The walk back to the main building was a grueling pilgrimage of pain. Every time Joel's left foot struck the pavement, a jagged, white-hot spike of agony shot from his hip up into his ribs. He tried to walk normally—he desperately wanted to be invisible again—but his body wouldn't cooperate. He was forced into a hitched, uneven gait, a pathetic limp that made him tilt slightly to one side with every step.
By the time he reached the heavy oak doors of the West Wing, the hallway was a shark tank. The bell for first period hadn't rung yet, and the students were loitering in clusters, their faces illuminated by the pale blue glow of their phone screens.
Joel kept his head down, his dark hair a tangled curtain over his eyes, but he could feel the shift in the atmosphere the moment he entered. The air felt cold and sharp.
"Look at that," a voice hissed from the left. "The Princess is back."
"Why is he walking like that?" another girl giggled, nudging her friend. "Did he practice his 'delicate' walk too much? Or is he just fragile?"
"Hey, Joel!" a boy from the football team shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "How was the kiss? Did the President give you a boo-boo?"
The laughter followed him like a physical weight. Sissy. Gay. Pretty boy. The words were tossed at him like stones. Every insult made him flinch, and every flinch sent a new wave of pain through his side. He felt small, broken, and utterly exposed. He was a wounded animal dragging itself through a field of predators.
As he approached the administrative corridor, he had to pass the Student Council office—a room of glass and polished wood that represented everything he was not. Through the cracked door, he could hear the low, professional murmur of a meeting. He tried to speed up, but his hip gave a sickening throb, forcing him to stumble.
The door creaked open.
Frank stepped out, a stack of folders in his hand. He looked busy, his brow furrowed in concentration, but the second he heard the taunts of a group of sophomores nearby, his head snapped up. His eyes landed on Joel, and his expression shifted from professional to deeply concerned in a heartbeat.
"Joel?" Frank called out, stepping into his path. "What are you doing? You're... you're limping."
Joel froze, his breath hitching. "I'm fine," he whispered, though his voice cracked.
"You're not fine. You're white as a sheet," Frank said, his voice dropping to that protective, steady register. He looked at the students who were still snickering nearby and gave them a look so cold they immediately looked away. He turned back to Joel, reaching out to steady him. "Come inside the office. Sit down. I'll get the nurse or—"
But Joel wasn't looking at Frank anymore.
His eyes were locked on the far end of the hallway. James Thorn was walking toward them, his stride long and predatory, his eyes fixed on the scene with an unreadable intensity.
Joel's heart panicked. He felt the phantom sensation of being lifted and dropped again. He couldn't be in a room with both of them. He couldn't handle the kindness of the Assistant President and the cruelty of the President at the same time. He felt like he was being pulled apart.
"Joel, what happened after I left?" Frank asked, his eyes darting between Joel's pained expression and the approaching figure of James. "Did you fall? Did... did something happen?"
Joel couldn't speak. His throat was a desert. He just shook his head, his fingers trembling against the strap of his bag.
James reached them, stopping just inches from Joel. The air between them turned electric and suffocating.
"Frank, why are you lingering in the hall?" James asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "The meeting hasn't adjourned."
"He's hurt, James," Frank said, his voice tightening. "Look at how he's walking. What happened on the field?"
James glanced down at Joel, his eyes cold and dark. "He's fine. He's just being dramatic. Joel knows the rules. The bell is about to ring." He stepped closer to Joel, his shadow swallowing the smaller boy. "Go to class, Joel. Now. Unless you want that punishment we talked about."
The word punishment acted like a physical shove. Joel didn't wait for Frank to say another word. He turned and ran—or tried to run—dragging his leaden, aching leg behind him in a desperate, shuffling dash. He didn't look back to see the look of suspicion on Frank's face or the way James watched him go.
He reached his homeroom just as the bell let out a shrill, mocking scream.
The classroom was already full. As he stepped through the door, the talking stopped for a fraction of a second before erupting into a low, buzzing hum of whispers. Joel kept his eyes on the floor, navigating the rows of desks until he reached his own at the back.
He sat down heavily, a muffled groan escaping his lips as his bruised side hit the chair. But as he went to put his bag down, he froze.
Someone had been at his desk.
Written across the wood in thick, black permanent marker were words that made his stomach turn. FREAK. DISGUSTING. WATCH YOUR BACK.
Joel stared at the ink, feeling the familiar sting of tears. He reached into his bag to pull out a notebook, trying to ignore the stares of the students in the front row who were pointing and whispering. As he leaned down to put his bag under the locker-style cubby beneath his seat, his hand brushed against something cold.
He pulled it out. It was a small, clinical-looking tube of high-grade arnica ointment—the kind used for deep tissue bruising.
Joel's breath caught. He looked around the room frantically. No one was looking at him. His classmates were busy laughing, scrolling through their phones, or preparing for the lecture. None of them would have done this. They wanted him to hurt; they didn't want him to heal.
Who?
He clutched the tube, his mind spinning. Only two people knew he was hurt. Frank... but Frank had been in the office, and James had ordered him to stay there.
And James.
James had seen him fall. James had been the one to drop him.
Suddenly, a girl in the front row turned around to her friend, her voice loud enough to carry. "Did you see the President earlier? He was acting so weird. He was going through the back row lockers, claiming he 'lost his watch' or something. He looked totally pissed off when he couldn't find it."
Joel looked down at the ointment in his hand. Lost his watch?
Was it possible?
Joel slid the tube into his pocket, his heart a confused, aching mess. He didn't know who to trust, but as he looked at the hateful words on his desk, he realized one thing: the invisible boy was gone, and the nightmare was only just beginning.