently cry it out, unnoticed. His hands covering his face were now soaked with tears. I miss my old school. A weird thing to say because he hated that school too. I miss my room. I miss the city. Fuck dad for taking this job! I hate this fucking place! He yanked a few yards of toilet paper off the roll and made a sort of cushion. He smashed it into his face to muffle the screams. “Fuck you dad!” He screamed as quietly as he could. “Fuck you dad!”, as he continued crying in whimpering sobs.
It wasn’t long before some boys came busting in the restroom chewing on rumors already flying around the school, jolting Joel out of his breakdown.
"Yo, Trev, you see that new kid?" A nasal voice echoed off the tiles. "White hair? Pink hoodie?"
"Did I?!" Another voice, deeper, scoffed. "Looked like a melted snowman. Adams and Webb had him pinned like a butterfly, bout' ready to tear his wings off, before Coach swooped in."
Joel froze mid-sniffle inside the stall, pressing the wad of damp toilet paper harder against his face. Melted snowman. The words scraped raw against his already frayed nerves.
Trevyn "Trev" Huxley, a lumbering Point known for his brute strength and lack of filter, and his wiry shadow, Kellan Moss, whose gossip fueled half the school’s drama.
"Yeah, Coach is gonna give Webb and Adams a reaming," Kellan chirped, the sound of a faucet turning on. "But seriously, Trev, what is he? Like, medically? My cousin has vitiligo, but this… I’ve never seen skin so white."
"I dunno, Kellan," Trev grunted. Water splashed. "He looks like something that was cooked up in a lab. Alien, like Webb called him. And a queer too, prancing around in pink shoes that look like something from the Wizard of Oz." A wet snort. "Freak. They'll probably get run out of town before long. My dad says that kinda thing’s unnatural."
"Your dad’s old school, man," Kellan chuckled, but there was an uneasy edge. "Anyway, Coach stuck him in locker 217."
"Next to the faculty wing?" Trev’s voice sharpened with disbelief. "Who the hell gets a locker by the teachers? Coins don’t even rate that!"
"Exactly!" Kellan hissed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "My sister works in admin. She told me his dad’s Robert Tait. The new State university president, and his mom's some kind of big-time attorney. Serious Coin." Kellan paused for a beat. “And, she said they paid full tuition rate, and, they made a fat donation to the school, to get every window in the school tinted.
Silence. Joel could practically hear Trev processing it. Coin. He remembered, Darrel sneered the word, Zane used it like a curse. So that must be the hierarchy – Coins at the top. Privileged. Protected? Not me. Not with albinism painting a target on my back.
"President?" Trev finally breathed, awe mixed with resentment. "Explains the fancy digs. Still… alien Coin. Doesn’t fit."
"Bet Hughes knows," Kellan murmured slyly. "He knows everything about the Coins. Runs with all of ‘em. Hell, he’s their top dog.”
"Maybe, but Hughes is different," Trev stated flatly. "Built different. Plays different. Doesn’t mess around."
The faucet squeaked off. Footsteps shuffled towards the exit. "True," Kellan conceded. "Still… locker 217. Weird flex. Wonder how long before someone tests that ‘protection’."
The door swung shut. The heavy silence rushed back in, thick with the lingering scent of institutional soap and Trev’s ignorant disdain. Joel slowly lowered the soggy toilet paper. Tears still streaked his cheeks, hot and humiliating, but a different heat was rising now – a sharp, jagged anger. Alien Coin. Doesn’t fit. They see me as a walking contradiction. An anomaly. Something to poke until I break.
Still unnerved and trembling, Joel creeped out of the stall, ignoring his reflection in the streaked mirror – the blotchy face, the defiant pink hoodie now damp and crumpled. He splashed icy water on his face, the shock jolting him back. 'Strategy,' Coach Thompson’s gravelly voice echoed in his mind. ‘Survival ain’t pity.’ Ugh. This place may prove to be worse than any other school I've attended. Locker 217 was sanctuary? Maybe, for now. But Trev and Kellan were right. Someone *will* test it. Zane and Darrel most likely. And probably soon.
He sniffed and took a few deep breaths to put himself back together. He let out a big sigh and whispered into the mirror, You can do this, Joel. Taking another deep breath, giving himself a much-needed pep talk. You can do this.
The bell rang, piercing the silence. Joel jumped, his heart skipping a beat. Homeroom. He adjusted his hoodie, buffed his glasses, and forced himself out of the restroom.
Sanctuary was over. Strategy began now. A new game of thrones?