Chapter Text
Spring heat settled over the Outer Banks like a stubborn reminder of the approaching summer. Kildare High’s parking lot simmered with rust-speckled trucks and sun-faded sedans. Inside, the air buzzed with slamming lockers and scattered conversations.
Pope adjusted the strap on his backpack, holding the books for the next class in his hands. For him, much unlike his friends, school wasn’t just a chore he couldn't get away from—it was the way out. A future away from the Cut, from busted engines and hand-me-down clothes, from watching his dad break his back for every dollar. If he could just keep his head down, ace the tests, and win that scholarship—everything would change.
“Yo, JB, you listening?”
JJ leaned against the lockers, sandy hair falling into his eyes. His shirt was frayed and stretched at the collar. Not that JJ cared. Presentation wasn’t exactly a top priority for him.
John B barely registered the question.
“So, I’m in the gas station, right?” JJ launched into one of his stories, hands flying like he was narrating some epic. “Manager’s eyeing me like I’m about to clean out the register—real suspicious-like.”
“Because you are a thief,” Pope shot back, arms crossed. He used to be genuinely mad about JJ’s stealing. But now... now he wasn’t so sure. Stealing felt less like an act of rebellion and more like a survival skill when your last name was Maybank.
“Nah, I prefer ‘unofficial inventory manager,’” JJ smirked, unbothered.
“More like a habitual shoplifter.” Pope quipped although the passion of calling JJ’s shoplifting out had dulled over time.
John B smirked faintly but stayed distant, his eyes far away again. That vacant look had been happening more since his dad vanished. John B sometimes looked lost at sea as well, something surging underneath, dragging him somewhere dark.
“You’re zoning out, man.” JJ snapped his fingers in front of John B’s face. “What’s rattling around in that tragic little brain of yours?”
Before John B could answer, a loud voice cut through the hallway.
“Hey, Maybank!”
Brock Taylor swaggered toward them, jacket slung over one shoulder, radiating that same entitled arrogance that got him kicked out of the Kook Academy after some "unfortunate legal trouble." Now at Kildare High, he walked around like he owned the place, his crew trailing behind him.
Pope tensed immediately. Trouble, wrapped in a leather jacket and bad intentions. He shifted closer to JJ, ready to pull him back before this went the way it always did.
“Still bumming rides on that piece-of-crap dirt bike, Maybank?” Brock sneered. “Surprised it hasn’t caught fire yet.”
“I’m surprised you think you’re funny—but I ain’t runnin’ around tellin’ everybody.”
Good, Pope thought. If JJ could keep it at that—words, nothing more—they might get through this without...
“Hey, Routledge, your daddy back yet? If I were him, I’d skip town too.”
Guess not.
Pope saw John B’s shoulders tense, fingers twitching like he might snaphis face twisted with anger. “Let it go, JB” he hissed, grabbing his arm. “He’s not worth it.”
John B held back, but Pope hadn’t accounted for all the variables. When he turned to JJ, his smile was already gone, leaving something dangerous behind.
“Say that again,” he growled and before Pope could do anything, JJ moved, fist connecting with Brock’s jaw. Brock stumbled, cursing as he clutched his face.
“You’re dead, Maybank!” Brock spat.
“Then come on, Kook boy,” JJ hissed, teeth bared.
Damn it.
Brock lunged, fists swinging wild. JJ ducked the first punch and slammed his knuckles into Brock’s ribs. “JJ, stop!” Pope yelled, already moving. “You’re gonna get expelled!”
JJ didn't care about getting expelled, apparently. Brock's punch landed on his cheek and he stumbled back, but he kept swinging, driving a hard hook into Brock’s jaw who crashed into the lockers
“Not bad, Taylor," JJ panted, wiping his mouth. "Your face looks better now.”
The hall erupted in chaos. Students leaned in, making a circle, phones bright up to film the fight, shouts bouncing off the walls.
Pope’s vision tunneled, zeroing in on JJ—feral and relentless. Move. Do something. He pushed forward, shoving past the crowd just as John B grabbed one of Brock’s cronies and slammed him into the lockers.
“Back off!” John B snapped.
Another of Brock’s crew sneered, shoving Pope’s books to the floor. “Stay out of it, Heyward.”
Pope staggered, rage bubbling up.This was so stupid, they were so… “I’m trying to stop this, you idiot!”
Before he could react, Brock’s fist caught his shoulder, sending him stumbling back.
Pope would later recall this as "The exact moment it all went to shit"
“Don’t touch him!” JJ roared, launching himself at Brock again. The blows came fast and brutal and Brock barely raised his arms before collapsing under the onslaught, but JJ did not stop. Pope could see the teachers coming now, pushing through the forming crowd, and panic surged in his chest.
“JJ, stop!” John B grabbed his arm, straining to pull him back. JJ wrenched free and swung again. He looked unhinged, scary, almost.
“You’re gonna kill him!” Pope yelled, panicked, seizing JJ’s other arm. Together, they hauled JJ back just as Brock crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. JJ twisted in their grip, still breathing hard, fists clenched tight. The crowd broke apart, avoiding the blood-smeared lockers.
John B shoved JJ, hard. “What the fuck, man?”
Pope couldn’t understand JJ sometimes… Actually, most times. He liked logic, consistency. With JJ, you never knew. He could be breezy and fun one moment, and then you blink and he is bashing someone’s head in. A JJ thing, John B liked to say - and “A JJ thing” could mean literally anything -from getting super drunk, high and hugging his friends, telling them how much they mean to him with almost-teary eyes, through being biting and insulting, disappearing on them without any explanation, all the way to… whatever this was. You never knew. “Yeah, JJ, what the fuck was that?”
JJ didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to Brock, slumped against the lockers, then to his bloody knuckles.
“That’s enough!” barked a teacher, storming into the center of the fray. The crowd scattered, phones vanishing into pockets. Pope stepped back, hands raised in surrender.
One teacher knelt by Brock, checking his swollen jaw. “Get him to the nurse—now!” she ordered, while the other jabbed a finger toward them. “Office. All of you.”
All of you.
Pope’s stomach dropped. Office meant records. Records meant hearings, detentions, worst-case scenario—expulsion. One fight could blow everything. The only thing he’d worked for—all because JJ couldn’t keep his temper in check. He grit his teeth.
“Look, we’ll go, but Pope didn’t do anything.” - John B stepped forward, still holding JJ, as if to make sure he will not start swinging again. The teacher looked at him like she regretted her life choices. “You’re all involved, Routledge. Move.”
“Involved? They attacked us!” JJ yelled, voice jagged like he was still mid-fight. “What, we’re getting punished for standing too close?”
Why couldn’t he just stop ? Brock was down. The fight was over. Pope grabbed his arm, somewhat harder than he planned. “Shut up, JJ! Everyone saw what happened.”
JJ shrugged, like consequences were some distant theory that didn’t apply to him. “Details.” He nodded toward Brock’s crew being ushered down the hall, looking way too smug. “Bet they’ll walk outta here with a slap on the wrist.”
—-------------------------
They waited outside the principal’s office, sitting on the cold metal bench like prisoners on trial. Time stretched. Pope could barely sit still. His knee bounced as his mind raced. He’d be done for. John B sat slouched with arms crossed while JJ paced, restless like he was itching for another round. He didn’t get it—not really. To JJ, consequences were a vague concept, a storm you couldn’t outrun, so you might as well raise hell before it hit. Pope couldn’t be like that. He couldn’t afford to be like that.
The door opened, and Brock’s friends emerged, smirking like they’d just won the lottery. Just great. Pope saw one of them swaggering just a little too close to JJ, and before he could react, his friend was already stepping forward.
His heart skipped. He reached out and grabbed JJs arm, jerking him back. “Don’t.”
The guy sneered and walked away, but Pope could feel JJ’s anger vibrating beneath his skin. “They’re in there laughing their asses off while we’re the ones getting hauled in. How the hell is that fair?”
John B looked at him pointedly. “Dude, you did start it.”
JJ spun toward him, still keyed up, still in fight mode. “He was talkin’ shit about your dad! What was I supposed to do, write him a letter?”
John B sighed, weary and worn-out. “I can fight my own battles.”
“Didn’t look like it”
Pope felt his frustration flare again. JJ could’ve just walked away. Brock wasn’t worth it. His future didn’t ride on keeping a clean record—not like Pope’s did. “You should have stayed down, JJ. Do you have any idea how much trouble we're in now because of you?”
“What are you talking about, Pope?” JJ scoffed. “You were one punch away from getting knocked out, and I’m the one who is at fault? Aren't you sick of them walking all over us?”
Pope opened his mouth to argue, but JJ pressed on. “I wasn’t gonna stand there while they came at you.”
Pope was going to tell him that he was not helping, that he only made things worse. But then Pope saw something in his expression that tugged at his gut—something small, quiet, vulnerable, even if JJ would rather eat glass than admit it.
John B sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He already knew. These two had an almost telepathic understanding that Pope could never quite figure out. “Look… we get why you did it.” His tone softened. “But you can’t keep doing this, man.”
JJ slumped back against the wall. “Yeah, well...” He dragged a sleeve across his bloodied nose, smearing red onto his already stained shirt. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Pope couldn’t help it—he snorted, more disbelief than amusement. JJ ran with it and beamed at him, bloody and unbothered, like the worst was already behind them.
“So... if we survive this, should we celebrate with burgers or pizza?” he jerked his chin toward Pope. “You’re in, right? You’ve got that ‘tragic, falsely accused hero’ thing going on. You deserve fries.”
Pope just stared at him. God…He knew JJ for years and shouldn't be surprised, but still - how could he be so nonchalant about all of this? “Are you for real right now? We’re probably getting expelled. You think fries are gonna fix that?”
To Pope’s disbelief, John B actually cracked into a smile too. “Fries fix a lot of things, man.”
He wasn't sure if he was angry anymore. Before he could respond, the principal’s office door creaked open, snapping them back to reality.
They were so screwed.
—------------
The air conditioner wheezed in the corner, struggling against the heat pressing through the old building. Certificates for “Outstanding Academic Excellence” hung crooked on the walls—empty promises in a school where too many kids were already written off. Mr Collins stared at the dented coffee mug on his desk, its faded World’s Best Dad lettering barely visible. He rubbed his eyes. This job was not what he signed up for. Refereeing fights every other day wasn’t exactly in the brochure.
“Routledge. Maybank. Heyward.” The boys filed in. He leaned back in his chair, bracing himself for what he knew would be another exhausting ordeal.
“Pope?” His voice came out firmer than intended, but he didn’t soften it. He lifted a brow. “First time in here, I believe.” The boy shifted, straightening in his seat, his fingers twisting the straps of his backpack. “Yes, sir.”
Collins studied him for a moment. Smart kid. Capable. The kind who could actually make something of himself—if he didn’t keep getting tangled up in trouble he had no business being part of. “And what exactly were you doing in the middle of all this?”
“I was just trying to stop them. I didn’t hit anyone .”
“Yeah, Pope’s the only one here with a conscience. He tried to break it up—and this is the thanks he gets?”
Collins turned toward the noise—Maybank, of course. Lanky and wiry, with sandy blond hair sticking out from under a battered baseball cap, JJ Maybank lounged in his chair like he owned the place.
.“Maybank.” Collins cut him off, “Did I ask you to speak?”
“Nope.” the blonde kid shrugged, loudly popping the P.
“Then be quiet!” He was just like his father. Trouble in boots. Too much attitude, too little supervision, and a reputation that reached the principal’s desk long before he ever stepped foot in the building. The Maybanks were bad news, all of them. and JJ seemed determined to not be an exception.
He looked at the Routledge kid. “And you... why were you involved?” The boy’s jaw clenched, fingers twitching faintly against his knees. “He said something about my dad.”
Of course he had. Collins exhaled slowly, already regretting the conversation. The boy’s pain was understandable. His father had disappeared, leaving him behind to fend for himself. Collins couldn’t help but feel something close to sympathy, even if the boy made it damn near impossible to show it.
“And you thought punching him was the answer?” His voice sounded rough despite himself.
John B didn’t respond. Collins recognized that stubborn silence all too well. The same quiet resistance Big John carried—unyielding and impossible to reason with.
He hated playing the hard-ass when all he really wanted was to help—but none of them ever made that easy.
“I know things haven’t been easy for you, John B, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”
“Worked pretty well,” JJ muttered. Damn kid was grinding his nerves already. “What did I just say?”
He spread his hands in mock innocence. “Pretty sure it was ‘be quiet’, but hear me out, you didn’t hear what Brock said. Bet you’d have decked him too.”
“Brock will be dealt with,” he answered coolly, though he doubted that was true. Brock Taylor’s father had money—enough to make his son’s problems disappear. Different rules for different families. He hated it, but some things couldn’t be changed. “It is your behaviour we are talking about now, not his.”
John B leaned forward “Well, if you’re calling out people who started it, where is he?”
Collins ignored the question. “I expect better from you, Routledge.Given what’s happened... maybe it’s time you talk to someone. The school counselor—”
JJ snorted, spinning his finger near his temple. Collins glared at him, his patience already cracking. “Maybank.” He sounded as tired as he was. “Let me guess—you threw the first punch.”
“Define “first punch.” JJ tilted his head with mock curiosity.
That was the final straw.
The sudden crack of his fist slamming against the desk echoed through the room, surprising even himself. John B and Pope jumped, startled. JJ jerked violently back, eyes flashing toward the door like he was ready to bolt. His chair clattered back onto all four legs. Collins caught it then, a flicker of something that wasn’t defiance - the kid looked genuinely scared for a second. He felt a pang of guilt, quickly drowned by his frustration. “You think this is funny?”
JJ’s face went blank, the smirk - amazingly - wiped for good. “A little, sir.”
Collins looked at him a little longer, searching for... something. A crack. A tell. But the kid’s expression stayed locked down. For what it was worth, he did not interrupt or smart off after that.
Collins sighed heavily, dragging the incident report closer. “Pope... since this is your first time here, consider this a verbal warning—but I’ll be calling your parents.”
Heyward’s head shot up, his voice rising with disbelief. “What?! I wasn’t even—”
“I know.” Good kid. He deserved better. “But you were there. Rules are rules.”
He turned his glare back to JJ, who now sat rigid, face tense and calculating. “Almost.. two months since I’ve spoken with your dad... must be a record.” The boy looked nervous now, but he held the principal’s gaze. “Yeah? You should get a plaque or something.”
“Drop the sass already! You’re suspended for three days, and he’ll have to pick you up.”
“Can’t wait.” Yeah, Collins also couldn’t wait for him to get out of his office.
Finally, he turned to John B. “Routledge, you will get detention for a week. Given your... um.. situation, I’ll be contacting your uncle to let him know.” The boy looked like he wanted to argue, but it would not pass - his compassion only got so far. “You don’t need to… I’ll talk to him myself.” - he tried.
“That’s not how this works,” Collins said firmly. “Your legal guardian has to be informed, no way around it. Now stay here while I do the calls.”
He went out of the office and shut the door behind him, hand lingering on the worn handle longer than he meant to. Three boys, all in over their heads. If the Cut didn’t pull them under, they’d drag each other down, that was certain.
He straightened, already dreading the worst call of the day. Luke Maybank. That was always a losing battle, even if he actually picked up this time. He grabbed the phone, rubbing the back of his neck. Better get it over with.