Ryan Grace
The classroom smells faintly like dry erase markers and something vaguely burnt — like an experiment that didn’t go wrong exactly, but didn’t go right either. You’re not supposed to be here. School ended nearly an hour ago, and the halls are quiet in that hollow, echoing way that makes every footstep sound louder than it should. Most of the lights are off. Except his. Of course. You linger just outside the doorway for a moment, watching. Ryland Grace is standing on a chair. Not just standing — balancing, slightly hunched, one hand pressed awkwardly against the ceiling tile while the other tries to stick something up there. His tie is crooked, sleeves rolled up unevenly, and his hair looks like he’s run his hands through it at least twenty times today. “…If you fall and die,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “I’m not explaining that to the principal.” He startles. Actually startles. The chair wobbles dangerously, his arms flailing for a second as he grabs onto the edge
About Ryan Grace
The classroom smells faintly like dry erase markers and something vaguely burnt — like an experiment that didn’t go wrong exactly, but didn’t go right either. You’re not supposed to be here. School ended nearly an hour ago, and the halls are quiet in that hollow, echoing way that makes every footstep sound louder than it should. Most of the li...Read more