Page 3 of Reasons We Break

Now that was something Rajan was choosing not to examine. It was nobody’s business, anyway. He and Zach had been long overdue for a fight. He half glanced at the poster on the wall, which saidZero tolerance policy for inappropriate language.

He chose his words carefully. “I hit Zach because he’s a—”

Rajan then let loose a string of words so foul that the principal’s pen fell out of his grasp and rolled off the table before he managed a response.

And what a response it was. Needless to say, the conversation was over. Rajan was sent home with two weeks’ suspension, and that was that.

When Rajan returned to school, he was even more screwed. For one, he had no clue what was going on inanyof his classes anymore. And secondly: Zach was back, too.

A friend informed Rajan at lunch that Zach was planning some revenge after school with his buddies. Rajan knew instinctively that these “buddies” weren’t the school variety. He’d stirred up an already tense turf war, and now, he had exactly three hours to figure out a survival strategy.

Rajan skipped next period to make a plan. Perry was his supplier lately, so he called him first. He explained the situation, that he needed a safe ride home. But instead, Perry promised to be there tofight.

“Be ready tonight,” he said, sounding gleeful, and hung up. Of course. Perry was probably ecstatic to have a reason to get rid of Zach—he was taking half the customers at Northridge. Just the other day, a popular girl in his class, Chandani, had chosen Zach’s cheaper product over his. Rajan leaned his head against the wall and cursed.

He needed a weapon. Otherwise he’d be dead meat as soon as he left school grounds. He used to drag around a baseball bat for occasions like this, but that was confiscated several fights ago...

Wait.

A teacher poked her head through a doorway and told him to go to class. He pushed off the wall and obeyed. But his mind was elsewhere—coming up with a plan.

Picking the lock of the storage room was easy, with the help of a twisted paper clip. Security at Northridge was a joke. Or maybe they didn’t think anyone would have the balls to break in there, since it was across from the admin office. Rajan stole a glance that way before slipping inside.

The tiny room was littered with random shit. Magazine boxes, plastic tubs of gym equipment, Hula Hoops, and rolled-up posters lined the shelves. A Swiss Army Knife, on a shelf beside a lockbox, caught his eye, and he pocketed it immediately. The bat had to be here. This place wasn’t cleared out often—

He spotted it leaning against the farthest corner at the same time the doorknob turned.

Rajan backed away immediately, toward the wall. Nowhere to hide. He was caught. He pulled the knife out of his hoodie, not wanting it on him when they inevitably demanded he turn out his pockets.

But when the door swung open, it wasn’t a teacher. It was Simran.

Instead of putting the knife down, he froze. She blinked. And then they were staring at each other, him holding a knife, her a stack of papers.

From somewhere beyond her, Mr. Kerr’s voice sounded. “Simran, did you find the cashbox?”

Kerr’s heavy footsteps drew closer. Rajan tensed. Of course Miss Goody-Two-Shoes was running errands for theprincipal. He was screwed.

But Simran turned away, letting the door fall nearly closed. “I just realized, I left it in Mrs. Scott’s classroom.”

“Really?” Mr. Kerr stopped in his tracks. “But you were here with it last. I was with you. Did you look?” His voice grew louder, as if he were trying to peek inside. Rajan stepped out of the sliver of light and nearly bumped into a shelf—the shelf with thelockbox, the one school council used for money collection.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Simran said. “But I just remembered. When you left for your meeting, I went to Mrs. Scott’s room to get some uncounted envelopes. I think I left the cashbox on her desk.”

She sounded so sincere Rajan found himself glancing at the cashbox again to confirm it was there.

Kerr seemed convinced as well. “Oh, well, if you’re sure...”

“I am,” Simran said. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

And she closed the door firmly behind her.Click. Two pairs of footsteps faded away, and a dazed Rajan counted to thirty before picking up his bat and making his escape.

The next day, though, he was furious.

He burst into the library, the door banging against the wall so loud the librarian hissed, “Careful!” He ignored her, scanning the room. Simran sat at one of the study tables as usual.

As he made a beeline for her, Simran noticed him, too. Her eyes flicked down to his bruised jaw—the only visible evidence of what went down the night before.

He planted his hands on the table. “What the fuck do you want?”