Mrs. Drake's eyebrows arched as she approached. "Maybe if he practiced math like that, he'd pass algebra," she said with a thin smile.
Several students snickered, and Elijah lowered his eyes, swallowing his embarrassment.
From the doorway came another voice belonging to Mr. Lambert, the music theory teacher. His lean frame leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. "Even if he could play piano, who'd want to hear it? We already have enough noise in this school."
The comment hung in the air, its coded undertones unmistakable. Elijah didn't respond. He never did. Instead, he offered a faint, tired smile—the same expression he'd perfected over years of similar encounters. It was neither defiant nor submissive, just a mask he wore to hide the hurt underneath.
His non-reaction seemed to irritate Cartwright even more. The principal's jaw tightened momentarily before he muttered, "Yeah, smirk all you want. Maybe we'll get you a spot in the talent show for comic relief."
The trio of administrators shared a knowing look before Cartwright addressed the room. "Well, enjoy your detention, everyone. I'm sure you're all learning valuable lessons."
With that, they filed out, leaving a wake of uncomfortable silence behind them. For the remaining 45 minutes, Elijah sat perfectly still, his hands flat on the desk. When the bell finally rang, he was the first one out the door.
The walk home took Elijah through the gradual deterioration of the city's landscape. He started at the well-maintained grounds of Lincoln Heights Academy with its manicured lawns and newly paved walkways, then made his way through increasingly neglected neighborhoods. The sidewalks cracked beneath his feet, weeds pushing through the concrete like stubborn survivors. Abandoned storefronts with faded signs lined the streets, their windows either boarded up or shattered.
Elijah navigated this familiar route with practiced steps, avoiding the larger potholes and occasionally nodding to the few familiar faces he passed. An old man sweeping the stoop of a small convenience store raised a hand in greeting. Elijah returned the gesture with a nod before continuing on.
By the time he reached his grandmother's apartment building, the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the weathered brick structure. The elevator was out of service, as it had been for months, so Elijah took the stairs to the fourth floor, the smell of various dinners wafting through the hallway as he made his way to apartment 4C.
"That you, Elijah?" his grandmother called out as soon as he unlocked the door.
"Yes, Grandma," he replied, stepping into the small but meticulously clean apartment.
Mabel Walker emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a faded floral apron. At 67, she moved more slowly than she once had, but her posture remained straight, her dignity intact despite the circumstances life had dealt her. Her eyes, the same deep brown as Elijah's, lit up at the sight of her grandson.
"You're late today," she observed, pulling him into a quick embrace. "Detention again?"
Elijah nodded, dropping his backpack by the door. "Mr. Peterson didn't like my essay."
Mabel sighed. "That man never likes anything that makes him think too hard." She studied Elijah's face. "Something else happened. I can see it in your eyes."