The air was thin.
"Sorry, the position is already taken."
"Jobs? Our vacancy is already full, kid."
"No vacancy, and even if there was one, I wouldn't give it to the likes of you."
"Sorry, kid, you can check the laundry stall down the street."
Dean nodded, thanking the man profusely. He stepped out the door, and another walked in, but that one didn't walk out as fast as his.
He didn't walk out either.
A bitter taste filled Dean's mouth.
He shook his head and walked out of the building, his lump heavy and his shoulders heavier.
"I'm going to find one. A good job," Dean muttered, more to convince himself.
Yet—15 days.
Fifteen days was all he had left.
Dean could scream, but at this point he could only trek back to his empty house.
He pushed open his wooden door and let the smell of brewed coffee linger through his nose, caressing the disappointment and insecurities his feet carried in.
The fridge was empty under Dean's eyes. Only leftover chicken breast and cold water.
He sighed but took it.
He walked toward the garden and carefully picked some tomatoes and red pepper.
Plucked off green and placed them in a bowl of water. He took some spices—curry, onion, paste, black pepper, oil.
And he made a simple dish.
Sauced chicken breast and bread. He walked to the living room, fell onto the couch, and took a big bite of his food.
His eyes were transfixed on the wrestlers, leaving no room for regret about not having eggs to add.
He seemed to let himself get lost in the movement—their brutality and act.
It was girls wrestling, and an unfair match was held as two girls were brutally beating just one.
They held her hair, and the other climbed the black pole and jumped, hitting the blind girl to the ground.
Her knees were weak, but she couldn't struggle, and just when they thought they had won—
Another girl rushed through like lightning. Not just suddenly—one by her neck, the other kicked in the face—
A blank TV stared back at Dean, who stared at his mother.
"It's too violent to watch after another day in school."
Dean grinned.
"I wouldn't need to move my hands before one of them would start trembling at my great presence."
Dean looked ridiculous trying to flex his chubby arm with his mouth full of bread and chicken breast.
"Hard pass… hard pass."
"Hard pass?"
"Don't do anything that would get you expelled, son. What are you eating?"
"Chicken…"
"The one—" Her eyes widened in realization and she rushed over, snatching the food from Dean. "How much have you eaten of this?"
"Not much," Dean replied after a long moment of uncertainty.
Anna shook her head and tossed the food into the nearby trash.
"It's a solid product, son. Hope you didn't eat much?"
"No, Mom." Dean replied, but his glazed eyes were fixed on the TV as he switched it back on.
The wrestlers were on hold and ads occupied the space. Dean dropped the remote and held his phone.
"You sure you no go join? New recruits dey come, but I dey keep one spot." was a message from Mark.
Dean's lips paused, yet his heart picked pace.
'How much?' he typed—but cleared it before sending. Mark was typing.
"E big reach to pay your debt."
His finger hesitate. Yet_ find itself to the buttons.
'I can find a better job.'
"Where, Dean? We both know say you dey lie—both to me and to yourself."
Dean hissed.
"Dean, is anything the problem?"
"No," Dean replied as he sat up from the chair and walked to his mother, who back-faced his approaching figure.
"Need help, Mama?"
"No, son. Enjoy your TV."
"Really?"
"Fine, help me wash the meat, slice the vegetables, and steam the paste. Also look at the rice I placed on the stove."
Dean whined in regret. She left the cooking for him again. His phone beeped, and Dean could feel his mother's eyes on him.
"Who are you texting?"
Dean bit his lip, letting the chop of the knife and the boiling rice be what stood between them.
"You made friends?!"
She sounded excited, and Dean could almost scoff at that fact.
"No—it's Mark."
"Mark? The Mark I know?"
Dean's head moved up and down, and his back tensed when his mother huffed.
"You aren't allowed to talk to that kind of person, Dean. I forbid you from talking to those kinds of people."
Dean was silent. He let the chopping of vegetables be the most interesting thing for him. Anna sighed but continued, her voice sorrowful.
"Those kinds of people would ruin you. They would ruin our plans for you."
"Mark is different," Dean muttered, but his words drowned in his mother's long speech.
"They ruined your brother, Dean. He had a successful and bright future ahead of him. He was the best, but they turned him against me and made him an abusive monster."
Dean wanted to rebuff. Mark wasn't like that.
"And now he's dead." Her voice hushed. Like she was telling herself that it wasn't him. Like she was tired of knowing it and wished someone would tell her it was a lie.
Her son wasn't dead.
The world was silent, and only the sound of boiling water and his mother's fading footsteps were heard, followed by the bang of her room door.
Dean stared at his bleeding finger. The wound wasn't deep, but it stung badly. His eyes watched his blood trickle onto the chopped veggies.
He blinked.
His phone beeped.
He reached for it.
"He wan give you one million, kid." Dean's breath hung. A million.
The temptation urged into his brain, and his fingers trembled typing yes…
He foresaw a lot with that money. A world where things would be better and he would be another plumper.
'They ruined your brother, Dean.'
'They turned him against me and made him an abusive monster.'
Dean hissed and cleared the message. Then he wrote a no.
....
The class was noisy and rather loud. Yet not in a regular playful way, but a competitive loud.
The math subject was ongoing, and students were getting into frantic arguments with the teacher.
Like math was interesting.
Dean watched. He watched these spoiled boys and girls grind math like water on sand. Their competitiveness and surging confidence were a reminder that this wasn't a normal school.
It was one that held the powerful heirs and heiresses.
And he—he didn't belong.
"Dean. Get up and solve the equation on the board. Your classmates seem to disagree with my point of view, and I'm certain that you can solve it."
Dean froze. Everyone was looking.
A few snickered, some glared, others whispered, and she glared at him.
He stood up and walked down the class stairs toward the teacher.
"Solve it." Dean's hands were heavy. His breath loud, hands sweaty, and the taste of breakfast clung to his tongue.
He took the pen.
"Go on."
Dean stopped, glaring at the teacher's lips.
His feet felt immobile and his eyes glared at the convoluted equation.
Dean could pick out some insults behind him and someone trying to quiet them. He glared at the equation.
"You can't solve it? How did you get into this school?"
Dean wrote an answer. It was fast, precise, or a hasty decision. He just wrote.
Snickers arose, and the math teacher shook his head, but the disappointment and disdain that oozed wasn't small.
He was a disappointment.
"Go back to your seat."
Dean flustered back to his seat.
He could hear the taunting and mockery in their voices. They weren't hiding it, nor was the teacher stopping it.
Like he wanted it to happen.
Dean sat as the class continued.
A paper stone hit him and it read: Go back to the slump, loser.
Dean squeezed it, and his reddish eyes met hers.
The bell rang, and students walked at a durable pace.
In the cafeteria, he ate alone at the far end of the table.
Unlike most cafeterias, this was a ballroom hall of an elite restaurant Dean still couldn't make sense of.
Long tables decorated with lovely tablecloths. The walls were thick and brick, yet old and weary brown and cream.
Like they held tales of the old.
A chandelier hung really rough, and conversations drifted like drafts. And servers delivered food to the plates where students sat.
Dean steamed his soup and drank it.
He seemed to be doing this until he heard a giggle behind him.
"You do know that isn't the spoon to be used."
Dean's neck spurted around, and it was indeed her.
His mouth gaped open as she took a seat opposite him.
"You wouldn't mind, do you?"
Dean didn't respond, but the girl's smile didn't falter.
"This is the spoon you steam with, this you eat with, this is for picking, and this—"
Dean stood rather abruptly, holding his tray to walk away. He knew the move—she was going to humiliate him like all of them.
Who was he kidding?
She was one of them.
"Don't walk away from me."
It was cold and forced.
Dean halted. The cafeteria halted with him.
"You didn't introduce yourself; I didn't either. My name is Anena Bow. Daughter of Bows Edward, a successful doctor with multiple hospitals in France, who holds major hotels, and he has a big chunk of this school." And the more she bragged, the closer she walked to him.
"And I like you. So be my boyfriend."
Their eyes met from a long stand. Once, Dean would have appreciated the beauty in them, but now it was all fouled.
They weren't bright or innocent but tainted like all the others. So he muttered, very loudly:
"No."
Dean could hear many gasps. He could pick pity and sympathy glares. He could hear some mutter, "He's in big trouble."
And that scared him—like the girl before him.
"You didn't mean that, did you?"
But it wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Dean chose to hide his fear and the voice telling him to submit.
Why?
Because she was rich and powerful—but he was human too. So he turned and walked closer to her unmoved figure.
He could pick the confusion in her eyes. She wasn't someone used to being told no, and that prickled her anger.
Their faces were close, their noses almost touching, and a wild grin spread on his face, causing her to take a step back.
He leaned too close and could feel her stiffen under his touch as he held her thin shoulder.
"That's a no, desperate princess."
He whispered into her ear, but loud enough for all of them to hear.
And he walked away, feeling a little thrill under the dense dread.
But that was something.
Right?
"He's a goner," a person muttered, rather amazed, as Dean walked past the door—
leaving her stunned face behind.