Chapter 1: The Last Chair
The fluorescent lights in the classroom flickered as I stepped through the doorway. April 11th. My first day at Riverside High. I gripped the strap of my backpack—the only possession I owned that wasn't bought from a thrift store or fished out of a donation bin.
"Class, we have a new student joining us today," Mrs. Patterson announced, her voice cutting through the chatter. "This is Kenny Rogers."
A few giggles rippled through the room at my name. I'd heard them all before. The country singer jokes. The chicken restaurant references. I kept my face neutral, waiting.
"Kenny, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself?"
I scanned the rows of faces. Clean clothes. Styled hair. The subtle glow of kids who went home to dinner tables and parents who asked about their day. Everything I used to have. Everything I'd lost.
"I'm sixteen," I said. "I like music. That's about it."
Mrs. Patterson smiled, though I could see the concern in her eyes. She'd probably read my file. Homeless. Guardian deceased. The administration had only accepted my enrollment after I'd stood in the office for three days straight, showing them every dollar I'd saved, every test score from my old school.
"Well, welcome to Riverside. Please, take a seat at the back by the window."
I walked down the aisle, hyperaware of every eye tracking my movement. My shoes—bought from a street vendor last week—squeaked against the linoleum. But as I passed, something unexpected happened. A girl with braids smiled at me. Not a pitying smile, but genuine warmth.
"Hey," she whispered. "I'm Jasmine."
I nodded, afraid that if I spoke, my voice would crack and reveal how long it had been since someone my age had spoken to me without suspicion.
The boy next to my assigned seat pulled out his earbuds. "Kenny Rogers, huh? Can you sing 'The Gambler'?"
"Marcus, leave him alone," Jasmine hissed from two rows over.
But Marcus was grinning, not mocking. "Nah, I'm serious. If you can sing, we need a vocalist for the spring showcase. Our last guy graduated."
Before I could respond, Mrs. Patterson cleared her throat. "If we're done with the welcome wagon, let's continue with our discussion of symbolism in *The Great Gatsby*."
I sank into my seat and stared out the window. Below, the street stretched toward downtown, where I'd spent the last two months performing for spare change. Where I'd slept in doorways and library bathrooms. Where I'd learned that most people would rather cross the street than acknowledge a kid sitting on the pavement with a cardboard sign.
But here, in this classroom, no one knew that version of me yet.
"Kenny?"
I jerked my attention back. Mrs. Patterson was looking at me expectantly.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked what you think the green light symbolizes in the novel."
I hadn't read *The Great Gatsby*. I'd been too busy trying to survive. But I'd seen the movie once, years ago, when Grandma was still alive. When we'd curl up on her threadbare couch after closing the ramen shop, and she'd let me pick what we watched.
"Hope, maybe," I said carefully. "Something you can see but can't quite reach."
Mrs. Patterson's expression softened. "That's exactly right."
*Four months earlier—December 20th*
I found Grandma in her usual spot, behind the counter of Rogers' Ramen. She was wiping down the surface, her movements slow and deliberate. At eighty-nine, every task took her three times as long, but she refused help.
"Kenny-boy," she said without looking up. "Did you finish your homework?"
"Yes, Grandma." I set my backpack down and tied on my apron. "I'll start prep for dinner service."
"Good boy." She finally looked at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know, your grandfather used to stand right where you're standing. He'd make the broth from scratch every morning. Four AM, like clockwork."
I'd heard the story a hundred times, but I never interrupted. These memories were precious to her, threads connecting her to a past that grew more distant each day.
"You have his hands," she continued, reaching across the counter to pat mine. "Strong hands. Good for making ramen. Good for making music, too."
My guitar was propped in the corner—a battered acoustic I'd bought from a pawn shop with my first paycheck. I practiced every night after we closed, writing lyrics in a notebook while Grandma dozed in her apartment upstairs.
"Grandma, I've been thinking..." I started chopping green onions, keeping my eyes on the cutting board. "Maybe after I graduate, I could try. You know. Music. For real."
"Of course you will," she said firmly. "You think I don't hear you up there? You have a gift, Kenny. Your parents would be so proud."
The mention of my parents sent a familiar ache through my chest. Seven years since the accident. Seven years since Mei and the rest of the family decided I was cursed. Bad luck personified. The reason Mom and Dad's car had spun out on black ice.
"They wouldn't have wanted this life for me," I said quietly. "Working in a ramen shop, barely scraping by."
Grandma's hand gripped mine tighter than I expected. "You listen to me, Kenny Rogers. There is no shame in honest work. Your parents knew that. And someday, when you're singing on big stages, you'll remember where you came from. You'll remember that you earned every single step."
She released my hand and shuffled toward the stove. "Now, let's make some ramen. We have customers who need feeding."
That was the last real conversation we had. Two days later, she collapsed while preparing the morning broth. The doctor said her heart had simply worn out. Eighty-nine years of beating, of loving, of surviving—it had finally reached its limit.
I held her hand as she took her last breath, and for a moment, I could swear she squeezed back.
*February 18th—The Family Meeting*
The community center smelled like industrial cleaner and old coffee. I sat in the back row of folding chairs, as far from my relatives as I could manage. They'd arrived in clusters—Uncle James with his wife and kids, Aunt Patricia with her husband, Mei with her parents. All of them from my mother's side. Dad's family had made it clear years ago they wanted nothing to do with me.
Mei stood at the front of the room, her arms crossed, a smile playing at her lips. She was nineteen, beautiful in the way people noticed, and she knew it. She'd always known exactly how to work a room.
"Thank you all for coming," she began. "I know this is difficult, but we need to discuss Grandma's estate and... other matters."
Uncle James cleared his throat. "Is there even an estate to discuss? She ran that noodle shop on fumes for years."
"The building is worth something," Aunt Patricia said. "Prime location, even if it needs work."
I sat frozen, invisible. They talked about Grandma like she was a balance sheet. Like the ramen shop wasn't her entire life, her connection to Grandpa, her way of surviving after losing her daughter—my mother—in that accident.
"There's also the matter of Kenny." Mei's voice cut through the murmuring.
Every head turned toward me.
"What about him?" Uncle James asked, though his tone suggested he didn't really care.
Mei took a breath, and I saw it—the calculated pause, the way she positioned herself in the light. Drama had always been her specialty.
"I didn't want to say this, but..." She pressed her hand to her chest. "I think we all need to know the truth. Grandma didn't die of natural causes."
The room went still.
"What are you talking about?" Aunt Patricia leaned forward.
"I was there the day before she died," Mei continued. "I stopped by the shop, and Kenny was arguing with her. About money. He wanted her to give him money for some music equipment, and when she refused, he got angry. Really angry."
"That's not—" I started, but my voice came out as a croak.
"The next day, she was dead," Mei said, her eyes glistening with manufactured tears. "And I can't help but think... what if the stress of that argument, the shock of seeing her beloved grandson act that way... what if that's what killed her?"
"You're lying," I managed, standing up. "I never asked her for money. I never argued with her. Mei, why are you doing this?"
She turned to me, and for just a second, I saw the real hatred in her eyes. Years of it, accumulated every time Grandma praised my singing, every time she said I reminded her of Mom, every time she gave me the attention Mei thought she deserved.
"The doctor said her heart gave out from stress," Mei said softly. "And you've been nothing but a burden since your parents died. Bad luck follows you, Kenny. We all know it. And now that bad luck has taken Grandma, too."
Uncle James stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I think Kenny should leave."
"I didn't do anything—"
"Leave!" Aunt Patricia's voice cracked like a whip. "You've brought nothing but misery to this family. Your parents died because of you. Now Grandma. When is it enough?"
I looked around the room, searching for one ally, one person who might defend me. But I saw only closed faces, eyes that wouldn't meet mine, the visible relief of people who'd found someone to blame for their grief.
"Fine," I whispered. "I'll go."
"And don't come back," Mei added. "Grandma left the shop to all of us. You have no claim. No family. Nothing."
I walked out of that community center with only the clothes on my back and twenty-three dollars in my pocket. Behind me, I heard Mei's voice start up again, probably dividing Grandma's possessions like spoils of war.
*Present Day—April 11th*
The bell rang, jolting me from my memories. Students erupted into motion, gathering books, chattering about lunch plans.
"Hey, Kenny."
I looked up to find Jasmine standing next to my desk, Marcus beside her.
"We weren't kidding about the showcase," Marcus said. "We're doing a tribute to protest songs from different decades. We need someone who can actually sing, not just carry a tune."
"I don't think—"
"Come on," Jasmine interrupted. "Just audition. It's this Friday after school. No pressure."
Everything in me wanted to say no. To keep my head down, finish the year, and disappear before anyone learned my secrets. But then I thought of Grandma, of her voice telling me I had a gift. Of the promise I'd made to myself when I stood on street corners, pouring my heart into songs for strangers.
"Okay," I said. "I'll be there."
Jasmine's face lit up. "Awesome! You're gonna crush it."
As they walked away, I gathered my things slowly, letting the classroom empty. Through the window, I could see the city stretching out before me. Somewhere out there was the family that had disowned me. The ramen shop that should have been my inheritance. The streets where I'd learned to survive.
But here, in this school, maybe I could learn something else.
How to hope again.
*End of Chapter 1*