INTRACTABLE

"Aren't those Goldleaf school uniforms?" one of the women on the bus curiously asked.

Glancing at his red uniform, he sighed and turned his eyes to the window, staring outside.

The woman scoffed. "Letting him go to such a place is a joke! Did your brother agree to that? I bet you forced him, just like I did with my son back then!"

"He is my son," the woman beside the boy softly but firmly corrected.

She had a youthful appearance, so no one thought she could be his mother. She threw a glance at her son, but he didn't seem to care about what the woman was saying. Still, she knew his hatred for the school had just reached its peak.

"Don't frighten her," a middle-aged man interjected from the front. "My son used to attend the same school. His behavior changed for the better. It's a good school if your son gives you a headache."

"Hah!" The woman scoffed again, folding her arms. "A parent fails to discipline their own child, and you think a school can fix them?"

"Yes, and my son is proof of that," the man emphasized proudly.

"That isn't a place anyone should call a school. I don't understand why the government allows such a thing to exist!" the woman said, making her hatred for the school obvious in her voice.

"Because they tried shutting it down," the man replied. "And do you know what happened? Parents refused. They wanted the school to stay exactly as it is."

The boy frowned as the two threw words at each other. He didn't think the woman was helping; if anything, she made it worse, twisting his stomach with whatever he imagined about such a place. As for the man's words, he didn't even remember giving his mother a headache.

The bus came to a stop. His mother turned to him. "We're here."

His heart rate quickened. After a three-hour journey, he had arrived at the hell they called a school.

The bus departed behind them as they stood staring at the huge gate with the painted characters: Goldleaf Advanced Secondary School and the motto: Education is to Learn.

He looked at the long brick fence, but all he saw were tall trees—almost a forest. No buildings in sight. Even the surroundings outside the school were rural, with only a few houses visible.

He turned his gaze to his mother. He didn't want to go through that gate, but his mother walked forward.

Beside the gate was a small house where an old man sat. He was too old to be a guard, yet he was.

"Good morning," his mother greeted politely.

The guard looked up. "Morning."

The guard glanced at the boy, giving him the creeps, before turning back to his mother.

"This is my son. He is going to attend this school," she said joyfully, the only one in such a mood.

"Fill in his name here," said the guard, handing her a book. "Follow this road, and it will lead you to the office."

"Thank you."

They started walking along the brick road as directed, his mother pushing the suitcase. The school was so huge that they walked for about five minutes and still couldn't find the office, deepening the wrinkles on his face.

He saw mansions, but they didn't seem like offices—maybe teachers' houses? Farms, gardens, sheds.

He hated to admit it, but the deeper they went, the more he noticed how beautiful the school was inside. Still, it wasn't enough to stop his nervousness.

Soon, they saw some old-fashioned buildings that he could tell were the offices. The buildings looked as if they were made of stone, with bold characters spelling Administration Block.

He arrived in the morning, expecting classes to be in session, so he thought he wouldn't draw attention. However, in the office, a couple of students roamed around.

Looking at them, he didn't see anything strange. They looked like normal students, except for the strange gazes they threw at him—full of contempt.

"So fragile," he heard someone mock from nearby as he walked through the corridor.

He ignored it and kept his eyes forward. It wasn't the first time he had been called that, so it didn't affect him.

"What's he even doing here?"

Another student chuckled. "I think someone lied to him about how this school works."

"Let's bet on how long he'll survive here."

The more he listened, the faster his heart raced, but he tried hard to maintain his calmness. He had already heard how hellish this place was, but hearing it from those who were already in the school made him wish he could disappear.

He raised his eyes to his mother. It had been her idea to drag him here, and she had done everything she could to ensure it happened, no matter how hard he tried to resist.

"Got some looks, though."

Then, one voice cut through the chatter.

"Aren't you guys forgetting something?"

The group turned to a boy leaning against the wall, a smirk playing on his lips.

"No one ends up here without a reason. So…" He tilted his head, his eyes on the newcomer. "What did he mess up?"

At that question, the other boys changed their glances, their curiosity shifting to the boy, contemplating and guessing what he could have done.

Ignoring their remarks, he made his way to the director's office. Inside was a middle-aged man with extra fat and a bald head, typing on a laptop with a frown.

"Your full name?" the director asked, not looking up.

"Christan… Christan Vance," his mother answered.

The director turned his strong gaze to her and then to him. "I'm asking you."

He swallowed, then answered, "Christan Vance."

"Unnecessary things like those headphones will need to go back with you. We wrote these instructions in the joining form," the director said, his eyes narrowing. "I don't think the school you came from allowed headphones in class."

His mother immediately replied, "Yes, I read them. Don't worry, I'll take them back with me." She turned to Christan. "Listen to your teachers and behave. I'll keep them safe for you at home."

The schools he had attended before weren't boarding schools, so he thought he could bring them. Unsatisfied, he handed his headphones to his mother.

"His hair… We said short hair," the director said, eyeing Christan's long auburn hair reaching his shoulders. Since he was told he would attend Goldleaf, he never bothered cutting his hair—one of his rebellious acts against his mother.

His mother glanced at him and sighed helplessly. Her son hadn't even read the joining form, so he wasn't aware of any instructions.

After completing the paperwork, the director handed him a card and allowed him to leave and finish the remaining admission steps in the next office.

"Christan's mother, you have to say goodbye here. The rest of the process requires only him."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Ah, okay. Thank you."

They walked out of the office. It was time for her to say goodbye. She sternly glanced at him, and he returned the look with resentment.

"This is the sixth school you've moved to," his mother said through gritted teeth. "I hope you won't ruin it before getting your certificate. No matter what, you have to graduate." She spoke as if it were a warning.

"You know it was never my fault!" Christan said angrily.

"You're right. It was my fault for ignoring everything and realizing too late."

"And yet I'm the one being punished."

"So we have to fix that, son. Now, no school would accept you except this one. So…" She grabbed his hand, looking into his eyes. "Get your certificate, okay? That's all I ask. Make sure you don't get expelled."

He watched his mother in disbelief. "You were supposed to be worried."

"I am worried. Every second, I worry you will mess up. But I'm telling you, Chris—keep your head down and fix that sick brain of yours!" She almost scolded him but forced herself to stay calm.

Christan looked at his mother, noticing that the soft expression she always wore had disappeared.

"Fine, I'll get that damn certificate. As long as you don't regret this."

His mother raised her brows. Was he threatening her?

Without saying anything more, he turned and, with his suitcase in hand, headed to complete the remaining admission steps.