What People Don't Say

The minute I walked in, I knew.

Not that anyone said anything.

That's not the Pinegate way.

It was in the quiet of the hall a beat too early. In the manner three kids near the lockers shifted their heads like they weren't shifting their heads. In the manner someone pretended to cough, just loud enough to cover a laugh.

You get good at reading that kind of thing when you learn to disappear as a child.

I kept walking. Kept my face blank. Shoulders down. Hands in the pocket of my hoodie like I wasn't noticing the static crawling up my spine.

My boots echoed a bit too much on the floor.

Locker doors crashed like punctuation marks.

I didn't glance at anyone.

Because I already knew.

Someone had seen something.

Or thought they had.

Or wanted to.

It didn't matter which.

In Pinegate, rumor and reality aren't distinguishable once people begin looking.

And they were looking.

Not with curiosity.

Not with interest.

But with that knife-edged silence people use when they smell blood but haven't yet decided if they're going to attack.

Third period. Algebra.

The room smelled like dry-erase marker and someone's lingering Axe body spray. I collapsed into my rear seat and kept my head down.

Tyler was already there.

Two rows ahead.

 Feet propped up on the chair in front of him like rules didn't apply. They didn't... not to him. Not when your dad owns the hardware store and sponsors the church BBQ every year.

Ms. Keller started scribbling equations on the board, numbers bleeding into each other like static.

Then Tyler shifted in his seat and said—just loud enough for three guys and maybe a ghost to hear:

"Hey, Keller. if someone's a really good partner, do we get extra credit?"

Some laughs.

Not outright laughing. Not yet.

One of his friends grunted something I couldn't catch, and then the other one chimed in, "Yeah, depends how close you're sitting, I guess."

Another laugh. Louder now.

My stomach turned, but I didn't look up. 

Didn't give them the reaction they were hoping for. 

"Some individuals are just very passionate about teamwork," Tyler added, spinning his pencil around between his fingers as if he was saying nothing unusual.

Ms. Keller barely turned around. "Eyes on the board, Tyler." 

"Always, Miss."

He winked. 

At no one. 

Or maybe at me. 

I didn't look his way. Just kept scribbling down numbers that wouldn't remain in my head.

Let the scritch of the graphite and the hum of the fluorescent lights drown out all other noise.

But I heard it.

And I knew they knew I heard it.

She was standing by my locker when I got there.

Boot up on the wall, arms folded, chewing on the cap of a Sharpie like it was a toothpick.

Jessie Leigh didn't make small talk when she was mad.

"Been hearing things," she said.

I didn't say anything. Just turned the dial on my locker, as if I'd momentarily forgotten the combination.

She pushed off the wall and stood beside me. "About you. About Eli."

I remained blank.

"Someone's talking," she said, low. "And I don't think it's some idle moron spouting off his mouth. I think they're waiting."

"Let them," I said.

Jessie's voice flattened even more. "You think it stops with whispers?"

I didn't answer.

Because of no, I didn't.

I knew how it started. I'd seen it happen to other students. A look. A rumor. Then someone's tires get slashed. Then someone gets jumped behind the gym. Then someone's family gets quiet at church.

"I can deal," I said to her.

Jessie leaned in a bit. "This place doesn't break you all at once, Caleb. It just chips until there's nothing but dust left."

I looked at her then. Looked... 

Her eyeliner was smudged. Her lips strained.

She wasn't trying to scare me.

She was trying to keep me standing.

I nodded once. "Thanks."

Jessie gave me a look that said she didn't think so.

But she let it go.

For now.

I told myself it was nothing.

Just kidding.

Just boys being lazy and cruel.

That no one had said anything real—no slurs, no punches, no threats of violence. Just Tyler Crane playing alpha dog to a room full of sheep who laughed because silence is weakness in Pinegate.

But I knew better.

No one needs to say it out loud in this town. That's the trick.

Everything that matters is in the silence.

The glances in the locker room.

The second pair of eyes on you when you're standing too close to another boy.

The way your name becomes a question mark instead of a name.

Caleb. Thatcher?

Like they're waiting for proof. Waiting for a mistake they can hold up and say: See? We were right.

I told myself it was okay.

I hadn't done anything.

I hadn't touched him.

I had not uttered the beast that lived at the back of my throat every time Eli looked at me for too long.

But here's the thing, it doesn't matter what you say or don't say.

Sometimes staring is enough.

Sometimes silence in the wrong way is louder than any confession.

The last bell rang like a mercy that wasn't meant.

I waited until the hallway emptied out some before heading to my locker. Didn't feel like dodging shoulders or playing deaf to what I'd heard.

The hall was half-dark by that point. Teachers gone already. Overheads buzzed and guttered like they were trying to die.

I opened my locker door slow. Hinges screamed. Inside was the same old mess—papers, a half-crushed bag of chips, a sketchbook I hadn't touched in days.

I stood there for a moment, not taking anything. 

Just listening. 

From down the hall somewhere—maybe near the gym—I heard it. 

Laughter. 

Fast. Sharp. Too loud to be innocent. 

It came in bursts. 

One, then another. 

Then that kind of silence that means someone looked your way and didn't have to say why. 

I didn't turn around. 

Didn't move. 

Just stood there, staring into the clutter of my locker like it could provide me with directions.

No one called my name.

No one shoved me.

But they didn't have to.

They knew.

And now I did too.