The bell rang just as Jocelyn hurried through the door. She looked at her hands, her notebook, anywhere but Mr. Simon’s cold glare. She was almost always late to first period nowadays, and twice already, Mr. Simon had scolded her for her tardiness. It’s not like her grades were slipping or anything. Besides, Jocelyn still had one of the highest grades in his class. Why should he care if she walked in late a few times a week? Well, it was none of his business. Keeping her eyes on the little hole in the right toe of her old, gray sneakers, she scurried past her teacher. Gracefully turning on the worn sole of her shoe, she headed down the middle aisle still feeling Mr. Simon’s eyes glued to the back of her head.
“Ms. Weaver, may I remind you—” Mr. Simon began.
Oh, enough already. She had heard this little speech too many times. Letting her head fall back in exasperation, Jocelyn sighed and rolled her eyes, knowing full well he couldn’t see her. She let her books fall on the desk with a sharp slap that rang out through the room, cutting him off. She picked up right where he left off.
“—Of the new school policy which states that any student whom appears tardy to a class must suffer the consequences of his or her actions. The degree of the punishment of said actions, decided by the student’s teacher, will be announced to the student after his or her class. This, and other new school policies are not to be taken lightly,” she finishes. The smack of jaws hitting desks around the room was audible. She whipped around on her heel to face Mr. Simon, finally meeting his stare. “I know,” she said to him, two staccato syllables as she sat down.
The rusty desk protested against the weight and creaked loudly in the too-quiet room, her eyes never leaving his. They just looked at each other, while the other students’ eyes flashed back and forth as if they were watching a tennis match. She smiled her sweetest smile, folding her hands on the sticky desk. Mr. Simon looked away first, letting everyone know that Jocelyn had won. She finally let her shoulders relax as he turned back to the whiteboard, scrawling something illegible. It was only first period and she was already dying to go home.
Filing into that prison of a school every morning meant no leaving until the final bell rang. It seemed like everyone was on probation, always having to be on time and on their best behavior. They weren’t allowed to go out for lunch anymore, and even going outside for some fresh air was a luxury. It had been like this for months and each student was itching to have things back to how they were.
The administration had been on edge since the break in. Late one Thursday evening, the newest teacher, Ms. Hughes, had discovered the scene when she returned to the school that night to retrieve her forgotten laptop. As she approached the entrance, keys to the school in her hand, something didn’t look quite right. Taking a frantic step back and gaping at the shattered glass from the broken window on the bared door, she immediately knew someone was inside.
Upon the police’s arrival, they discovered the culprit, a senior at the school, hiding near campus almost immediately. A thorough search of the school revealed broken computers, overheads, and other various pieces of wrecked technology. But room 217, Mr. Simon’s homeroom, seemed to be the main target during the assault, looking as if a small tornado had ripped through it. Papers were strewn across the floor, pictures torn off the walls, blinds torn off the windows, desks turned upside down, including Mr. Simon’s desk which had been tipped on its side and completely robbed of all its documents.
Word of the incident spread throughout the town like wildfire. No one expected the well-known and loved senior quarterback to be capable of such chaotic destruction, or more importantly, what led him to do so. As a result, every teacher, security guard, guidance counselor, even the librarians were given walkie-talkies for easy communication if there was just a hint of trouble. The students tried to ignore all the fuss their once easygoing teachers now made. They did their best to ignore the extra security that stood like statues at every entrance or exit and chose instead to focus on the Math or Spanish exam they had later in the week, or the big football game against Easton on Friday. But this was especially difficult, especially for the boys on the team. They had to go on pretending their star quarterback was out on the field with them, instead of down the road, stewing in the county jail.
Mr. Simon began his lecture, but Jocelyn wasn’t even slightly interested. She gazed at the yellow leaves outside as the wind easily tore them off their branches. The current carried the leaves away, their path leading her eyes to the closet next to the window. Jocelyn did her best to keep her eyes from falling on the door. The sight of it was enough to take her back to that night as if it was happening all over again.

(Flashback)
She clasped a shaky hand to her mouth, keeping the rest of her body as still as possible. The door to the closet was cracked open enough so that Jocelyn could see out, but no one could see in. There was obviously a man in the room, but who was he? Surely she knew this dark figure; even his movements looked familiar. If only he wasn’t wearing a hood, she would have been able to see who he was. All she could see was the logo on his T-shirt, visible through open zipper on his black sweatshirt. She didn’t know who this was but she knew for a fact that it wasn’t Kellan Butler. He was outside waiting for her.
Jocelyn shifted to get a better look, causing a broom, propped up against a shelf, to fall over with a clatter. The figure whirled around, his full attention now aimed at the closet door, right at her. This man had to know there was someone in here by now; she was sure that her heartbeat and ragged breathing had given her away, even if the commotion from the broom hadn’t. He reluctantly began to drag his feet around the masses of fallen desks towards the small walk-in where she nestled herself in the corner. She was trapped in the closet, like an animal trapped in a cage. Pausing before the door, a gloved hand slowly reached out, about to grasp the silver knob. Panic rose thick in her throat and she fought the tempting urge to cry for help. She instinctively clamped her eyes shut. Just as his fingers clenched the handle, ready to rip the door open, he froze. The room was suddenly filled with red and blue flashing lights from outside, accompanied by muffled sirens. And just like that, he bolted.
(Present)

“Jocelyn!” Donna hissed from the seat next to her.

“What?” She finally tore her eyes from the closet and turned to look at her friend, who was eyeing her with a furrowed brow. How long had Jocelyn been staring?
“I just said your name, like, five times. You’re so out of it lately, Joc. I need to see your homework from last night again,” she whispered.
Jocelyn waited for Mr. Simon to turn around so he wouldn’t see. The two of them had this secret exchange down to a science after rehearsing it almost every day. She discreetly tossed the papers, sending them fluttering to Donna’s desk, and quickly retracted her arm just as Mr. Simon turned around again. Donna’s boyfriend, Tad, scoffed and shook his head from the seat behind her. They both did their best to ignore him. Always getting on Donna’s case for not doing her homework, she was getting kid of sick and tired of him.
Mr. Simon continued his lecture on the war, going into details about how Hitler came to power. She knew Tad was going to be fired up today, and on cue, he raised his hand to ask a question about Hitler’s methods. When the day’s discussion was based on Hitler taking over Germany, or famous mobsters that ran entire cities, he was practically glowing with interest. But on the days the class discussed import and export between foreign countries, or the history of a country’s flag, he doodled in his notebook, oblivious to the fact that he was even in class.
Like every other day, her classes dragged, seeming too long. When the final bell rang, she sprang from her seat and bolted home. Bounding up the steps, she burst through the front door, shushing her dog Rusty as he barked at the sudden outburst. There was only a matter of about ten minutes before her mother came home. As far as her parents knew, she stayed late every single day after school to tutor Cindy Owen, a freshman struggling with her first year of high school math. Jocelyn’s mom and dad raved for days on how great it would look on college applications and constantly reminded her of all the wonderful life lessons she’d be learning. Little did they know, there was no Cindy Owen. Boy, would they have a field day if they discovered what she was really doing. She shoved away the feeling of guilt that flooded her conscience and kept moving.

After calming Rusty, the family’s 11-year-old bloodhound, she hurried her way through the vast kitchen and into the pantry, where she kept her stash. It was hidden away under a loose floorboard so not even their cook, Darla, could find it. Every Tuesday when Darla came home with groceries, she slipped into the pantry and hid some of the goods under the loose board. Not so much that she would know there was food missing, but enough to last until the following Thursday. Grabbing two shiny, red apples, a couple slices of bread for a quick sandwich, and a bar of chocolate, she carefully placed the board back in its place. Heading into the kitchen she made the fastest ham and Swiss sandwich she could manage. Wrapping it up, she shoved it in her pack along with the apple and chocolate. Looping her arms through the straps, she let it hang down her back. With a quick pat on Rusty’s head, she was out the back door.

Cutting through the Stradford’s yard, she snuck her way to her shortcut. The Stradfords were an elderly couple who lived in the little blue house next door. They loved each other dearly but hated everyone else. She never understood why. This time of day however, they left the comfort of their front porch rocking chairs and went for a walk at the park down the street. Good thing, too, or Mr. Stradford would probably have her head if he saw her sneaking through their back yard like this. The little opening to the forest in the far corner of their yard was the only way she could get to her shortcut.
Reaching the entrance to the woods, her journey through the twisted trees began. She could probably walk the whole way blindfolded, she made the trip so often. Holding her arms out slightly, she let her fingertips graze the branches that stuck out from the bushes. Spotting the little landmarks like the rotting cluster of stumps or the fallen tree she had to step over always made her walk a little faster. They meant she was getting closer.
When Jocelyn was little, her father, the local sheriff, took her exploring through these woods, telling her all his heroic sheriff stories while clinging to his daughter’s little hand. He taught her what signs she should look for, or how to get back if she ever got lost. The front and sides of the jailhouse had think surrounding brick walls with barbed wire. But in the back there was only a rusty chain link fence, the barbed wire dead. Her daddy explained no prisoner was stupid enough to risk getting lost in the vast woods. Once someone was lost, it was nearly impossible for them to find their way back out again. No one would even try escaping through here, and every prisoner and officer knew it.
She finally reached the edge of the woods where the dead oak had once ripped through the fence when it was still alive. Pulling back the fence, she ducked under, dusting off the rust that flaked in her hair. She tiptoed her way across the barren grass, quickly closing the ten yards between the fence and the cells. She made her way over to the seventh window on the left. Ducking down, she leaned her face up to the barred window, tapping a few times on the metal.
“Kellan?”
There was a short silence followed by a ruffle of sheets and a shuffle of feet as he left his scruffy cot and dragged his miserable face to the window.
“Jocelyn,” he breathed. He looked at her arms, her hair, behind her, at her chin, anywhere but her eyes or he knew he would lose it again.
Normally, his eyes visibly brightened at the sight of her face, but not today. She took in his sunken face, the ever-present wrinkles worn into his forehead, his overgrown sideburns, and tried not to notice that his shoulders sunk lower with defeat every day.
“How are you?” she asked, searching for the peace of mind it gave her hearing him say he was doing okay, even though they both knew it was a lie. Worry etched in the skin between her brows when she saw he wasn’t looking at her.
He clenched his jaw hearing her question, fighting the urge to beg her to stop asking those three biting words. He did the same thing when his coach told him he had a bad game or when the guys on the other team trashed talked him, trying to get in his head. As long as he kept his mouth shut he couldn’t say anything back he knew shouldn’t say.
She cocked her head to side, willing him to look at her, to answer her, something. He released the tension in his jaw, opening his mouth to tell her, but quickly clamped it shut again. He looked down at his feet instead, whipping his head from side to side, trying to shake out what he had to tell her from his head.
Since he was put in here, she had never seen him like this. Reaching through the bars, she lifted his chin, hungry for some eye contact. She had to know what was wrong. He let her lift his face but his gaze went passed her and up to the ceiling instead. She could see now that his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, new tears threatening to spill over.
Waiting patiently, she knew he just needed a moment before he could speak. He flexed and relaxed his jaw, trying and failing to open his mouth. He took a deep, shaky breath, letting it out in a big gust. At last, he tore his eyes from the ceiling and met her fearful gaze.
Through still-clenched teeth and pain in his eyes, he whispered, “I know who it is”.