As the only day student in my class, I had spent three years picking up breakfast for my classmates, and until the Monday Zach Mercer transferred into our senior class, nobody had ever asked what that cost me.
Chapter 2
My mother noticed before I reached the kitchen.
She was standing at the stove in her robe, turning bacon in a skillet.
“You’re still home.”
“I live here, Mom.”
“You know what I mean.”
For years, she had complained about my breakfast routine. I had always told her it was temporary.
Temporary had lasted nearly all of high school.
She set scrambled eggs and toast in front of me.
“Eat while it’s hot.”
I did.
No bicycle race through the dark. No paper bags. No coffee soaking through cardboard trays. No texts asking where somebody’s cream cheese was.
I arrived at school with one backpack.
Dawn stared at me.
“You look different.”
“I slept.”
“That’ll do it.”
For the first time in months, I stayed awake through every morning class.
When Mr. Harrison asked a question in calculus, I knew the answer. He looked pleasantly surprised when my hand went up.
“Good to have you back, Campbell.”
The words stayed with me all day.
Good to have you back.
I hadn’t realized how far away I had gone.
Over the next two weeks, I reclaimed my schedule in small pieces.
An extra hour of sleep.
Thirty minutes of Spanish before school.
Practice problems during lunch.
Reviewing mistakes at night instead of sorting breakfast orders.
My mother started making breakfast again because, as she put it, “I finally have somebody here to eat it.”
Meanwhile, Zach became the most popular boy in class.
Every morning he posted videos.
“Breakfast delivery!”
“Look at this haul!”
“Everybody saving money today!”
At first, people loved it.
Then complaints began.
The burritos were soggy.
The oatmeal arrived cold.
The bagels were hard.
Cream cheese tasted sour one morning.
One breakfast sandwich smelled strange enough that Dawn threw hers away after one bite.
Two weeks after Zach took over, I was added to a second group chat.
Zach wasn’t in it.
Ethan wrote, “Anybody else getting tired of this food?”
Meline replied, “The oatmeal tastes like leftovers.”
Rachel said, “Connor’s was always hot.”
For several minutes nobody addressed the obvious irony.
Then Chloe tagged me.
“Connor, you know those vendors. Does this seem normal?”
I answered truthfully.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t buy breakfast anymore.”
Dawn messaged me privately.
“Maybe everybody should apologize and ask you to take over again.”
“No.”
“Even if they pay you?”
“No.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’m finally awake in class, Dawn. My grades are climbing. I’m eating breakfast with my mother. Why would I give that up?”
She sent back, “Fair point.”
The state recommendation exam was scheduled for the following morning. For seniors at Ridgemont, it mattered more than any test we had taken before. High scorers could earn early university recommendations and scholarships. Everyone else would face the much more competitive summer admissions cycle.
I spent the evening reviewing calculus.
At ten, I was closing my notebook when my phone began vibrating.
Once.
Twice.
Then almost continuously.
The secret group chat had become a panic room.
Ethan: “Is anyone else sick?”
Meline: “I’ve thrown up twice.”
Rachel: “My stomach is killing me.”
Chloe: “Half the dorm floor is in the bathrooms.”
More messages appeared.
Fever.
Cramps.
Vomiting.
Dizziness.
Then people started tagging me.
“Connor, what should we do?”
“Were the shops ever like this when you bought from them?”
“Can you call somebody?”
“Can you bring medicine in the morning?”
I sat in my quiet bedroom staring at those requests.
Three years.
Three years of being the first person they contacted whenever they needed something outside campus.
Cold medicine.
Poster board.
Bandages.
Chargers.
Birthday candles.
A particular kind of cough drop.
Nobody had ordered me to do those things.
That was the part I had finally learned to admit.
I had volunteered myself into exhaustion because saying yes made me feel useful and saying no made me feel guilty.
But generosity without boundaries had turned into expectation.
Expectation had turned into entitlement.
And entitlement had turned into suspicion the moment somebody offered them a cheaper alternative.
I typed one message.
“If you’re seriously ill, contact the dorm supervisor and go to urgent care. Don’t try to treat severe food poisoning yourselves.”
Rachel answered.
“The dorm supervisor will put it on our conduct record. Can’t you stop at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy tomorrow before school?”
I looked at the clock.
10:14 p.m.
The most important exam of my high school years began at eight the next morning.
The old Connor would already have been planning a route.
Pharmacy at five.
Dorm gate at five-thirty.
Home again.
Quick shower.
School.
He would have called that kindness.
I had another name for it now.
Disappearing.
I turned off my phone.
Then I slept.
At breakfast the next morning, Mom poured coffee into her mug and studied me.
“Nervous?”
“A little.”
“Good. Means you care.”
She slid a plate toward me—eggs, bacon and sourdough toast.
I smiled.
“For three years,” she said, “I kept wondering when you were going to realize those kids were perfectly capable of solving some of their own problems.”
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I did.”
I laughed.
She had.
Many times.
I reached school at 7:45.
The hallway looked like a hospital waiting room.
Students leaned against lockers. Restroom doors swung constantly. A girl from my class hurried past with one hand over her mouth.
Inside, Ethan was gray-faced.
Meline had her head on her desk.
Rachel was curled forward, arms wrapped around her stomach.
Dawn sipped warm water from a thermos.
“I only ate half my bagel,” she whispered. “It smelled bad.”
“Did people see the nurse?”
“The infirmary ran out of electrolyte drinks. Two students were taken to the hospital for dehydration.”
Before I could answer, the rear classroom door opened.
Zach walked in.
Nobody greeted him.
His usual smile lasted about two seconds.
Ethan stood.
“What did you feed us?”
Zach’s eyes widened.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“It could be a stomach virus.”
Meline lifted her head.
“My roommate didn’t eat your food. She’s fine.”
Zach raised both hands.
“My uncle runs a licensed truck. He buys wholesale. Maybe one ingredient—”
The front door opened.
Mr. Harrison entered with the vice principal and two security officers.
I had never seen our teacher look that angry.
“Zach Mercer,” he said, “come with us.”
Zach went white.
“But the exam starts in ten minutes.”
“You won’t be taking it.”
The room went silent.
The vice principal held several clear evidence bags containing wrappers from the breakfast deliveries.
“The county health department inspected your uncle’s truck this morning,” she said. “The food being sold to Ridgemont students was not purchased from the restaurants Zach represented it as coming from.”
A murmur swept through the room.
Mr. Harrison continued.
“Investigators found expired bulk meat, dairy products marked for disposal, and frozen food that had repeatedly thawed and been refrozen.”
Rachel began to cry.
Zach shook his head.
“No. My uncle told me it was surplus inventory.”
“There’s more,” the vice principal said.
She looked at him steadily.
“Your uncle told investigators that forty percent of the money collected from students was being returned to you as a promotional commission.”
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Ethan slammed his palm against the desk.
“Forty percent?”
Zach stepped backward.
“I didn’t know the food was bad.”
“You told us you weren’t making anything!”
“I was saving you money!”
“You called Connor a thief!”
“I never called him—”
“No,” Ethan said bitterly. “You were just clever enough to make us say it for you.”
The security officers escorted Zach into the hallway.
His protests disappeared down the stairs.
Then the entire class looked at me.
Nobody said a word.
They didn’t need to.
The first exam bell rang.
