Chapter 4 - Stepping Onto the Stage

  Middle school was finally coming to an end, and for the first time in a long while, Ezra was looking forward to what came next.

  High school.

  It felt like a fresh start, a chance to carve out a new path beyond the reputation he had carried for so long. The bullying had faded. The bruises of the past had started to heal. And now? Now, Ezra wanted to explore something new.

  One day, as he walked through the halls of his school, he noticed leaflets taped to the walls—colorful, eye-catching posters advertising various clubs and extracurriculars at the high school. It was part of a middle school outreach program, designed to introduce students to different opportunities before they even got there.

  Ezra skimmed through them with mild curiosity—chess club, robotics, student council, athletics. Nothing really grabbed him.

  Until he saw the acting club.

  He paused.

  Acting?

  The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

  Ezra had always loved role-playing, slipping into different characters, getting lost in worlds of his own creation. With how much fun he had sparring with Julie, outwitting Bruiser, and bantering with the construction crew, maybe he could channel that energy into something real.

  Something on stage.

  He imagined himself in front of an audience, delivering lines with the same sharp wit he had used all summer. He imagined commanding the room, holding their attention, becoming someone else entirely.

  The thought was thrilling.

  So, without hesitation, Ezra grabbed the leaflet.

  Maybe this was exactly what he needed.

  A week later, Ezra stepped into the auditorium for his first acting club meeting.

  The stage stretched wide and open, its polished wooden floor catching the glow of the overhead lights. The theater seats were empty, but their rows stretched endlessly into the dim shadows, as if waiting for a future audience to fill them.

  Ezra had walked into this completely confident.

  He could banter. He could play roles. Hell, he had outtalked construction workers and gone toe-to-toe with Julie. How hard could this be?

  Then the club president—a senior named Max—handed him a script.

  "Alright," Max said, flipping through his own copy. "We're gonna do a few line reads, get a feel for the script. Ezra, you’re up first. Step on stage and give it a go."

  Ezra nodded, moving toward the center of the stage.

  Then he turned.

  And froze.

  All eyes were on him.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Expecting something.

  Ezra’s mouth went dry.

  His fingers tightened on the script, but his brain refused to cooperate. The words blurred together. He knew he had read them just fine a second ago, but now they didn’t feel real.

  For the first time in his entire life, Ezra felt small.

  It was one thing to play a role in his own world—where the stakes were low, where everything was controlled, where he could banter and play on his own terms.

  But this?

  This was different.

  This wasn’t about quick wit or sharp comebacks.

  This was about being seen.

  Judged.

  And right now, Ezra felt every set of eyes like a weight on his chest.

  His breath came shallow. His palms sweated.

  Someone coughed.

  Ezra panicked.

  "Uh," he started, voice cracking. "I—I don’t— I mean, uh…"

  Max raised an eyebrow. "You good, dude?"

  Ezra swallowed hard. His legs felt like lead.

  The script shook slightly in his hands.

  Nope.

  He wasn’t good.

  Not at all.

  He wanted off this stage.

  Now.

  So, without another word, Ezra turned on his heel and walked straight out of the auditorium.

  Ezra didn’t stop walking until he was outside, where the cool evening air hit his burning face.

  He sat down on a bench near the entrance, gripping his forehead, breathing hard.

  That was the worst feeling in the world.

  He wasn’t used to freezing up. He wasn’t used to feeling weak.

  Ezra had always been able to talk his way through things, to find the perfect words, to adapt to whatever situation was thrown at him. But the moment he was on stage, under those lights, with everyone watching him—

  It was like his brain had just shut down.

  He clenched his jaw.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Ezra didn’t go back inside that night.

  But he also didn’t let himself quit.

  As he sat there in the cold, staring at the empty sky, he realized something.

  This was the first real challenge he had faced that wasn’t about fighting, or talking back, or trying to survive someone else’s insults.

  This was a battle with himself.

  And he wasn’t going to lose.

  Ezra didn’t tell anyone what happened at acting club.

  He figured if he just pretended it didn’t happen, then maybe it wouldn’t be real. Maybe he could convince himself that freezing up in front of a bunch of strangers hadn’t been the most humiliating experience of his life.

  But, of course, Julie found out anyway.

  “You froze?” she asked, practically vibrating with amusement as she plopped down next to him on the school steps the next day. “You? Ezra the Banter King? The human encyclopedia of bullshittery?”

  Ezra groaned, slumping forward. “Julie, please.”

  She grinned like a cat with a trapped mouse. “Oh, no no no. I need to savor this moment. Hold on—” She clapped her hands together dramatically. “I AM EZRA, THE FEARLESS! MASTER OF WIT! OH WAIT, WHAT’S THIS? A COUPLE DOZEN EYES? A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE WAITING FOR ME TO SPEAK? TRULY, THIS IS MY GREATEST ENEMY YET!”

  Ezra shot her a lethally unamused stare.

  Julie gasped, clutching her chest. “Oh no! He’s giving me the tragic protagonist look! He’s suffering! Woe is him!”

  Ezra sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you done?”

  Julie giggled. “Not even close.”

  But then, something in her expression shifted. The teasing grin softened just slightly.

  “Hey,” she nudged him with her knee. “For real, though. What happened?”

  Ezra exhaled through his nose. “I dunno. I got up there, and it just… hit me. I could feel everyone staring. I couldn’t think. My brain just—” He snapped his fingers. “Shut off.”

  Julie hummed. “Stage fright. Yep. You got hit with the big leagues, my dude.”

  Ezra groaned. “You say that like it’s a disease.”

  Julie shrugged. “It kinda is. And it gets everybody.”

  Ezra frowned. “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts,” Julie cut in, pointing at him. “Ezra, literally everyone gets stage fright at some point. Even pros. Even people who have been acting for years.”

  Ezra leaned back against the step behind him, frowning. “So what do I do? Just suffer through it?”

  Julie grinned. “Oh no, my dear Cum-Back Kid. That’s where I come in.”

  Ezra sighed again. “This is gonna be awful, isn’t it?”

  Julie popped up to her feet. “C’mon. Let’s fix that broken brain of yours.”

  Julie led him to the park, which had just enough open space for what she had planned.

  “Alright,” she clapped her hands. “First things first—the science.”

  Ezra gave her a flat look. “Oh, now you’re interested in science?”

  Julie smirked. “Only when it proves I’m right.” She pointed dramatically at his face. “Stage fright is just your dumb brain trying to save you from danger. It thinks being embarrassed is the same thing as getting eaten by a tiger.”

  Ezra blinked. “I… okay. That actually makes sense.”

  Julie nodded. “Right? So the trick is to convince your brain that you aren’t about to die horribly.”

  Ezra crossed his arms. “And how do I do that?”

  Julie grinned. “You trick it.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “Julie, that tells me nothing.”

  Julie snorted. “Okay, okay. Here’s the breakdown—first, when you get up on stage, don’t think about the audience as a big, scary mass of judging faces. That’s dumb. Instead, focus on just one person at a time. It’s way easier to talk to one person than to fifty.”

  Ezra nodded slowly. “Okay… that kinda makes sense.”

  Julie snapped her fingers. “Second trick? Breathe. Seriously. People forget to breathe right when they’re nervous. You gotta slow down and trick your brain into thinking you’re calm.”

  Ezra rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, because deep breathing is totally gonna fix my existential fear of public humiliation.”

  Julie whacked his arm. “It helps! It stops your heart from doing that stupid, fast beating thing. Trust me, nerd.”

  Ezra rubbed his arm, grumbling. “Okay, okay. And what’s the third trick?”

  Julie grinned. “Make an idiot of yourself on purpose.”

  Ezra blinked. “I—what?”

  Julie spread her arms. “Look, if your brain is already panicking about embarrassing yourself, own it. Do something so stupid, so over-the-top dumb, that you prove that messing up isn’t actually scary.”

  Ezra narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

  Julie smirked.

  Ten minutes later, Ezra was standing in the middle of the park…

  …wearing a garbage bag as a cape…

  …with Julie loudly narrating his “grand entrance” while filming him on her phone.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” she bellowed, drawing the attention of far too many people. “BEHOLD, THE FEARLESS, THE UNSTOPPABLE, THE ONE AND ONLY… CUM-BACK KID!”

  Ezra groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “Julie, I swear—”

  “YES! MARVEL AT HIS HEROIC POSTURE! TREMBLE AT HIS MIGHTY PRESENCE!”

  “I hate you.”

  “THE CUM-BACK KID NEVER FEARS! HE NEVER FAILS! HE—”

  Julie tripped.

  Face-planted right into the grass.

  Ezra blinked.

  Julie lay there, her dramatic performance cut short by gravity itself.

  Then she turned her head slightly and muttered, “I’m good.”

  Ezra lost it.

  He laughed so hard he had to double over, wheezing as he clutched his stomach. People around the park were watching—definitely judging them—but for once?

  He didn’t care.

  Julie pushed herself up, brushing dirt from her face, grinning like an absolute menace. “See? Look at that! You just embarrassed yourself in public and nobody died.”

  Ezra wiped at his eyes, still breathless. “That was your embarrassment, not mine.”

  Julie dusted herself off. “Doesn’t matter. You laughed. You forgot to be scared.”

  Ezra paused.

  She was right.

  The whole point had been to make a fool of himself and realize it wasn’t the end of the world. And… it wasn’t.

  Julie smirked, hands on her hips. “So. What do you say? Ready to give acting another shot?”

  Ezra took a slow breath.

  Then—he grinned.

  “Hell yeah.”

  The summer heat was merciless.

  By midday, the air shimmered against the asphalt, and the metal scaffolding burned to the touch. The scent of sawdust, sweat, and steel clung to Ezra’s skin as he worked alongside his father’s growing construction crew. He had spent last summer on-site, but this year? This year, he was really working.

  The tasks started simple—hauling materials, sweeping up debris, double-checking tool inventories—but as the days passed, the crew began teaching him the real lessons.

  The ones that stuck with a man for life.

  Tweak was one of the first to take Ezra under his wing, though not without some heavy grumbling about "babysitting the boss’s kid." He was wiry and fast-talking, always with a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hands permanently stained with grease.

  One afternoon, Ezra stood beside him, watching as Tweak measured out a length of PVC pipe for an electrical run.

  “Here,” Tweak handed Ezra the measuring tape. “Cut this at twenty-three and a quarter.”

  Ezra nodded, grabbed the saw, and went for it.

  Tweak stopped him cold with a heavy smack to the back of the head.

  “Ow!” Ezra winced, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

  Tweak rolled his eyes. “Boy, did you measure twice?”

  Ezra blinked. “Uh—”

  Tweak groaned, snatching the tape from his hands and measuring the pipe again. He held it up to Ezra’s cut line. It was off by nearly half an inch.

  Ezra felt his face burn.

  Tweak shook his head. “Lemme tell you somethin’. ‘Measure twice, cut once’ ain’t just some cute little phrase. You screw this up on a real job? You waste time, waste money, and get some poor bastard redoing work that should’ve been right the first time.”

  He tossed the ruined piece aside, grabbed another, and measured again—twice. Then, he handed it back.

  “Try again.”

  Ezra took his time this time, double-checking, lining it up perfectly, and only then did he cut.

  Tweak nodded approvingly. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

  Daisy wasn’t the loudest member of the crew, but she was one of the toughest. She had arms like steel cables and a no-nonsense attitude that demanded respect.

  One afternoon, Ezra watched as she worked the power saw, slicing through thick wooden planks with expert precision.

  “You ever use one of these before?” she asked, looking up.

  Ezra hesitated. “I mean… I know how it works.”

  Daisy wiped sweat from her brow and nodded toward the saw. “Alright. Give it a go.”

  Ezra stepped up to the table, adjusted the plank, and reached for the trigger.

  Before he could pull it, Daisy’s hand clamped down on his wrist.

  Ezra froze.

  She looked him dead in the eye. “Rule number one: Never rush with a power tool. Ever.”

  Ezra swallowed hard. “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were.”

  She let go and pointed to the blade.

  “This thing doesn’t care who you are. You lose focus for one second, it’ll take your fingers off.”

  Ezra nodded slowly, adjusting his stance, taking a moment to feel the weight of the tool in his hands before starting again.

  This time, he moved carefully.

  Daisy gave an approving nod. “That’s better.”

  As Ezra finished the cut, she leaned against the table and smirked. “Respect your tools, kid. They’ll respect you back.”

  Big Bubba had a presence. The kind that commanded attention the moment he stepped on-site. He was a mountain of a man, his voice gravelly but warm, a veteran of the trade who had seen it all.

  One day, Ezra was helping load a stack of drywall when Bubba called him over.

  “Boy, tell me somethin’,” he said, arms crossed. “If somethin’ on this site feels wrong, what do you do?”

  Ezra frowned. “Uh… check with someone?”

  Bubba grunted. “That’s part of it. But first? You listen to that gut of yours.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow.

  Bubba sighed, pulling a battered hard hat from under his arm. “I seen guys try to ‘tough it out’ on a job. Felt somethin’ was off, didn’t say nothin’. Next thing ya know? They’re in a hospital or a damn coffin.”

  Ezra’s stomach twisted.

  Bubba clapped a massive hand on his shoulder. “If it don’t feel safe, it probably ain’t. That gut feeling? That’s survival talkin’.”

  Ezra nodded solemnly. He wouldn’t forget that one.

  It was Tweak who hammered this next lesson home, but everyone backed it up.

  Ezra had gotten cocky. He had measured twice, he had handled tools with respect, and he had trusted his gut—but the one thing he hadn’t mastered yet was slowing down.

  One day, while installing electrical conduit, Ezra got impatient. He tried to rush through bending a pipe, miscalculated, and ended up wasting an entire length of material.

  Tweak saw it happen and shook his head.

  "Kid," he said, stepping up beside him. "You ever hear the phrase, ‘Slow is smooth, smooth is fast’?”

  Ezra sighed. “Sounds like a paradox.”

  Tweak smirked. “Yeah, well, so does your brain when you rush through shit.”

  Ezra huffed, but listened.

  Tweak gestured to the pipe. “When you rush, you make mistakes. Mistakes slow you down. But if you take your time, if you breathe before every cut, before every move—you get it right the first time.”

  Ezra picked up another pipe, measured again, and took his time getting it perfect before bending.

  Tweak nodded. “Now you’re getting it.”

  He had bruises. He had sore muscles. He had days where he wanted to throw his tools and quit.

  But he didn’t.

  And by the time summer was over, he had earned something more valuable than money.

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  Patience.

  Precision.

  The understanding that speed meant nothing if it wasn’t paired with control.

  As he packed up his gear for the last day, Bubba clapped him on the back with a proud chuckle.

  “Well, kid,” he said, “looks like we knocked some sense into ya after all.”

  Ezra grinned. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

  Daisy smirked. “Just don’t forget who taught you.”

  Ezra wouldn’t.

  Not ever.

  Ezra had never seen so much money in his life. The summer had been brutal—his hands were calloused, his back ached, and he could still hear Tweak yelling about measuring twice in his sleep. But when his father handed him the envelope, thick with cash, all the hardship suddenly felt worth it.

  “This is all mine?” Ezra flipped through the stack of bills, wide-eyed.

  Seth chuckled, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. “Yup. Every last cent. But don’t go tellin’ people—you’re still ‘undocumented,’ remember?”

  Ezra grinned, stuffing the money into his pocket. “So I’m basically a criminal.”

  Seth smirked. “Welcome to the working class, kid.”

  The first thing Ezra thought about was what to do with it. He could buy a new gaming system, upgrade his room, get something flashy for himself. But then another idea came to him, one that felt a little more important. Without a second thought, he called Julie.

  The mall was packed, buzzing with weekend energy—teenagers laughing, couples strolling hand-in-hand, the occasional toddler throwing a nuclear tantrum near the food court. The air smelled like pretzels, fast food grease, and overpriced perfume.

  Julie, as always, moved like she owned the place. She had been born into money—Ezra had known that from the moment he first stepped into her mansion of a house—but she wasn’t obnoxious about it. Well, not in the way rich kids usually were.

  “Alright, what’s the plan, Cum-Back Kid?” Julie asked, slurping on a ridiculously large iced coffee as they strolled past the arcade. “Blow your entire paycheck on something dumb? A life-size Gundam figure, perhaps?”

  Ezra smirked. “Tempting.”

  Julie nudged him. “Or maybe a gold-plated Xbox.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s exactly what I want.”

  Julie grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “I mean, what else do guys blow their money on? Video games? Sneakers? A motorcycle you can’t legally drive yet?”

  Ezra just shook his head, then reached for her hand.

  Julie blinked, slightly thrown off. “Oh? What’s this? A hand-hold? How very romantic of you.”

  Instead of stopping at the usual stores, he led her straight to the food court. Julie raised an eyebrow as they approached a casual sit-down diner. “Wait. Are we… eating actual food?”

  Ezra pulled open the door, smirking. “I’m taking you on a real date.”

  Julie tilted her head, looking amused. “Oh-hoh? Spending that hard-earned, under-the-table paycheck on me?”

  “Would you rather have the Gundam?”

  She laughed, grabbing his arm as she stepped inside. “Nah. This is better.”

  The meal wasn’t extravagant, but it was good—burgers, fries, and thick milkshakes served in glasses so heavy they could double as weapons. Julie teased him mercilessly when he paid. “Can you believe this?” she gasped, dramatic as ever. “The man pays for dinner! With his own money! What a provider!”

  Ezra rolled his eyes, but she was smiling, and that meant everything.

  After dinner, they wandered through the mall, idly browsing stores without any real plan. It was an aimless, easy kind of night, the kind where neither of them had anywhere else to be.

  Then, out of nowhere, Julie grabbed his arm and yanked him toward a storefront.

  “Shiny,” she murmured.

  Ezra barely had time to react before she dragged him inside a jewelry store, eyes sparkling almost as much as the displays. The cases were filled with elegant gold and silver, gemstones that glowed under the showroom lights.

  Julie pressed her hands against the glass like a child outside a candy shop, grinning at the sheer excess of it all. “See, this is my problem,” she said, half to herself, half to Ezra. “I could be dirt poor, and I’d still be a crow. Just… look at them.”

  Ezra watched as her fingers drifted along the display, not even checking price tags—just admiring. Then, she stopped.

  Her expression changed.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  Ezra followed her gaze.

  It wasn’t the flashy necklaces or the diamond-studded bracelets that had caught her attention. It was a ring.

  A simple, elegant band—nothing overly extravagant, just a modest silver ring with a single, understated diamond. Compared to the others, it was almost plain, but it had a quiet beauty to it, something timeless.

  Julie’s fingers hovered over the glass, her voice softer now. “It looks just like my mom’s.”

  Ezra stared at her. She wasn’t gushing, she wasn’t teasing. She was just… quiet.

  He looked back at the ring.

  And in that moment, he knew.

  This was the one.

  He had no idea how he would afford it. It would take him at least a year’s worth of work to even get close. But suddenly, all the dumb things he had considered buying—the new games, the fancy gadgets—none of it mattered.

  This was it.

  This was what he would save for.

  Julie let out a small sigh, shaking her head as if pulling herself out of a trance. “Alright, alright. I’ve had my crow moment.” She turned back toward Ezra, grinning. “C’mon, before I start impulse-buying things.”

  Ezra forced himself to act normal as they left the store. But in his mind, he had already started making plans.

  High school had arrived, and with it came new opportunities, new faces, and a fresh start. Ezra had walked into the halls on the first day feeling ready—ready to take on new challenges, ready to step into himself.

  What he wasn’t ready for was seeing Brandon “Bruiser” Michaels sitting in the same history class.

  Ezra felt the tension immediately. Bruiser sat near the back, slouched in his chair like he couldn’t care less about the lesson. Ezra had spent months fighting back against his bullying, only to now be stuck in the same room with him.

  He had hoped high school would separate them. Instead, fate had thrown them right back into each other’s orbit.

  For a while, neither spoke. They simply ignored each other, an unspoken agreement that their past would be left in middle school. But Ezra noticed something—Bruiser was struggling.

  The first unit was on Rome, a subject Ezra had practically devoured over the past year. He watched as Bruiser frowned at his notes, looking frustrated as hell, flipping pages back and forth like they were written in another language.

  Ezra had every reason to ignore him. Every reason to let him fail.

  But that wasn’t who he was.

  So, after class one day, Ezra made a decision.

  "Hey," Ezra said, sliding into the seat across from Bruiser in the library.

  Brandon looked up, immediately defensive. "What?"

  Ezra leaned back, folding his arms. "You suck at history."

  Bruiser scowled. "Wow. Thanks."

  Ezra smirked. "You’re welcome. But seriously—you need help. And I’m good at this stuff."

  Bruiser’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"

  Ezra shrugged. "Because Rome is actually cool, and you’re failing it for no reason."

  Bruiser looked like he was about to argue, but then he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Fine. Whatever."

  Ezra took that as a victory.

  He didn’t lecture him, though. That would never work. Instead, he did what had worked for himself—he broke it down simply.

  "Think of Rome like America," Ezra started. "It started as a little nothing town, built itself up, became a big deal, and then started thinking it was invincible."

  Bruiser frowned. "And that’s bad because…?"

  "Because nothing stays on top forever. Rome got too big, too greedy, spread itself too thin—then it crumbled."

  Ezra watched as something clicked behind Bruiser’s eyes.

  Bruiser nodded slowly. "So, like… a football team that keeps signing star players but doesn’t work on their defense?"

  Ezra blinked. "Uh… yeah. Exactly."

  And just like that, the dynamic changed.

  Ezra wasn’t just some guy Bruiser used to push around. He was helpful. And Bruiser? For once, he was actually listening.

  Over the next few weeks, their tutoring sessions became routine. Ezra would explain things in a way Bruiser understood, translating history into sports terms or breaking down tactics like video game strategies.

  And for the first time ever, the tension between them began to ease.

  It was after gym class one afternoon when things took a turn.

  They had been goofing off after the final bell, tossing a football around, messing around near the track. By the time they made their way to the bus stop, their rides were already gone.

  "Shit," Bruiser muttered, pulling out his phone. "My dad’s gonna kill me."

  Ezra frowned. "You can just walk home, right?"

  Bruiser shook his head. "Nah. Too far." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He’s gonna be pissed."

  Ezra didn’t think much of it at first—until Bruiser’s father actually arrived.

  The car pulled up too fast, jerking to a stop. When the door swung open, Bruiser’s father stepped out like a storm cloud.

  Ezra had only seen the man once before, back in middle school. But that brief encounter had left an impression.

  Now, standing here in the school parking lot, he saw it up close.

  The sheer size of the man was intimidating enough—broad shoulders, hard lines in his face, eyes that seemed to burn holes into whoever they landed on. But it wasn’t his size that was the problem. It was the way Bruiser flinched the moment he stepped out of the car.

  "You got me leavin’ work for this?" the man snapped, voice sharp as a blade.

  Bruiser didn’t respond. He just looked at the ground.

  Ezra watched as his father took another step forward, shoulders tensing like he was getting ready to hit something.

  Ezra acted before he could think.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and held it up.

  He didn’t start recording.

  Didn’t say a word.

  Just let the screen glow in the evening light.

  Bruiser’s father froze.

  For a moment, the air was thick with tension.

  Then the man exhaled, shaking his head, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "Get in the damn car."

  Bruiser hesitated.

  Ezra gave him the smallest nod.

  Bruiser didn’t look at him as he climbed into the passenger seat. The door slammed, and the car peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching against the asphalt.

  Ezra stood there, phone still in his hand, his heart hammering.

  He had just crossed a line.

  But for some reason…

  He wasn’t scared.

  Ezra didn’t expect Bruiser to say anything about what had happened in the parking lot.

  For weeks, he didn’t.

  They sat together in history class, going through the same motions—Ezra explaining things in ways that made sense, Bruiser listening with more patience than he’d ever given to a teacher. It became their unspoken routine. But something had shifted. The usual tension that lingered between them, the familiar sense of unease that Ezra had carried for years, was no longer there.

  At first, he thought he was imagining it. Maybe Bruiser just didn’t care enough to pick on him anymore. Maybe they had spent too much time together for him to see Ezra as the same scrawny kid he used to shove into lockers. Or maybe—just maybe—things were different now.

  The library was quiet that afternoon, just the low hum of whispers and the occasional sound of pages turning. Ezra sat across from Bruiser at their usual table, flipping through his notes on Roman military strategy while Bruiser scribbled half-heartedly in his workbook. Ezra had just launched into an explanation of the Marian Reforms when Bruiser spoke, voice barely above a mutter.

  "Thanks."

  Ezra blinked, looking up from his notes. "For what?"

  Bruiser shrugged, his grip tightening slightly around his pencil. "For history stuff. And… the other thing."

  Ezra let the words sit for a moment. He could have asked Bruiser to be specific. He could have made him say it out loud. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he just nodded. “Yeah. No problem.”

  And that was that.

  The rivalry didn’t end with an apology. There were no dramatic confessions, no forced promises of friendship.

  It ended with understanding.

  An unspoken truth between them.

  For the first time, Bruiser wasn’t just his former bully. He was something else.

  Maybe not a friend. Not yet.

  But not an enemy, either.

  Ezra sat cross-legged on the library floor, a thick textbook on Roman warfare open in front of him. Across from him, Bruiser slouched in his chair, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. The usual tension between them had eased, but the difference in their learning styles was becoming more apparent.

  Bruiser wasn’t stupid—not by a long shot—but he wasn’t the kind of guy who could sit still and absorb a history book like Ezra could. He needed movement, action, something tangible. Theories and strategies weren’t clicking for him, no matter how many times Ezra tried explaining them.

  "Alright," Ezra finally said, shutting the book with a sigh. "This isn’t working for you."

  Bruiser let out a short laugh. "No shit."

  Ezra glanced around the mostly empty library, then smirked. "You ever tried role-playing?"

  Bruiser’s face twisted in confusion. "Like… that nerd stuff you do with Julie?"

  "Yeah. But not in the way you’re thinking. We’re gonna recreate one of these Roman battle strategies, so you can actually see how it works."

  Bruiser raised an eyebrow. "In the library?"

  Ezra grinned. "Nah. Meet me in the gym after school."

  By the time they made it to the gym, the place was mostly empty, save for a few kids shooting hoops on the far end. Ezra set down his bag, cracking his knuckles.

  "Alright," he said, pacing back and forth. "We’re going to play this out. You’re the invading army—I’m the Romans. You have more soldiers, more strength. But I’ve got better strategy."

  Bruiser smirked. "So, I get to win?"

  "Not unless you learn something first." Ezra crossed his arms. "Your job is to rush me and try to take my position. My job is to stop you using tactics."

  Bruiser cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. "I like these odds."

  Ezra had one shot at this.

  Bruiser was naturally aggressive—like Rome’s enemies, all brute force and no patience. Ezra just had to guide him into making mistakes.

  "Go," Ezra said.

  Bruiser didn’t hesitate. He charged straight for him, like a battering ram. Ezra, knowing this would happen, simply stepped aside at the last moment, letting Bruiser stumble forward.

  "Think before you attack," Ezra said, grinning. "If you just run at me, I can dodge. You’re stronger, but you’ve got no plan."

  Bruiser scowled. "Fine. Again."

  He came at him slower this time, pacing himself, watching Ezra’s movements. Good. He was already learning. But Ezra had another trick.

  This time, as Bruiser moved in, Ezra dropped into a crouch and swept his leg outward, knocking Bruiser off balance.

  Bruiser hit the mat with a grunt.

  "That was a flanking maneuver," Ezra explained, stepping back. "You focused on coming forward, but I attacked from the side. That’s how smaller armies win against bigger ones—they don’t fight head-on. They outmaneuver."

  Bruiser pushed himself up, breathing heavier, rubbing his shoulder. His face was unreadable for a moment, then he let out a chuckle.

  "Alright, alright. I see what you’re doing."

  "Good," Ezra said. "Because now we do it again."

  They practiced for over an hour. Ezra took on different "formations," forcing Bruiser to think, adapt, and react. Slowly, the bigger boy started relying less on raw strength and more on strategy.

  Then, on the last run, Bruiser did something unexpected.

  Instead of charging at Ezra like before, he faked a lunge, causing Ezra to instinctively move to dodge. But Bruiser didn’t follow through—he had baited Ezra into stepping into the wrong position.

  Before Ezra could recover, Bruiser shifted direction and caught him from the side, pinning him.

  Ezra blinked up at him, stunned.

  Bruiser grinned, panting. "Pincer maneuver, right?"

  Ezra let out a wheezing laugh. "Alright, that one was good."

  Bruiser stood, offering a hand to pull him up. Ezra took it, still catching his breath.

  "Y’know," Bruiser said, tilting his head. "I get why you like this stuff now."

  Ezra brushed himself off. "What, strategy?"

  Bruiser nodded. "It’s kinda like… life, right? If you just charge in without thinking, you’re gonna get knocked on your ass. But if you actually stop and think first… you don’t have to fight as hard."

  Ezra paused. That was… shockingly insightful.

  Bruiser smirked. "What? Surprised I got a brain in here?" He tapped his head.

  Ezra shook his head, laughing. "Nah, just impressed you actually listened for once."

  Bruiser shoved him lightly. "Don’t get used to it."

  Ezra smirked. "Too late."

  As they grabbed their bags and headed toward the locker rooms, Ezra realized something.

  This was the first time he had ever spent real time with Bruiser that wasn’t built on hostility.

  Sure, the past had been rough. The bullying, the fights, the tension that had existed between them for years. But tonight? Tonight had felt… different.

  Maybe this was the start of something new.

  Not just understanding.

  Not just tolerance.

  But actual friendship.

  Ezra had never been particularly bad at science, but he had also never been captivated by it. It was interesting, sure, but it had always felt like a collection of facts and equations—something you memorized for a test and then forgot about.

  That was before he met Mr. Harding.

  Mr. Harding wasn’t like the other teachers at the school. He wasn’t just some guy reading from a textbook, handing out busywork, and droning on about Newton’s Laws. He was sharp, with a voice that commanded attention, and a presence that made even the most disinterested students lean in just a little closer. His energy wasn’t forced, wasn’t some desperate attempt to be the “cool teacher.” It was real. He cared, and that made all the difference.

  From the first day of class, Ezra knew this guy was different.

  Ezra had stayed after class one afternoon, flipping through his notes while Mr. Harding packed up for the day. The older man glanced at him over his glasses and smirked.

  “Something on your mind, Ezra?”

  Ezra hesitated for a moment before closing his notebook. “How does someone actually make it in science? Like, the big names—Einstein, Tesla, Newton. What do they have that everyone else doesn’t?”

  Mr. Harding leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. “Timing.”

  Ezra frowned. “Timing?”

  The teacher nodded. “I was twenty-nine when I had my big idea. I was working with a research partner—an older scientist, well-respected in the field. Together, we were on the verge of something huge. A breakthrough in applied energy transfer. We were talking about technology that could’ve changed everything—how we power cities, how we harness and store energy.”

  Ezra sat up straighter. “So what happened?”

  Mr. Harding let out a short, humorless chuckle. “What happened was, I didn’t fight hard enough for my own work.” His fingers drummed against his arm, his gaze distant. “I was young. I respected my colleague. When the time came to publish, I let him take the lead, let him put his name first. I figured—hey, I’ll have more chances, right?”

  Ezra felt a sinking sensation in his gut.

  “And then?”

  “And then the world saw him as the genius. The innovator. My name was there, buried in the co-authors, but history only remembers one name.”

  Ezra stared at him, waiting for anger, for bitterness, but Mr. Harding just smiled, shaking his head.

  “That’s how it goes, Ezra. If you want to make your mark in science, do it before you’re thirty. After that? The world stops listening. People get rigid, stuck in their ways. They don’t want to hear something new from someone younger than them.”

  Ezra swallowed hard, the weight of that truth settling on him.

  “Science isn’t just about discovery,” Mr. Harding continued. “It’s about recognition. If you don’t claim your work, someone else will.”

  Ezra tightened his grip on his notebook. “So… what do I do?”

  Mr. Harding smiled. “You get smarter. You learn from my mistakes.”

  Over the next few months, Ezra soaked up everything he could from Mr. Harding. The man wasn’t just a teacher—he was a mentor. And the lessons he taught weren’t just about science—they were about life.

  One afternoon, Mr. Harding scrawled an equation across the board and turned to the class. “Alright, what’s the answer?”

  The students scribbled in their notebooks, some confident, others hesitant. Ezra worked through the math and raised his hand. “It’s 4.8.”

  Mr. Harding nodded. “That’s what the textbook says, right?”

  Ezra frowned. “Yeah…?”

  Mr. Harding grinned. “Now prove it wrong.”

  The room fell silent.

  The students exchanged confused glances.

  Ezra hesitated, glancing back at his notes. “But… if the math checks out—”

  “Then prove it another way.”

  Ezra sat up straighter, intrigued now. He ran through the equation again, this time questioning every step. What if one assumption was flawed? What if the method could be simplified? He started seeing the problem differently, realizing that science wasn’t about just knowing the right answer—it was about questioning whether the answer could be better.

  When he finally figured out a way to tweak the problem and got the same result through an alternate method, Mr. Harding grinned like he had just won a bet.

  “That,” he said, pointing at Ezra, “is how science actually works.”

  Ezra had botched an experiment. Badly.

  The circuit he had been working on sparked, shorted out, and left a burn mark on the table. The class erupted into laughter, and Ezra sat there, face burning, staring at the smoldering remains of his project.

  Mr. Harding just chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Congrats, kid. You just learned something.”

  Ezra groaned. “Yeah, I learned how to embarrass myself in front of the entire class.”

  “No,” Mr. Harding corrected, “you learned that your circuit wasn’t stable. That’s data. Now you know what doesn’t work.”

  Ezra looked at the burned-out project, his frustration slowly shifting into something else.

  Maybe… maybe it was data.

  Maybe mistakes weren’t just failures. Maybe they were puzzle pieces, showing what not to do.

  One afternoon, Mr. Harding placed a tangled mess of wires, gears, and tubes onto Ezra’s desk. “Fix this,” he said, then walked away.

  Ezra spent two hours trying to repair it, adjusting connections, swapping out parts. Nothing worked.

  Finally, frustrated beyond belief, he ripped half of it apart and reassembled it with only the parts he absolutely needed.

  It worked perfectly.

  Mr. Harding smirked as he walked by. “Now you get it.”

  Simplicity wasn’t just elegance—it was efficiency.

  By the time winter was over, Ezra wasn’t just good at science—he was thinking like a scientist.

  He questioned things.

  He embraced failure.

  He sought out the simplest, most efficient answers instead of complicating things unnecessarily.

  And most importantly?

  He understood now.

  If he wanted to leave a mark on the world, he had to start early.

  Because if he waited too long?

  Someone else would take credit for his work.

  And Ezra refused to be forgotten.

  After class one afternoon, Ezra lingered at his desk, scribbling notes in the margins of his notebook. Julie, as usual, had invited herself into his space, perched sideways on his desk, twirling a pen between her fingers. Mr. Harding noticed them as he packed up his things, his sharp, observant gaze softening as he watched the two of them interact—Julie teasing, Ezra rolling his eyes, but still engaged, still entertained.

  "Ah, young ambition," Mr. Harding mused, leaning against his desk. "Tell me, Ezra, what is it you really want out of all this?"

  Ezra glanced up from his notes. "What, science?"

  "Science, success, your future," Harding clarified, folding his arms. "You soak up knowledge like a sponge, but I wonder—what is it all for?"

  Ezra hesitated. He hadn’t really put it into words before. "I guess... I just don’t want to be forgotten. I want to make something real."

  Julie hummed, resting her chin in her hand. "Spoken like a true legacy seeker."

  Harding chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s good to want more. But I’ll let you in on something most young men don’t realize until it’s too late." He straightened, looking Ezra right in the eye. "We rise by lifting others."

  Ezra frowned slightly, processing the words. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning," Harding said, "that real success, the kind that lasts, isn’t just about your achievements. It’s about how many people you bring up with you. I spent my younger years chasing glory, thinking I had to reach the top alone." He gestured around the classroom. "But here I am, shaping young minds, and I can tell you—this is where my real impact is. Not in some footnote of a research paper."

  Julie smirked. "Translation: Don’t be an asshole on the way up, or no one will catch you when you fall."

  Harding barked out a laugh. "Crude, but correct."

  Ezra leaned back in his chair, letting the idea settle. He had spent so much time thinking about how to leave his mark that he hadn’t considered who he was bringing with him. He glanced at Julie, who had been by his side through everything, and for the first time, the weight of that responsibility felt different.

  It wasn’t just about what he built.

  It was about who he built it with.

  Ezra leaned back in his chair, letting Mr. Harding’s words settle.

  "We rise by lifting others."

  It sounded simple. Too simple. But the way Harding said it, with the weight of years behind it, made Ezra pause. The man wasn’t just spewing philosophy—he had lived it.

  Julie, resting her chin in her palm, smirked. “So, what, you’re saying if you’d been a little more selfish back in the day, you’d be famous?”

  Harding chuckled, shaking his head. “Famous? Maybe. But fulfilled? That’s another question entirely.” He turned his gaze toward the window, his voice dipping lower, like he was reaching into an old memory. “I used to think success was about being the first one to the top. About being remembered. But the truth is, Ezra…” He glanced back at him, sharp but kind. “The names that last in history? They didn’t get there alone.”

  Ezra frowned, tapping his pen against his notebook. “But you still regret it, don’t you?”

  Harding exhaled, smiling faintly. “Sometimes. But then, something happened a few years back.” He folded his arms, leaning against the desk. “A student I had—bright kid, reminded me a lot of you—came back after years. He walked into my classroom, now a full-blown physicist, and he told me… ‘I wouldn’t be where I am without you.’”

  Ezra’s fingers stilled.

  “That,” Harding said, “was the moment I realized I had never really lost anything at all.”

  For the first time, Ezra felt unsettled. Not because he disagreed—but because it forced him to question himself.

  The bus ride home was quiet, the sky outside dark with winter clouds, the streetlights flickering to life as the city slipped into evening. Ezra sat near the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared outside, his mind spinning with Harding’s words.

  "We rise by lifting others."

  It made sense in theory, but when Ezra tried to apply it to himself, something gnawed at him.

  He had spent so much time focused on his own ambitions. Wanting to prove himself. Wanting to make a name that would be remembered.

  But… had he ever really done it alone?

  He thought about his father. All the years Seth had worked to give him a good life. The early mornings, the long hours, the quiet sacrifices that Ezra had never fully acknowledged. His father had never cared about credit, never cared if Ezra saw the work he put in. He just did it.

  He thought about Julie. His partner in crime. The one who had always been there—pushing him, challenging him, making him laugh when everything felt like too much. She had never asked for anything in return.

  Even Bruiser. The old rivalry had faded, replaced by something unexpected. Ezra had given him a chance, taught him strategy, helped him with history. And in return? Bruiser had started changing too.

  Ezra exhaled slowly, leaning his head against the cold window.

  Maybe Harding was right. Maybe it wasn’t about being remembered. Maybe it was about who you left behind to carry your influence forward.

  And maybe… it was time to test that lesson for himself.

  The next day at lunch, Ezra was eating alone in the library, flipping through his physics notes. The familiar quiet was soothing—until he heard a frustrated sigh from the next table over.

  A freshman sat hunched over a notebook, brow furrowed, tapping his pencil rapidly against the desk. Ezra had seen him around before—short, kind of nervous-looking, always carrying more books than he probably needed.

  Ezra glanced at the equations sprawled across the page. Basic physics. The kid was stuck on something that Ezra could solve in seconds.

  He hesitated.

  Then, Harding’s voice echoed in his head.

  "We rise by lifting others."

  Ezra sighed, grabbed his tray, and walked over. “You look like you’re one bad test score away from flipping that desk. Need some help?”

  The freshman looked up, startled. “Oh—uh, I—yeah. Maybe.”

  Ezra pulled out a chair, glancing at the problem. “Newton’s Third Law?”

  “Yeah,” the kid muttered, looking embarrassed. “I don’t get how the action and reaction thing actually works.”

  Ezra thought for a moment. Then, he smirked. “Alright, check this out.” He grabbed two apples from his lunch tray and set them on the table. “Imagine these are spaceships, right? If this one pushes off the other one…” He nudged one apple forward, causing the other to roll back slightly. “The force works both ways. The second apple moves back, even though it wasn’t the one doing the pushing.”

  The kid blinked. “Oh… oh, that actually makes sense.”

  Ezra grinned. “Yeah? Not bad, huh?”

  The freshman scribbled a few notes down, looking visibly relieved. “Thanks. I was seriously about to throw my book across the room.”

  Ezra chuckled. “I get it. Science can be brutal.”

  As he walked back to his table, something felt different.

  For the first time, Ezra wasn’t thinking about what he got out of this.

  He wasn’t thinking about legacy, or being remembered, or making a mark.

  He had just… helped.

  And it felt good.

  Harding had been right.

  Maybe the real win wasn’t in climbing alone.

  Maybe it was in bringing people with you.