fromtheshadowsnyc2

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Interlude I

[Green Divider is credited to @firefly-graphics]

Another late night in Chinatown, busy as ever. While most of New York might be pretending to sleep, at the least, there are still some shops and restaurants that remain open to the public. Or at least, to certain customers.

Mrs. Liu has been running her midnight teahouse for the past fifty years, ever since she snatched up her own children and left China—as well as her dreadful first husband—for a life she’d hoped would be much better. So it goes without saying that she’s seen her fair share of crazy shit. After all, this isn’t just New York, it’s Chinatown. All kinds of things happen on this side of the city—much like in other places.

So, honestly, the two customers currently sitting in one of her booths barely make her flinch. 

But still, an old woman can’t help but be curious about the hushed conversation taking place over two steaming cups of tea. After all, they’re in her restaurant. She has every right to eavesdrop.

“…So, listen. About Halloween—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I don’t have to. This is the same conversation we’ve all been having for two years now.”

“Yeah, with the key phrase being ‘two years’. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?”

His mouth twists, somehow making his solemn frown deeper. Then he’s shaking his head, before taking a gentle sip from his cup of tea.

“Still too risky. Halloween is already a busy night to begin with. Trick ‘r treating, the parties, the damn parade—and that doesn’t even cover the worst of it: Initiation Night.”

“Trust me, you don’t need to remind me about Initiation Night. I’ve been tracking that with my cameras for years now. But that just drives my point home. There’s only so much we can do from the shadows. What better way to catch gang initiates than among the people?”

“…Mikey really sold you on that idea, huh.”

“He wants to attend this party on South Street Seaport. Supposed to be in this warehouse by the water.”

“South Street…? That’s near Purple Dragon territory. Right on the border.”

“Yep.”

“And you agreed, because…?”

Pause. Then they both lean forward, whispering like the wind against trees.

“…There’s been some talk. Rumors about this new drug the dragons want to try out.”

His hand clenches against the table as he growls.

“And they want to test it out on the populace.”

“Not just that—we’re talking teenagers, kids just like us. Kids that the cops will overlook because of one reason or another when they disappear. And by the time they will give a shit? It might be too late. We can’t sit back and risk this happening.��� 

“...”

“Leo…” 

“I know. Yeah, I know.” Sigh. “I don’t like it, but you have a point. But we’ll need to be careful. If this turns into a fight, it’ll be the first big fight we’ve had since what went down in Stockman’s lab. And we’re down to three now, remember that.”

“…I know. It won’t be easy. Hell, it hasn’t been easy since—”

He doesn’t continue. Just lets his words hang unsaid in the air…because, truthfully, it isn’t necessary to speak it out loud. They both already know. They’ve both talked about it so many times at this point, it’s pointless to hash it out again. What would change? 

Nothing…because he would still be gone.

They can only move forward. For now, at least.

After taking his last sip of tea, he firmly places the ceramic cup back on the table with a sense of finality. His brother does the same.

“Well, that’s settled then. Let’s get going. Sensei will be waiting for us…and we need to have a talk with Mikey.”

“…Right.”

With all that said and done, the two of them slowly get up from their seats and head to the back to take their exit. Before they do, the one in blue—with his swords sheathed behind him—turns around to give her a polite smile. The one in purple leans on his bo to do the same.

“Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Liu! Was perfect as always.”

Mrs. Liu pauses in cleaning the counter, her mouth spreading into a smile.

“Anytime, dear! Give your father my regards, both of you.” 

“Of course!”

“Will do, Mrs. Liu!”

And with the opening of a window and the whisper of the autumn breeze, both brothers are gone.

Mrs. Liu stares at the spot they were standing in for quite a while, blinking slowly. Then she glances over at the table they were sitting in. And then, after humming in thought, she walks to the back of her teahouse and opens a special cabinet—from which she pulls out a bottle of her finest and most potent wine.

They’re good boys and all, she thinks while pouring into her glass. But seeing them sometimes makes me want to retire. 

After all, once you’ve seen them, you’ve officially seen everything in this city.

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

“Hey, you aren’t like…serial killers or something, right?”

“No, no we’re not serial killers. We’re not exactly—normal. But we’re not serial killers.”

“Just another group of weirdos living in New York, huh?”

He snorts again, quickly turning into a chuckle.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Summary: A young wannabe investigative journalist's life changes after delivering pizza to an alleyway one night.

Entry 1: New York State of Mind

Entry 2: The Delivery

Entry 3: New Assignment

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Entry 3: New Assignments

[*Most dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics]

[Green Divider is credited to @firefly-graphics]

“Yo, yo yo yo! Check this out…!”

“What…? Another one—whoa?”

Another morning, another commute to Stockman Academy. The express 6 train is crowded as usual, but because we’re still early in the line, I’m still able to get a seat—thank god. Definitely don’t want to deal with so many people brushing against me. Doesn’t really stop me from hearing early morning conversation from the teenage boys standing across from me, leaning on the train doors.

One of them, tall and lanky and wearing a red hoodie, leans over to frown at the phone his friend in the white hoodie is holding.

“I dunno, bro. Looks like every other train surfing vid we’ve seen these past six months.”

Oh god, not this again. 

Rolling my eyes, I continue scrolling through my phone—taking advantage of having a signal before we go underground—and give a slight shake of my head. Can’t believe train surfing became a trend, and I have an even harder time accepting that this trend has gone on for so long. But if a bunch of idiots wanna get killed for the views, I’m not gonna say anything. At the end of the day, this isn’t my problem…as long as they don’t make me late for school.

“—Nah, nah, man. Angelo is different, he’s insane, look!”

“…Holy shit. Did he actually…?”

“I know, right?!”

“How is he alive…?”

…

Still.

I can’t help but feel that age old curiosity bubble up in me. What kind of videos does this guy make anyway?

Fortunately, typing in “Angelo” and “train surfing, NYC” manages to pull up an Instagram profile with the username @Cowabungangelo84. A lot of the reels and posts are all POV videos, all from him doing various stunts, including parkour and—from what I can see—train surfing, of course.

Pressing my mouth closed, I tap on the most recent reel and watch while listening through my earbuds.

“What up, what up, New York! Another wake-up, another commute, and you dudes know what that means!” says a voice with a drawl more like a surfer from Cali. The view is of New York’s blue sky, and a bit of the Mets Stadium on Willets Point. “Time to ride another wave on the 7 train! Remember, kids, don’t do this at home. This is all meant for a trained professional—like moi!”

For some reason, I find myself snorting out a giggle. This guy’s quite the character. Arrogant, but charming? In a weird way. I wonder what he looks like. 

Sitting up a bit, I continue watching through Angelo’s reels, feeling more interested with each second. He manages to spread his ride across at least five reels, where he shows footage of him running and leaping on top of the subway cars, and occasionally sitting to make commentary about the areas he passes. Seeing the footage from the go-pro strapped to his chest is a bit disorienting, but I get used to it fairly quickly. He seems to be very fond of Jackson Heights and the various cultures who reside there—well, the food they make, at least. However, his favorite seems to be pizza. Guy after my own heart.

“…Okay, brochachos. Finally passing Woodside. Sunnyside? Seriously, Queens, what is with you and your multiple names and inconsistent streets? Like a damn identity crisis, I swear—”

That got a chuckle out of me. Queens is weird, in terms of how its streets are organized. Whoever designed the neighborhoods there was a sadist, that’s for sure—

Wait. What is this guy doing…?

Because it’s from his perspective, it’s hard to really get a hint of him. Maybe some flashes of an orange hoodie, really thick arms. Hands covered in leather gloves—though they look odd, something about the fingers—and maybe hints of these old worn out sneakers. But nothing else, he moves too fast for you to really catch anything. Maybe that’s the point, the anonymity. 

But there’s no denying that he’s taking some steps back on the train car, just as the 7 train is rolling towards Manhattan at top speed. He moves just so the camera is facing the buildings the train rushes past. I stare, my mouth parting in shock. How is he even still standing? Our trains go so fast above ground when not pausing to stop, no one should be able to withstand the speed. Most train surfers would have jumped onto the nearest platform at this point. So, why…?

Suddenly he points, a thick finger directed at a building.

“This is it,” he says. “That’s the one I’m jumping to.”

I sit up straight, my eyes widening as I watch closely. There’s no way…that building is too far! He won’t be able to make it there, not in one piece. My stomach twists as I continue watching. I just can’t look away.

No sooner than the moment I decide to keep watching, he starts running along the top of the train car. He’s moving so fast that the view of the camera starts to blur. Is a regular person even capable of moving that fast? I genuinely don’t know. I’m a little too afraid to find out.

And then, once he reaches the end—right as the train curves to turn into Manhattan—Angelo takes a leap.

I swallow hard, watching as the footage seems to slow down for a bit as he keeps his knees bent, his huge sneakers somewhat in view. In the background, getting closer and closer, is the building. But despite that, I can’t bring myself to believe what I’m seeing. 

He isn’t gonna make it, I’m so certain that my stomach is already clenching, bile rising up my throat. He’s going to end up falling and become another mess on the New York City pavement. Another casualty of a terrible internet trend. 

Fuck, I can’t watch this.

But just as I lift a hand, my shaky thumb above the back button, I see him land.

The visuals spin, indicating a roll—a barrel roll?—and then, he’s standing up on the rooftop of the building. And then he’s spinning around, his go-pro catching the last of the 7 train rolling down the track. And then, he laughs. No pauses to catch his breath—I can’t even hear his breathing, he seems so calm��he doesn’t even sound tired. He laughs like this is something he does every day. 

“Whoo! That was a close one,” he laughs some more before turning back to look on the other side, the go-pro looking ahead at the expanse of Manhattan, just as the sun begins to rise. “Damn, look at that skyline. Ain’t nothin’ like it in the world—well, from what I hear, anyway.”

I’m still staring down at my screen in disbelief. No way. How…?

“Anyway, that’s it for now. Gotta get back home before my brothers find out I’m not in bed—and forget it if dad’s awake. I’ll be lucky to be alive if that happens, hahaha!”

A near snort leaves me, causing my mouth to spread into a still shocked smile. This guy is insane, worrying about what his family will think just for being outside, rather than the most reckless form of train surfing I’ve ever seen. Does he not realize how lucky he is to be alive right now?

But despite myself, I continue watching to the end.

“Until then, Cowabunga, dudes! Enjoy the rest of your day.”

And then the reel ends, his voice echoing in my ear. 

I stare down at the screen, processing what I just watched. Then, slowly, I shake my head.

What an idiot, I think despite my bemused smile. But an idiot with cool moves, I’ll admit.

With another chuckle, I tap the follow button and sit back in my seat, already going to a different app to scroll until my next stop. But even as I doom scroll, my mind keeps wandering to that strange train surfer dude. I don’t know why. Something about him…something weird.

Who still says “Cowabunga” these days anyway?

Friday takes forever to end, like always; but the good thing is that when that dismissal bell rings, my friends and I already know where to go.

Ms. O’Neil is still in her classroom when we come in and—like always—she has snacks!

“INSOMNIA COOKIES?!” Norman yells out immediately, beaming so wide he almost glows. He makes an immediate beeline for the box of cookies and grabs one, nearly crying as he takes a bite. “It’s…so…good!”

“Jesus, kid,” O’Neil says with a snort. “It’s just a cookie…”

“You don’t understand, O’Neil! My mom basically raised me in a bubble for much of my life. I had to beg to apply to this school. She’d have kittens if she found out I was eating anything with glucose…”

“But…everything in our food has glucose, kid.”

“Yeah, you try explaining that to my mom,” Norman snorts, his mouth spread into a dry smirk.

After Sakina walks in, I pull up and also take a cookie from the box. It is soft and chewy, with chocolate chips already partially gooey when it hits my tongue. My eyes close as I hum, pleased, and soon after finishing, I reach for another. Ah, just what I needed…

“There’s no gelatin in this, right?” Sakina asks, looking eager but her hand still hesitating over the box of cookies.

“Absolutely not! Made sure to request it.”

“Thank you, Ms. O’Neil.” Beaming, she reaches for a cookie and takes a bite that makes her hum in bliss. “Perfection.”

Seeing her happy makes me smile. There truly is nothing in this world—no tragedy, no bad day, no amount of teen angst—that can’t be slightly improved with either pizza or baked goods, or perhaps a combination of the two. That’s what I like to believe, anyway.

Soon after eating our snacks, we take our seats in the school chairs arranged before O’Neil’s desk.

“Okay, kiddos, let’s get down to business. First, let’s talk about last month’s issue and what the lovely school community is saying,” Ms. O’Neil drawls before taking out a notepad where she scrawled down some notes. “First up, Norman.”

Norman sits up a bit straighter, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to listen.

“Your review of that newest horror game was a big hit with nerds and many of the student body who are fans of the dark and spooky. From what I hear, many of them went out to buy or order the game online. As for admin, Principal Stockman and his circle want you to keep continuing what you’re doing, as long as the content is appropriate for school. No real notes after that.” 

His shoulders slump a bit at that. An interesting reaction to being praised. His mouth twists as he thinks before he leans forward, pressing his elbows to his knees.

“Does that mean I can write about the—” Norman’s eyes shift from me to Sakina before clearing his throat. “The other stuff?”

That makes me raise a brow. What does he want to write about that he doesn’t want us knowing? He usually tells us everything. I glance over at Sakina, her dark eyes narrowing, silently asking the same question.

O’Neil levels him with a look, her mouth set in a frown. “What we talked about this morning?”

Norman nods.

“…Haven’t talked to admin about it yet, but considering the subject, they might find it to be too—controversial. Especially Stockman.”

The warning is already in her voice, but that doesn’t seem to deter him.

“But what if I get proof? Like, actual proof—”

“We need to sidebar this conversation,” O’Neil interjects, raising her eyebrow in a challenging manner. “Perhaps after the meeting?”

Norman presses his lips together. Then he sighs.

“Fine.”

“Good. Now, next on the docket: Sakina.”

Sakina perks up, although she falters when O’Neil’s expression becomes solemn while taking out her notes.

“Unfortunately, admin rejected your proposal for writing about the protests at Columbia University,” she says, her eyes lowering to the notepad in her hand. “They said that while your previous articles about Gaza had been considered ‘inflammatory’, the work you did was relatively safer compared to witnessing college students break glass and be a nuisance on campus. Their words, not mine.”

“Inflammatory!” Sakina hisses, hazel eyes narrowing as she stands to her feet. “I have family and friends over there who might be dead by the end of the month. And the protests here show that a good portion of America already knows this is wrong! How…?”

O’Neil puts a hand up, her voice firm and her eyes soft with sympathy. “Believe me, kid, I agree with you. And I believe in what you want to do. But Principal Stockman and the APs threatened to take away our funding and to take control of what we publish—”

“What? Even more than they already have?” Sakina retorts.

“Precisely.”

Sakina’s brows raise to her hairline, just under the hem of her pink hijab. Then her eyes are darting around, darkening with an anger I don’t entirely understand—and I might never understand entirely what is going on over there—but I feel her anger all the same.

I scowl. “So much for freedom of the press.”

“Apparently that doesn’t count when it comes to a student paper,” O’Neil retorts with disgust, her own mouth twisting into a frown. Then she sighs, forcing her expression to soften. “I don’t like it either, but my hands are tied here. I’m sorry, truly.”

“…What can I do, then?” Sakina asks. “There has to be something.”

O’Neil pauses to think, tapping the knuckle of her index finger to her chin. Then she hums, snapping her fingers.

“Try to shift readers’ biases. The American media is already feeding so many implicit biases about the conflict—it makes it hard for many Americans to see the human side of things, the tragedy of war. A good way to do it? Teach them what the media doesn’t. History, culture, everyday stories and struggles while living here.” She pauses to ask, “Is there a strong Palestinian community around you?”

Sakina blinks, then nods, her eyes getting back some sparkle.

“Start there,” April says. “Interview your neighbors, owners of shops and what have you. Tell their stories. Remind our students of not only their place in New York culture but also of their humanity. That alone can help them question what the media tells them.

“I know it’s not as revolutionary as you might want…but it’s what I’ve got, for now.”

After a moment, Sakina lets out a soft hum and sits down. I’m a bit worried at first, but I notice her taking out a notebook and begin jotting something down. My shoulders slump in relief, seeing the hazel in her eyes nearly sparkle gold as her mouth twists in thought.

“All right, kid, you’re next.”

I sit up straight, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. April O’Neil is gracing me with a smile, hands on her hips.

“I really liked that idea we talked about the other day, and fortunately, admin agrees. Since your article is similar to the direction Sakina’s next piece is going, I’m going to suggest you two team up.”  

“That’s a great idea!” I say, turning to Sakina. “I can take the pictures while you do the interviews! Maybe we can even record some and—”

“—put them on the website,” she adds with an eager nod. “This could work!”

“Fantastic! You two talk shop for the remainder of the meeting.” April casts a look at Norman. “Norm, let’s talk over here.”

Norman blinks, and then nods, his expression firm. He slowly gets up from his seat and—with one last reassuring smile at us—walks over to the other side of the classroom. It’s there that he and Ms. O’Neil spend the rest of the meeting having a hushed, serious conversation. 

About what? I don’t really know. I’m not sure I want to know.

But whenever I glance over—seeing how deeply April is frowning while hissing out a warning and how passionately Norman responds in a whisper—while speaking to Sakina, I just get this…this feeling. Like I’m about to be sick. Like something is about to change. Like something is about to go horribly, horribly wrong.

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Preview of Next Chapter

Guess who we sort of encounter in the next chapter...?

👀

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

@donotputmeinaboxturtle Thank you!! I was so nervous, been a fan for YEARS and this is my actual first TMNT fic ever.

Will def update soon. Shenanigans will ensue.

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

“Hey, you aren’t like…serial killers or something, right?”

“No, no we’re not serial killers. We’re not exactly—normal. But we’re not serial killers.”

“Just another group of weirdos living in New York, huh?”

He snorts again, quickly turning into a chuckle.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Summary: A young wannabe investigative journalist's life changes after delivering pizza to an alleyway one night.

Entry 1: New York State of Mind

Entry 2: The Delivery

Entry 3: New Assignment

Interlude I

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Entry 1: New York State of Mind

[All dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics]

God, I hate living here.

I think that about a thousand times a day. When I’m forced awake from my alarm, when my mom yells at me to shower and get ready for another day at school. When I’m putting on the uniform for that snotty school I’m somehow attending. When I’m packing my little brothers’ lunchboxes while chewing on a freshly toasted poptart. When I’m dragging my feet to the train station. When I’m boarding the 6 train with the crowd waiting on the elevated station. When I get off at a station downtown and have to inhale the fresh ick from the subway as I walk up to the surface. When I have to dodge every idiot tourist or every other person trying to commute and live their lives.

You get the gist. No one hates New York more than someone who was actually born here. And it only gets worse the more you get randos from other states moving in and getting rid of what you actually loved about this place.

Ugh, another one? 

I frown at a new store sitting in the corner, where one of my fave bodegas used to rest. Replaced by another pretentious coffee shop/bakery mix. Probably run by some hipster idiot who will call 311 to complain about the loud Spanish and hip-hop music in the neighborhood.

Really tragic, honestly. Abdul was the only guy in this part of Manhattan who made a decent chop cheese. Plus, I liked his cat.

Unfortunately, this kind of cultural casualty has become all too common in the city these past couple years. From Washington Heights to Brooklyn, there’s barely anything that resembles the real NY anymore. Even Queens isn’t safe. It won’t be long until it infects my neck of the woods. It’s inevitable at this point.

Best that I can do is just dart my eyes forward and keep on walking.

The Stockman Academy for the Sciences is one of those fancy private schools you can only attend if you win a school scholarship—or if you’re a millionaire. 

Or, if you’re…

“Nice to see you showed up on time, charity case,” says a prim voice as I walk into homeroom. She’s surrounded by her usual minions, and making a show of fixing her make-up, her eyes on a compact mirror. “I was starting to think you finally gave up.” 

A retort does claw at my throat, but I hold it back and just walk to the furthest seat away from her, my fists trembling in the pockets of my school sweater. If there’s anyone in this school who walks around like their ass doesn’t stink, it would be Antonia Stockman—who is, of course, the only daughter of the school’s founder and current CEO the city’s most prominent science industries. Why does she feel the need to bother me? No idea. Far as I know, I didn’t do anything to her. Most days, I just use the same method I used back in my old school. Keep your head down, eyes forward, and mouth shut. No one can hurt you if you become invisible, right?

It’s just…very difficult, when you’re a poor kid surrounded by the children of New York’s elite. Everyone notices you’re different then. Like a smell you can’t wash off.

The moment I sit and set down my backpack, I reach inside and pull out a book I’ve been trying to finish. I’d go on my phone, but they aren’t allowed in school, which just makes my insides twist. I really want to message Cleo right now. Chatting with her always makes me feel better. Plus, it’s been so long since we hung out or even had a real conversation. Things have been a little…weird between us since I started attending Stockman Academy. In a way that makes me a little too anxious. What could be going on with her? 

It’s not even eight yet, and I already feel like I’m going to vomit.

Going to classes is a reprieve from anything involving socializing. I’m actually a decent student, and the teachers here make things interesting. (I guess there’s something to what my mom said about me needing a challenge.) But my favorite subject? It's a senior English elective, Investigative Journalism, which is taught by—

“So, can anyone tell me the impact of Upton Sinclair’s book The Jungle?”

My hand shoots up immediately and I make sure to keep eye contact with her. Pretty sure the selection isn’t hard, since barely anyone answers most days. Usually, in any other class, I’d join them in the usual student apathy—but of all the teachers in this school, she’s who I want to impress most.

She glances around the room before smiling at me. Then she gives a nod. I sit up, a nervous excitement fluttering through me. It’s nice to be noticed, sometimes.

“Because Sinclair revealed its grisly practices and what exactly was going in their products, the meatpacking industry had to change how they mix and package their meat. Including…”

I continue on for barely a minute, knowing I’ll probably end up talking too much. I don’t participate a lot, but when I do, my nerves make it hard for me to…well, stop talking. And I hate that, because I end up stuttering and sounding so…so dumb.

But not this time! I think, keeping my smile casual on the outside and beaming on the inside. No stutter, no rambling, I was perfect! I hope.

I truly do. Ms. O’Neil is not only the nicest teacher here, she is like The Journalist to learn from. Couple years back, she was the face you’d see in the mornings, talking about the issues and stories many news outlets refused to discuss. She called out the previous mayor and the NYPD commissioner for their neglect of crimes in certain areas, especially the still growing gang activity. Especially regarding news about the most recent gang that’s popped up, the elusive and dangerous Foot Clan.

No idea how she ended up teaching here. But I did notice sometime last year or so, she wasn’t reporting the news as much. A lot of the stories she’d been updating had been pushed aside for celebrity scandals and other big fluff pieces. Nothing that really mattered. For a while, her old network seemed to pretend she didn’t exist. 

Maybe she finally said too much. Maybe she finally pissed off the wrong person. Whatever the reason, I’m glad to see she’s still around—and that she’s teaching my class. She makes me feel like I still have a little luck.

“You did good today, kid! I see you’re growing more confident,” she says to me after class, her grin wide.

I feel ready to burst out of my skin and turn into butterflies. She’ll never really know how much that means to me, coming from her.

“Thanks Ms. O’Neil! Um, are we still meeting after school on Friday?” I ask, referring to the school newspaper. 

“Definitely! Gotta give you kids your assignments for next month’s issue. Unless you have any suggestions or requests?” she adds, her tone already knowing—but of course it is, she’s amazing—and eyes slightly narrowed behind her glasses.

My smile widens and I reach into my bag to pull out a folder.

“I actually have an idea for a series! Remember how we talked about New York’s gentrification a week ago? Well, I was thinking of going around certain spots in the city and talking about the longtime businesses still there. Like restaurants, bodegas, or indie bookshops, even—a lot of the stuff that helps a neighborhood retain its culture, y’know? I actually have some ideas already…”

My voice trails off as I pull out some pictures I took last weekend, of places I’ve been visiting since I was little. Fortunately, some things in the Bronx haven’t really changed too much. It still feels like home.

Ms. O’Neil looks at each picture, her smile growing and her eyes gleaming with each one. When her eyes meet mine again, I want to think she’s proud of me. 

“This is a great idea, kiddo. Let’s talk more about it on Friday.”

Needless to say, I was on cloud nine for the rest of the day.

“—Aw, that’s awesome, dude! Ya think O’Neil will approve my idea too?”

“What? About the secret population of underground mutant humanoids or whatever? Please, Norman,” says my friend Sakina, rolling her eyes while sitting next to me.

“Oh, right, like your idea about aliens is any better!”

“At least I have evidence!”

“Based on old Japanese water paintings and mythology!”

“Oh? Oh, okay—!”

The old argument continues while I sit between them on the quad, but as annoying as it is listening to two weirdos argue about the same fucking thing, these two weirdos are the only friends I’ve managed to make at the academy. So, I don’t really mind. Too much.

“C’mon, dude, we need you as a tiebreaker! You gotta have an opinion on one of our theories,” Norman begs me, his voice nasally and grating. “Aliens vs. Mutants?”

Pressing my mouth closed, I let out a hum in negative while shaking my head. “No way, man. I’m not touching either of your corners of weird. Like, aliens—okay, that’s at least something people have talked about for decades. But mutants? Let alone a secret society of mutants?”

“Who choose to live in the sewers, of all places,” Sakina adds emphatically, her eyes rolling to the sky in near pleading before she murmurs a soft prayer in Arabic. 

“Well, I mean. Would it really be a choice? Considering humanity’s track record of…well, everything?” Norman finishes in a cringe.

Still, the words weigh heavily in the air. We all look at each other before looking away in thought. Sometimes, in the face of the obvious, there is no perfect response.

Suddenly, Norman’s phone goes off. He quickly takes it out and unlocks it. When he sees what’s on the screen, he lets out a sigh and pushes up his glasses.

“That’s my mom. She’s waiting for me out front,” he grouses. Then he sends us a worried look. “You two sure you don’t want a ride?”

Surprisingly, Sakina smiles up at him. “Thanks, but I live all the way in Astoria, Norm. It would be too far out of the way.”

“Yeah, and I have to do a shift at Gino’s tonight,” I add. “Thanks, though. Discord later?”

He grins. “Hell yeah! I gotta play some Mass Effect tonight anyway. I’m this close—this close— to romancing Miranda.”

I chuckle, my chest bubbling with joy as I watch him walk away. Then I shake my head. That kid can be too much sometimes.

“The heck is Mass Effect?” Sakina asks, once he’s far enough.

“An old video game series. You might like it, though. It’s like a space opera thing,” I explain. Then, with a mischievous smirk, I add, “With aliens.”

“Hmm…are there aliens I can seduce?”

I nod. “One of them has tentacles—on her head.”

Sakina’s eyes widen. “Hmm! Color me intrigued.” 

I laugh, and then start standing up.

“C’mon, we got a train to catch.”

The train ride with Sakina is fairly smooth and quiet, considering we’re going further downtown. We were fortunate to be able to find a car that was roomy enough for us to find seats next to each other. For a good few minutes, we sit in peace—at least, until.

“…For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’ve chosen to write about something else,” Sakina speaks softly. “Other than…”

Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t have to say it. I already know.

“A baby journalist’s hit piece on the Foot Clan?” I finish, my voice rather dry.

“Girl, you know it would have been dangerous. O’Neil freaked when you even suggested it!”

“Believe me, you don’t have to remind me…” 

I already remember.

(“Absolutely not!”

“But why?!”

“Because they are dangerous, kid! They’re not just a bunch of cosplayers who dress as ninjas for fun, they hurt people. And they will do worse to anyone snooping around!”

“You think I don’t know that?!” I yelled back, tears springing to my eyes. “O'Neil, they’ve started recruiting people around my ‘hood! They’ve killed or taken people I know—and no one in this city is doing anything about it! No one thinks we’re important enough.”

“That’s not—”

“The only person who did was you! And you’re not doing it anymore!”

“…”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” 

There was this…this look on her face. Her jaw slack. Her eyes were vacant. Like she wasn’t there for a moment—like she was somewhere else. It frightened me. What happened to her? Why did she stop working for the news? 

But in a sharp breath, April O’Neil was back and looking at me with shining dark eyes. Her hands went to my shoulders.

“Kid, the only reason I became so good at what I do is because of the connections I’ve made. Some that are more special than others. The only reason I’m still breathing today is because of those connections,” she told me, her voice full of a fear that scared me deeply, in a way I didn’t understand. “But you…you’re still a kid. This is not a battle you should fight…not on your own. You have to leave it to those who can.”)

I wanted to retort some more, but my momentum was already gone after the confrontation. I was just left feeling much like a know nothing kid. And isn’t that the truth? Yeah, sure, it feels like giving up but—I have to face the truth. Who am I compared to the great April O’Neil? Maybe it’s just best to stay in my lane.

Talking about the parts of NY yet to be gentrified? Much safer. And it’s still something I care deeply about. Hopefully, the students who read The Stockman Herald will like it too. 

“Trust me, I learned my lesson,” I tell Sakina. “No pursuing dangerous people for the sake of a story.”

“Good. Wait until you’re a real journalist. Or at least until you know how to actually fight.”

“Hey, I came from an area where fights happen every second of every day! You can’t blame me for having a conflict aversion.”

Sakina points at her head and says in a drawl, “I literally broke a fuckboy’s nose for attempting to tear off my hijab, I have all the right to blame you.”

I let out a chortle. “Okay, okay! You don’t have to keep reminding me. I’m well aware of your badass status.”

We both share a smile and then shift our conversation to other topics, like the other classes we take and what else we plan to do for the school newspaper. By the time it’s time for Sakina to get off and transfer to her next train, I feel my mood has lifted more than quite a bit. Even still not getting a response from Cleo doesn’t bother me as much; I’m sure she’s just busy. 

I put in my earbuds and turn on my playlist, allowing myself to ride the calm of the subway ride. Might as well enjoy the peace now, before I spend the next few hours helping to make and deliver pizza.

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Introducing the new column writers for the Student Paper at Stockman Academy: The Stockman Herald

Row 1: Norman Melville, age 17; loves conspiracies, especially regarding mutants, after an encounter he had when he was a child. Loves video games and science. Not a big fan of English, but loves writing for the Herald because he gets to gush about his special interests.

Row 2: [REDACTED] Rodriguez, age 17; loves photography and journalism. Feels a lot of pressure since her mom has more or less checked out, leaving her to step up and take care of her younger brothers (both 5). Resents her father for abandoning the family. Prefers to mind her business and avoid fights, but might be braver than she thinks. Loves a good mystery.

Row 3: Sakina Mansour, age 17; also loves conspiracies, but focuses more on aliens...more for fun than anything else; has a strong sense of justice, especially regarding what is happening in Palestine (where her family emigrated from, years ago). Is slowly discovering new things about herself, every day.

These kids are dedicated to the many teens I've encountered in the NYC public school system during my time in education. They are also dedicated to the stories I used to read, featuring teen mystery solvers who end up tangled in situations much bigger than themselves.

What can be bigger than teen mutant crime fighters hiding in the shadows while battling the leader of NYC's most violent gangs? And all that implies.

[all dividers are made by @saradika-graphics]

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Entry 2: The Delivery

[*Most dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics]

[Green Divider is credited to @firefly-graphics]

Not long after I knock, the door to the townhouse opens.

“Well, it’s about time ya got here, we’re starvi—oh. Oh, hello,” drawls a tall guy with slicked back dirty blond hair. He’s dressed only in a toga and smiling down at me in a way that makes my insides feel all oily. “Didn’t realize we ordered an extra snack with our pizza…lucky us.”

I keep my face schooled in a blank expression, even as every nerve of mine is recoiling in disgust. Ugh, why are college guys so sleazy? Especially towards teenage girls? Ick. Ick, ick, blech.

“5 large orders of the Gino’s special,” I drone. “That’ll be eighty dollars, please.”

“Oof, that’s a lot! How ‘bout you come join the party? Really get your money’s worth.” He let out a mindless chortle, his cheeks flushing as his laughter becomes breathless. Then he pauses to think before giving me a look. “Hang on, you’re eighteen, right? Or at least legal-ish?”

God, fuck you. Fuck you and your gross frat country club cronies, I seethe while taking a deep breath. Up the ass—with a chainsaw.

“If you don’t have the money, I’ll just take the pizzas back—”

“Shit, relax, babe. Just a joke. Tch, bitches can’t take jokes anymore. Here!” He slams a crisp Ben Franklin in my palm. With a shrug, he adds, “Keep the change. Buy yourself something nice or whatever…”  

I pause to check the bill, making sure it’s legit. Satisfied, I nod and shift my weight to hand him the pizzas. Then I turn on my heel, pocketing the money in my official Gino’s fanny pack.

“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,” I drone out, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Alpha beta sigma, something-something.”

“Uh, actually our name is—”

I genuinely don’t care. If he’s continued to correct me on their name or their greeting or whatever, I already have it blanked out when I get back to the old car Gino uses for pizza delivery. It’s an old worn out sedan with images of pizza painted onto it, with the obnoxious logo for the pizzeria on the hood. Basically a copy-paste of something straight out of the 1980s. Old Gino is sentimental that way.

Slamming the door closed, I take a moment to rest my forehead against the wheel. The coolness of the leather does little for the headache starting to pulse from my skull. But I still pick my head up, trying to get back my focus. I quickly start the car and back out of the little neighborhood NYU and its students have claimed a monopoly on, starting the drive back to the pizzeria.

Hopefully, that’s the last delivery of the night.

Spoiler alert: It’s not.

“Oi, youngblood!” Gino rasps from behind the counter as I walk in, his Italian accent thick and gruff as ever. “Don’t get too comfy, we got another one. And they’re a longtime regular, too, so don’t fuck up!”

God, I want to die. What did I do in a past life to put up with this? Am I this desperate for money, honestly?

It doesn’t take long for me to come up with the answer myself. Remember, I’m a poor teenager coming from the Bronx, who happens to be attending a school where most of the students walk around like they’re royalty and we’re just the ants breathing their air. A poor teenager who plans on going to college next year. A poor teenager with a mom who is on her feet sixty hours a week to be able to feed me and my brothers, as well as provide us with health insurance and other benefits. A poor teenager coming from a household barely making it on that one major income, ever since Dad—well, you can guess. 

Of course, I’m desperate for money.

I sigh and nod. “Yeah, boss. What’s the order?”

“Six pies, three pepperoni and three extra cheese.”

 “Is it ready, yet?”

“Just came out of the oven. Carlos is boxin’ ‘em as we speak,” he says, pointing a thumb at his husband, an old Puerto Rican man working in the kitchen—also the main reason I was able to get this job in the first place.

Carlos sends me a grin. “¡Hola muñeca! ¿Cómo está tu mamá?”

I return the warm smile, though I feel a bit shy. I still get nervous talking to him.

“Bien, estamos todos bien, tío.”

“That’s good to hear! Hang on, lemme help you bring these pizzas to the car,” Carlos says once everything is packed in a bag.

I nod in acceptance and follow behind him. Then I call back to Gino.

“Be right back, boss!” 

“Yeah, yeah…”

My great-uncle Carlos is a long lost relative on my mother’s side. Neither my mom nor me know the whole story, but from what my abuela described, Carlos had run away from home roughly forty or so years ago and stayed out of contact until about five years ago, while my abuela was dying. Considering how long he’s been with Gino, I can hazard a guess as to what that was about—but I’m not going to pry. Far as great-uncles go, he’s pretty cool and he’s been good to me. That’s more than enough.

“—So, little warning about this delivery.”

Uh-oh.

“What kind of warning?”

“The location is a little…odd, to start with.”

“Real specific, tío.” I take a look at the address scrawled on the receipt and narrow my eyes. “Is that longitude and latitude?”

He types into his cell phone. “When you put it in your GPS, it automatically becomes this….”

When he shows me, some tension in my shoulders ease. It's still in the city, and not too far away. But still…

“What’s so weird about it?”

“Well, it’s in an alley.”

I pause to give him a look. “As in an alley where the door to their apartment is, or…”

“¡No sé!” He shrugs. “They’ve been ordering from us for about ten years and we’ve never seen them in person. All communication is either through phone or an intercom.”

“Huh.” That is a bit weird, but I dunno if that’s worth making a big deal over. So I shrug. “Doesn’t sound bad. They pay, right?”

“Of course! And pretty well, usually.”

“Then that’s all that matters to me. Don’t worry, tío, I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay…if you’re sure.”

And that’s that.

Well, until I get there.

After parking the car and securely grasping the boxes of pizza, I walk towards where the GPS is leading me. When the lady AI voice finally quips, “You have reached your destination!” I look up and see that the destination is—indeed—an alleyway. Smack dab between two tall, old apartment buildings that probably still have bits of asbestos in their walls. 

A really dark and ominous looking alleyway. The kind where there doesn’t seem to be an end. The sort of dark alley that can swallow you up if you walk too close. The sort of place where only bad things can happen to other people.

A shudder does go through me as I look into it, my eyes wide and blood cold. Every single nerve that’s making my hair standing on the back of my neck is telling me to leave. Go home. Study for that science test happening on Friday. Danger lives here. Things will change. 

…

But also, I mean! This is New York. These kinds of alleys are a dime a dozen all over this city, let alone the five boroughs. Not all of them are death traps…just. Well, most of them.

So, with that being said, I swallow my fear and step further into the alley. 

Quickly after, just as my feet land right in front of a manhole, I find the button on the wall. It rests on the brick, probably screwed in, very deep. There’s a ring of blue light around the button. And above that, is a camera.

Hang on. This is one of those Ring Doorbells, I realize, my eyes narrowing. But where’s the door…?

Swallowing again, I take another look around. But no matter where I look, there is no door. Just the solid brick of apartment buildings around the alley, the concrete in the floor…and that one manhole. A manhole like any other in this city. I don’t know why I keep focusing on it. But something about this is so…unnerving.

“What the fuck…?”

Another shudder. My eyes fall to the doorbell again, my gaze darting to the camera above the button.

What the fuck.

Taking in a shuddering breath, I lift my hand and curl my index finger outward to point towards the doorbell. I bridge the gap and press against it.

A tune rings out, very much like the ring tone of a cell phone.

One beat, and then two. And then, a voice.

“…Hello?”

“P-pizza delivery!” I manage to say through a forced smile for the camera while holding the boxes of pizza. A jolt had gone through me when I heard his voice. He sounds…younger than I expected. Like any other teenage boy.

“From Gino’s?”

“Yup!” I chirp. “With extra yupperoni!”

…

“EXTRA YUPPERONI”? Did that actually leave my mouth? Ugh. Can’t even believe I’m allowed out in public.

With a cringe, I look back at the camera. The silence from the other end continues—until something happens.

He laughs.

Not like a mean laugh, like Antonia Stockman did with her cronies when I tried to be friendly with them on my first day. Not a cruel laugh, like that dickhead who bullies Sakina and says all this shit about her faith or her home country. Not the kind of laugh that makes you shrink into yourself, makes the anxiety spike, makes you wonder, “God, why did I even try…?”

It’s a laugh of surprise. One that starts from the belly and steals the breath, makes joy spill over. 

When I hear that, it’s like a little jolt to my chest. But a good one, this time. My smile begins to soften, become genuine; and it grows.

“Oh my god, that…that was awful. Terrible. Who allowed you out in public?”

I shrug, still smiling. “My mother dearest.”

“And I bet she’ll regret that decision for the rest of her life.”

I let out a chuckle before I remember what’s in my arms. “Oh, right! Uh, so about the pizza…?”

“Yeah, just leave it right at your feet.”

What. My eyes glance downward, meeting the rim of the manhole; and then they dart right back into the camera, narrowing.

“Right…at my feet,” I repeat.

“Uh-huh.”

“In front of the manhole?”

“Yupperoni,” he echoes, with humor.

I pause to press my lips together, trying to find the words. How can I say this without being an asshole…? 

Ah, fuck it.

“That doesn’t sound…sanitary, my dude.”

“Wow, you are new. Didn’t Daniel tell you anything before you left?”

“Daniel? Oh!” I suddenly remember the previous delivery boy, Gino’s youngest nephew. “Yeah, he packed up about a week ago and moved up to Binghamton. He’s going to school there.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Good for him, he seemed cool.” He pauses to sigh, so soft I nearly don’t hear it. “Must be nice…”

My head tilts while I stare into the camera. I kind of want to ask what he means, but…I dunno, that feels a bit too personal. 

Plus, as nice as talking to him is, I have a job to do.

Instead, I make a show of clearing my throat, eyes darting to the boxes of pizza. “So, uh. Gonna set this pizza down now…”

“Hmm…? Oh, yeah, go ahead.”

And, despite my reservations, I do. As soon as I stand up, though, he speaks again.

“Okay, now turn around. Just continue facing the camera.”

I raise an eyebrow at the request, but I don’t protest as I spin lightly on my heel. Carlos did say these guys were private. And the customer is always right or whatever.

But still. Can’t seem to help wanting to start a conversation.

“You guys really value your privacy, huh?”

He hums, while typing something in the background. “You could say that.”

“Any particular reason…?” I ask, still curious.

A pause.

“Let’s just say that our Sen—father, our father,” he seems to choke out, like he’s not used to it, “is rather…paranoid about our safety. For good reason, of course! But…yeah.”

I hum, my curiosity growing. Interesting.

“Say no more, my guy. I know a thing or two about overprotective parents,” I reply, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets. Damn, it’s really chilly now. Fall really has made its big return to the Big Apple. “Back when my dad was around, I could barely bring anyone over without him giving them an interrogation. Heh, forget when I discovered social media and the internet! Both him and my mom freaked when they found out I had Snapchat.” 

He chuckles. “Your mom too, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t as bad back then, but ever since my dad left…”

My mouth shut tight. Why did I reveal that? Usually, I hate talking about my dad. Just brings up so much stuff I’m still not ready to deal with. Why am I so…comfortable talking to this dude?

I wait with a sickening anticipation. Pretty sure he’s about to make a quip about my dad making that infamous milk run and never coming back. I can usually take that—got a retort saved for it whenever it comes up—but my stomach still feels tight regardless.

“…I’m sorry.”

Somehow, my body locks up even more. My gaze into the ring camera turns sharp, focused. But he continues, regardless—and he’s genuine. Sweet. Warm. In a way I don’t always hear from boys my age. Or girls, even. Most of us, especially if we’re coming from public school, we keep our feelings and squishy bits close to our chest. Hide it behind memes and jokes, and sharp barbs. I’ve tried not to, but it just became easier the older I got. If you learn how to hide behind a wall, no one can hurt you.

“I-I hadn’t…That must be hard.”

“It’s fine,” I say, a bit too quickly—an obvious hint that this is a lie—but I don’t falter. With a shrug, I add, very cool and casual, “It is what it is, y’know?”

“…”

Oh, I hate that. Please, don’t pity me. Believe me, I have cried enough over my dad this past year, I don’t need anyone else doing it.

Gotta change the topic.

“Uh, so who is picking up this pizza, anyway?”

Fortunately for me, he seems to get the hint. His voice shifts into a casual tone—likely wanting to get away from the unpleasant topic—as he replies:

“One of my brothers. Actually, he should be arriving—now.”

That’s when I feel it. Right behind me.

The soft landing of feet on concrete is near inaudible, if you aren’t paying attention. Me, I make it my mission to keep my senses as sharp as possible—at least while walking alone at night—so it isn’t the sound of feet landing that gets me. (Though I find it off-putting that there’s such an intent in its silence.) It’s the presence. The feeling of something looking at you with a piercing gaze. The subtle sensation of something near breathing down my throat. That insane itch on the back of your neck, one that causes a shudder to go down your spine. This feeling of something huge looming over me. 

Now, I’m barely five feet so that really isn’t hard. But I’ve sensed tall guys behind me before. This guy? Even without looking, I can tell that he’s huge. Massive. 

I swallow hard, feeling my neck break out in a cold sweat. Without wanting to, my head starts to turn back—

“Don’t turn around.”

A jolt goes through my chest and I quickly get back in position, staring into the camera.

“Sorry! I just…” I swallow again, my eyes darting around—making sure not to look back—before landing on the camera again. “Hey, you aren’t like…serial killers or something, right?”

A pause. Then he snorts.

“No, no we’re not serial killers. We’re not exactly—normal. But we’re not serial killers.”

I force a smile. Do I have any other choice except to believe him?

“Just another group of weirdos living in New York, huh?”

He snorts again, quickly turning into a chuckle.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Despite still feeling some fear, curiosity prickles at the back of my neck as I stare into the camera. I can’t help wondering what that could mean.

“…Okay, you’re good, pizza girl! Money should be in the envelope.”

I immediately turn on my heel. In the place where the pizzas were sitting rests a white envelope. After picking it up, I quickly open it and count the cash. My eyes narrow at the amount I counted, and I count again. There’s just no way. Why would he…?

“Uh, you gave me a bit…too much, no?” I have to let him know. I love money as much as the next person, but it’d just be bad form to take something that wasn’t meant to be given. 

“Eh, I told him to give you a little extra. You look like you’ve been having a rough night.”

My mouth falls open at that, before spreading into a grin, my eyes falling on the amount that would be my tip. Maybe my luck is turning around, at least a little. I hope it’s a good sign, regardless.

“Thanks, man! You have no idea how much I appreciate this,” I tell him while pocketing the money for Gino’s in one part of my jacket and then my tip in another. Then I think. “What should I call you, by the way? Since this might become a regular thing or whatever.”

“...Donnie. You can call me Donnie. And you?”

And despite hearing my mother’s voice screaming in my head, I tell him.

“Cool. Nice to meet you!”

“Same here.” I lift a hand to wave, my smile broad. “See you around, Donnie!”

“Later, pizza girl.”

With all that said and done, I spin on my heel and start walking back to the alley. Back into the crowd of others in the city, strutting to their respective destinations. Turning around and taking a slow walk back to Gino’s car. I take a deep breath, feeling a strange sort of calm wash over me. I’m not sure how I can describe it. Maybe it’s the relief of a finished shift. Maybe it’s knowing that tomorrow is Thursday, and that Friday won’t be too far behind. Maybe it’s the security of having a nice amount of cash in my pocket.

Who knows?

What I do know is that, when I’m unlocking the car, I feel it again. That itch on the back of my neck. That feeling of being watched. 

At first, I look behind me. I see people walking by, but no one seems to be paying me any mind. 

And then I look up, my gaze falling to the top of a brick building, at the rim of a rooftop. My eyes narrow. I think I see something huge shifting in the shadows. A hint of eyes. But I’m not sure. It’s too far to tell.

I stare some more, feeling an odd weight in my stomach. Then, with much trepidation, I turn and continue unlocking the car door. I slide in and start the engine. I’m choosing to believe it’s nothing. Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe this is just another New York thing that I will never really understand. There are billions of people living in the five boroughs alone. A good percentage of the population is going to consist of the strange and unusual. That’s just how it is here.

In the end, that stuff doesn’t really matter to me. 

I have to drop off the payment and car to Gino, so he and Carlos can drive me home. Then I’ll deal with my mom—she’s likely home from her shift at the hospital and near drowning in wine, so she’ll need help getting into bed—and put my little brothers to bed. And then, in between finishing my homework and chatting with Sakina and Norman on Discord, I’ll put my tip earnings in the jar I keep under my bed.

And tomorrow will be another day of the same shit (more or less). Keep looking forward and mind your business, I tell myself while driving, even when something inside me still lingers and even starts to bloom.

[fromtheshadowsnyc2]

Entry 1: New York State of Mind

[All dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics]

[Green Divider is credited to @firefly-graphics]

God, I hate living here.

I think that about a thousand times a day. When I’m forced awake from my alarm, when my mom yells at me to shower and get ready for another day at school. When I’m putting on the uniform for that snotty school I’m somehow attending. When I’m packing my little brothers’ lunchboxes while chewing on a freshly toasted poptart. When I’m dragging my feet to the train station. When I’m boarding the 6 train with the crowd waiting on the elevated station. When I get off at a station downtown and have to inhale the fresh ick from the subway as I walk up to the surface. When I have to dodge every idiot tourist or every other person trying to commute and live their lives.

You get the gist. No one hates New York more than someone who was actually born here. And it only gets worse the more you get randos from other states moving in and getting rid of what you actually loved about this place.

Ugh, another one? 

I frown at a new store sitting in the corner, where one of my fave bodegas used to rest. Replaced by another pretentious coffee shop/bakery mix. Probably run by some hipster idiot who will call 311 to complain about the loud Spanish and hip-hop music in the neighborhood.

Really tragic, honestly. Abdul was the only guy in this part of Manhattan who made a decent chop cheese. Plus, I liked his cat.

Unfortunately, this kind of cultural casualty has become all too common in the city these past couple years. From Washington Heights to Brooklyn, there’s barely anything that resembles the real NY anymore. Even Queens isn’t safe. It won’t be long until it infects my neck of the woods. It’s inevitable at this point.

Best that I can do is just dart my eyes forward and keep on walking.

The Stockman Academy for the Sciences is one of those fancy private schools you can only attend if you win a school scholarship—or if you’re a millionaire. 

Or, if you’re…

“Nice to see you showed up on time, charity case,” says a prim voice as I walk into homeroom. She’s surrounded by her usual minions, and making a show of fixing her make-up, her eyes on a compact mirror. “I was starting to think you finally gave up.” 

A retort does claw at my throat, but I hold it back and just walk to the furthest seat away from her, my fists trembling in the pockets of my school sweater. If there’s anyone in this school who walks around like their ass doesn’t stink, it would be Antonia Stockman—who is, of course, the only daughter of the school’s founder and current CEO the city’s most prominent science industries. Why does she feel the need to bother me? No idea. Far as I know, I didn’t do anything to her. Most days, I just use the same method I used back in my old school. Keep your head down, eyes forward, and mouth shut. No one can hurt you if you become invisible, right?

It’s just…very difficult, when you’re a poor kid surrounded by the children of New York’s elite. Everyone notices you’re different then. Like a smell you can’t wash off.

The moment I sit and set down my backpack, I reach inside and pull out a book I’ve been trying to finish. I’d go on my phone, but they aren’t allowed in school, which just makes my insides twist. I really want to message Cleo right now. Chatting with her always makes me feel better. Plus, it’s been so long since we hung out or even had a real conversation. Things have been a little…weird between us since I started attending Stockman Academy. In a way that makes me a little too anxious. What could be going on with her? 

It’s not even eight yet, and I already feel like I’m going to vomit.

Going to classes is a reprieve from anything involving socializing. I’m actually a decent student, and the teachers here make things interesting. (I guess there’s something to what my mom said about me needing a challenge.) But my favorite subject? It's a senior English elective, Investigative Journalism, which is taught by—

“So, can anyone tell me the impact of Upton Sinclair’s book The Jungle?”

My hand shoots up immediately and I make sure to keep eye contact with her. Pretty sure the selection isn’t hard, since barely anyone answers most days. Usually, in any other class, I’d join them in the usual student apathy—but of all the teachers in this school, she’s who I want to impress most.

She glances around the room before smiling at me. Then she gives a nod. I sit up, a nervous excitement fluttering through me. It’s nice to be noticed, sometimes.

“Because Sinclair revealed its grisly practices and what exactly was going in their products, the meatpacking industry had to change how they mix and package their meat. Including…”

I continue on for barely a minute, knowing I’ll probably end up talking too much. I don’t participate a lot, but when I do, my nerves make it hard for me to…well, stop talking. And I hate that, because I end up stuttering and sounding so…so dumb.

But not this time! I think, keeping my smile casual on the outside and beaming on the inside. No stutter, no rambling, I was perfect! I hope.

I truly do. Ms. O’Neil is not only the nicest teacher here, she is like The Journalist to learn from. Couple years back, she was the face you’d see in the mornings, talking about the issues and stories many news outlets refused to discuss. She called out the previous mayor and the NYPD commissioner for their neglect of crimes in certain areas, especially the still growing gang activity. Especially regarding news about the most recent gang that’s popped up, the elusive and dangerous Foot Clan.

No idea how she ended up teaching here. But I did notice sometime last year or so, she wasn’t reporting the news as much. A lot of the stories she’d been updating had been pushed aside for celebrity scandals and other big fluff pieces. Nothing that really mattered. For a while, her old network seemed to pretend she didn’t exist. 

Maybe she finally said too much. Maybe she finally pissed off the wrong person. Whatever the reason, I’m glad to see she’s still around—and that she’s teaching my class. She makes me feel like I still have a little luck.

“You did good today, kid! I see you’re growing more confident,” she says to me after class, her grin wide.

I feel ready to burst out of my skin and turn into butterflies. She’ll never really know how much that means to me, coming from her.

“Thanks Ms. O’Neil! Um, are we still meeting after school on Friday?” I ask, referring to the school newspaper. 

“Definitely! Gotta give you kids your assignments for next month’s issue. Unless you have any suggestions or requests?” she adds, her tone already knowing—but of course it is, she’s amazing—and eyes slightly narrowed behind her glasses.

My smile widens and I reach into my bag to pull out a folder.

“I actually have an idea for a series! Remember how we talked about New York’s gentrification a week ago? Well, I was thinking of going around certain spots in the city and talking about the longtime businesses still there. Like restaurants, bodegas, or indie bookshops, even—a lot of the stuff that helps a neighborhood retain its culture, y’know? I actually have some ideas already…”

My voice trails off as I pull out some pictures I took last weekend, of places I’ve been visiting since I was little. Fortunately, some things in the Bronx haven’t really changed too much. It still feels like home.

Ms. O’Neil looks at each picture, her smile growing and her eyes gleaming with each one. When her eyes meet mine again, I want to think she’s proud of me. 

“This is a great idea, kiddo. Let’s talk more about it on Friday.”

Needless to say, I was on cloud nine for the rest of the day.

“—Aw, that’s awesome, dude! Ya think O’Neil will approve my idea too?”

“What? About the secret population of underground mutant humanoids or whatever? Please, Norman,” says my friend Sakina, rolling her eyes while sitting next to me.

“Oh, right, like your idea about aliens is any better!”

“At least I have evidence!”

“Based on old Japanese water paintings and mythology!”

“Oh? Oh, okay—!”

The old argument continues while I sit between them on the quad, but as annoying as it is listening to two weirdos argue about the same fucking thing, these two weirdos are the only friends I’ve managed to make at the academy. So, I don’t really mind. Too much.

“C’mon, dude, we need you as a tiebreaker! You gotta have an opinion on one of our theories,” Norman begs me, his voice nasally and grating. “Aliens vs. Mutants?”

Pressing my mouth closed, I let out a hum in negative while shaking my head. “No way, man. I’m not touching either of your corners of weird. Like, aliens—okay, that’s at least something people have talked about for decades. But mutants? Let alone a secret society of mutants?”

“Who choose to live in the sewers, of all places,” Sakina adds emphatically, her eyes rolling to the sky in near pleading before she murmurs a soft prayer in Arabic. 

“Well, I mean. Would it really be a choice? Considering humanity’s track record of…well, everything?” Norman finishes in a cringe.

Still, the words weigh heavily in the air. We all look at each other before looking away in thought. Sometimes, in the face of the obvious, there is no perfect response.

Suddenly, Norman’s phone goes off. He quickly takes it out and unlocks it. When he sees what’s on the screen, he lets out a sigh and pushes up his glasses.

“That’s my mom. She’s waiting for me out front,” he grouses. Then he sends us a worried look. “You two sure you don’t want a ride?”

Surprisingly, Sakina smiles up at him. “Thanks, but I live all the way in Astoria, Norm. It would be too far out of the way.”

“Yeah, and I have to do a shift at Gino’s tonight,” I add. “Thanks, though. Discord later?”

He grins. “Hell yeah! I gotta play some Mass Effect tonight anyway. I’m this close—this close— to romancing Miranda.”

I chuckle, my chest bubbling with joy as I watch him walk away. Then I shake my head. That kid can be too much sometimes.

“The heck is Mass Effect?” Sakina asks, once he’s far enough.

“An old video game series. You might like it, though. It’s like a space opera thing,” I explain. Then, with a mischievous smirk, I add, “With aliens.”

“Hmm…are there aliens I can seduce?”

I nod. “One of them has tentacles—on her head.”

Sakina’s eyes widen. “Hmm! Color me intrigued.” 

I laugh, and then start standing up.

“C’mon, we got a train to catch.”

The train ride with Sakina is fairly smooth and quiet, considering we’re going further downtown. We were fortunate to be able to find a car that was roomy enough for us to find seats next to each other. For a good few minutes, we sit in peace—at least, until.

“…For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’ve chosen to write about something else,” Sakina speaks softly. “Other than…”

Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t have to say it. I already know.

“A baby journalist’s hit piece on the Foot Clan?” I finish, my voice rather dry.

“Girl, you know it would have been dangerous. O’Neil freaked when you even suggested it!”

“Believe me, you don’t have to remind me…” 

I already remember.

(“Absolutely not!”

“But why?!”

“Because they are dangerous, kid! They’re not just a bunch of cosplayers who dress as ninjas for fun, they hurt people. And they will do worse to anyone snooping around!”

“You think I don’t know that?!” I yelled back, tears springing to my eyes. “O'Neil, they’ve started recruiting people around my ‘hood! They’ve killed or taken people I know—and no one in this city is doing anything about it! No one thinks we’re important enough.”

“That’s not—”

“The only person who did was you! And you’re not doing it anymore!”

“…”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” 

There was this…this look on her face. Her jaw slack. Her eyes were vacant. Like she wasn’t there for a moment—like she was somewhere else. It frightened me. What happened to her? Why did she stop working for the news? 

But in a sharp breath, April O’Neil was back and looking at me with shining dark eyes. Her hands went to my shoulders.

“Kid, the only reason I became so good at what I do is because of the connections I’ve made. Some that are more special than others. The only reason I’m still breathing today is because of those connections,” she told me, her voice full of a fear that scared me deeply, in a way I didn’t understand. “But you…you’re still a kid. This is not a battle you should fight…not on your own. You have to leave it to those who can.”)

I wanted to retort some more, but my momentum was already gone after the confrontation. I was just left feeling much like a know nothing kid. And isn’t that the truth? Yeah, sure, it feels like giving up but—I have to face the truth. Who am I compared to the great April O’Neil? Maybe it’s just best to stay in my lane.

Talking about the parts of NY yet to be gentrified? Much safer. And it’s still something I care deeply about. Hopefully, the students who read The Stockman Herald will like it too. 

“Trust me, I learned my lesson,” I tell Sakina. “No pursuing dangerous people for the sake of a story.”

“Good. Wait until you’re a real journalist. Or at least until you know how to actually fight.”

“Hey, I came from an area where fights happen every second of every day! You can’t blame me for having a conflict aversion.”

Sakina points at her head and says in a drawl, “I literally broke a fuckboy’s nose for attempting to tear off my hijab, I have all the right to blame you.”

I let out a chortle. “Okay, okay! You don’t have to keep reminding me. I’m well aware of your badass status.”

We both share a smile and then shift our conversation to other topics, like the other classes we take and what else we plan to do for the school newspaper. By the time it’s time for Sakina to get off and transfer to her next train, I feel my mood has lifted more than quite a bit. Even still not getting a response from Cleo doesn’t bother me as much; I’m sure she’s just busy. 

I put in my earbuds and turn on my playlist, allowing myself to ride the calm of the subway ride. Might as well enjoy the peace now, before I spend the next few hours helping to make and deliver pizza.