Page 12 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Smalltown Boy

Anthony

The announcement comes during morning assembly in the church, where all the students sit fidgeting in the pews while Sister Margaret speaks at the podium. Her voice carries through the high-arched ceilings, echoing with the kind of authority that keeps even the rowdiest students in line.

“And now, I am delighted to share some extraordinary news,” she says, her expression a little warmer than usual. “One of our very own students has won the national dental campaign poster contest. Out of thousands of entries across the country, Holy Cross is home to the winning artist.”

The students around me whisper excitedly, their attention breaking away from the polished crucifix above the altar. I keep my gaze fixed on my hands clasped in my lap, already dreading what’s coming.

“Anthony Pacini,” Sister Margaret says, her voice ringing with pride. “Will you please stand?”

The whispers stop. A hush falls over Holy Cross Church that’s connected to the Catholic school of the same name, as every pair of eyes turns to me. My stomach churns, but I stand slowly, feeling the weight of their stares. Some students clap politely; others mutter under their breaths.

Father Tommy, seated near the front, gives me a wide smile and a slow nod of approval. It’s the kind of attention I’ve come to dread but can’t escape.

I want to disappear.

By recess, the entire school is buzzing about the contest. Sister Margaret showed my poster in class; an image of a toothbrush dressed as a superhero with the slogan: “Captain Chompers: Defender of Tooth & Justice!” The nuns that run the school gush about how creative it is and chime in with congratulations.

Not everyone is impressed.

The playground, a mix of chipped asphalt and patchy grass bordered by a chain-link fence, feels smaller than usual. I sit alone near the monkey bars, peeling the crust off my sandwich, when I hear them approaching.

“Well, look who it is. Mr. National Winner,” sneers Jimmy Keller, a sixth grader who seems to exist solely to torment people smaller than him.

I look up to see him flanked by his usual crew, including Danny Russo and Mike Flanagan. They loom over me, their shadows stretching across the cracked pavement.

“I didn’t know they gave awards for kissing priest ass,” Jimmy says, folding his arms.

“Leave me alone,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on my sandwich.

Danny snorts. “Leave you alone? Oh no, Pacini. We’re just getting started.”

“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Jimmy continues. “Winning some dumb contest. Always getting the priests to like you. What’s the secret, huh? Lick their boots? Or is it something else?”

The blood drains from my face. They don’t know. They can’t know. But their words cut deep. They’re too close to the truth.

“Why don’t you just go back inside and hide behind Father Tommy?” Mike sneers, stepping closer. “Bet he’d love that.”

I stand, clutching the edge of the bench. My palms sweat, and my heart pounds. “I didn’t do anything to you,” I say, my voice shaking.

Jimmy laughs, sharp and cold. “Yeah, you did. You breathe.”

I try to walk away, but he shoves me hard. I stumble back, tripping over the bench and landing on the ground. Gravel bites into my palms as I scramble to get up, but they’re on me in seconds.

A punch lands on my shoulder, then another on my side. I curl up, trying to protect my face as they hit and kick me, their laughter ringing in my ears.

“Think you’re better than us, Pacini?” Jimmy snarls. “You’re nothing.”

I don’t fight back. I can’t. The fear of drawing more attention—to myself, to the priests—keeps me frozen. Tears sting my eyes as I press my forehead to the asphalt, wishing I could disappear into it.

Eventually, a nun’s whistle blows, and the boys scatter. I sit up slowly, pain radiating through my ribs. My shirt is torn, and blood trickles from a cut on my lip.

“Anthony!” Sister Margaret’s sharp voice cuts through the playground noise. She hurries over, her habit flapping in the wind as she kneels beside me.

“What happened?” she demands, her eyes scanning my injuries.

“I fell,” I lie, my voice weak.

She frowns, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t press me. “Come on,” she says gently, helping me to my feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

As she leads me toward the school building, I glance back at the playground. Jimmy and his friends are watching from a distance, sneering.

I bite my lip, tasting blood, and force myself to look away.

Inside, as Sister Margaret dabs antiseptic on my scrapes, my mind races. I think about the contest, about Father Tommy’s smile, about the way the priests always treat me differently.

I hate the attention. Hate the way it makes me stand out. Hate that I can’t tell anyone why they favor me, or what it costs me.

“Your talent is very special, Anthony,” Sister Margaret says softly, her voice kind as she bandages my arm.

I swallow, forcing down the lump in my throat.

If only you knew , I think bitterly.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I avoid eye contact with everyone, shrinking into myself as much as I can. The weight of this secret, the thing I can never tell anyone, feels heavier than ever.

Will it always be like this?