The shoving.
The books slapped out of his hands.
The spitballs.
The milk poured in his backpack.
The boys calling him professor, nerd, bug-eye, charity case.
The tripping in the hall.
The punches behind the gym.
The teacher who “didn’t see.”
The assistant principal who called it normal conflict.
The main office woman who gave him ice and told him boys would be boys.
Jason Pike.
Cody Mercer.
Luke Hensley.
The little pack that only felt brave in groups.
His mother listened without interrupting.
That made it worse somehow.
When he was done, she pressed both hands to her mouth and sat down hard on the bed beside him.
“I’ve called that school three times,” she said.
“I know.”
“I asked for meetings.”
“I know.”
“They told me they were handling it.”
Tommy shrugged.
He was twelve, but the shrug looked older than that.
“It gets worse when adults call.”
Gloria turned and pulled him into her.
Her arms were strong from work and too tired from life, but they were still home.
He shook once against her shoulder and hated himself for doing it.
Not because boys shouldn’t cry.
Because crying made it real.
Because crying meant he could not pretend he had control.
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