Why I’m Jake

Jake's POV

I didn’t start high school planning to be a problem.

That’s the part no one ever believes.

By the time people started whispering my name like it meant something—like it carried weight—I was already trapped inside it. Jake Blaze. Say it slow and people flinch. Say it fast and it sounds like trouble.

But back then? I was just a kid with too much anger and nowhere to put it.

Junior year, I had my usual seat in the back of Mr. Reynolds’ history class. Back corner. Closest to the door. Like I might need an exit at any moment.

I leaned back in my chair, boots hooked around the metal legs of the desk in front of me, leather jacket creaking when I shifted.

Mr. Reynolds droned on about wars and treaties like any of it actually mattered. I twirled a pen between my fingers, eyes drifting to the window, then back down to my notebook.

Lyrics. Half-formed thoughts. Anger scribbled so hard it ripped through the page.

Mark nudged me with his elbow. “Dude, you’re gonna get kicked out again.”

I smirked without looking up. “Relax. He loves me.”

“Yeah,” Mark snorted. “In the same way people love migraines.”

I glanced up just in time to catch Claire flipping a page of her notes in front of me. Perfect handwriting. Perfect posture. Perfect everything. The kind of girl teachers adored.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a rubber band, stretched it between my fingers.

Mark’s eyes lit up. “Don’t.”

I grinned. “Do.”

Snap.

Claire yelped and spun around, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Seriously, Jake?”

I shrugged. “What? Participation matters.”

“Grow up,” she snapped.

“Working on it,” I shot back.

Laughter rippled through the room.

“Jake!” Mr. Reynolds barked. “Do you want to step outside?”

I leaned farther back in my chair, hands folding behind my head. “Only if you’re coming with me, sir. Could use the company.”

The class lost it.

Reynolds pointed at the door. “Out. Now.”

I stood, chair screeching against the floor, and gave an exaggerated bow. As I walked out, I felt it—that familiar buzz. Eyes on me. Whispers starting already.

Bad boy.

Troublemaker.

I owned it because it was easier than explaining how I got there.

Because no one ever asked why.

The truth?

It started in ninth grade.

I remember that day like it’s burned into my bones.

I was walking through the courtyard after lunch, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, music blasting loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

That’s when someone slammed into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

“Watch it, freshman.”

I turned slowly.

Tyler.

Everyone knew him. Senior. Big. Loud. Ran with two other guys who followed him like dogs on a leash. They called themselves the Seniors’ Society like it meant something.

I bent down, picked up my fallen notebook, brushed dirt off the cover.

“Didn’t see your name on the ground,” I said.

One of his friends laughed. “Kid’s got jokes.”

Tyler stepped closer, towering over me. “You got attitude.”

“Yeah,” I said calmly. “It comes free with the face.”

The courtyard went quiet. People stopped pretending not to watch.

Tyler shoved me.

Hard.

“Say that again.”

I didn’t even think. The words just came out. “Make me.”

Mark—same Mark from class years later—grabbed my sleeve. “Jake, don’t.”

Tyler smiled slow and cruel. “After school. Behind the lot. If you don’t show, everyone knows you’re a coward.”

I looked around. So many eyes. Waiting.

I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

The day dragged like hell.

Every class felt slower. Every bell too quiet. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so I shoved them into my pockets. People whispered when I passed.

“You think he’ll show?”

“He’s dead if he does.”

By the final bell, half the school had followed us outside.

The sun was low. Dust kicked up around our shoes. Tyler cracked his knuckles like this was fun.

“You sure about this?” one of his boys asked him.

Tyler smirked. “Kid needs to learn.”

He looked at me. “Last chance to walk away.”

I shook my head. “Not happening.”

He laughed. “Alright, Blaze. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first punch came out of nowhere.

Pain exploded across my jaw, my head snapping to the side. Someone shouted. I staggered—but I didn’t fall.

I spat blood into the dirt.

“Is that it?” I asked, voice shaking but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tyler growled and swung again. I ducked, slammed my fist into his ribs. He gasped. The crowd roared.

“Holy shit!”

“Jake—!”

He hit me back, hard. My vision blurred. Everything hurt. But something inside me burned hotter with every punch.

I wasn’t fighting to win.

I was fighting because I refused to be small.

I charged him, fists flying, knuckles screaming, heart pounding so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. We went down hard, dirt and blood everywhere.

When I finally shoved him off me and stood, Tyler stayed down.

Silence.

Then—

“Jake won.”

“He knocked Tyler out.”

I stood there shaking, chest heaving, blood dripping from my lip.

I looked down at him and said, quiet but clear, “Don’t touch me again.”

That was it.

That was the moment.

By Monday, people moved out of my way in the halls.

Teachers watched me like I was a loaded gun.

Girls whispered. Guys stared.

Jake Blaze.

The bad boy.

The fighter.

The problem.

And once the world decides who you are?

Sometimes you stop trying to prove them wrong.