Chapter 3 - Back Row Royals
The group chat was called Back Row Royals.
Emily hated the name immediately.
Jordan Wells had joined it in August because Dylan invited nearly everyone from the sophomore-junior weekend basketball group.
At first, the chat was harmless.
Memes.
Sports.
Complaints about homework.
Then Dylan began posting photographs.
A student sleeping on the bus.
Someone wearing the same sweatshirt three days in one week.
A girl using a free-lunch card.
Captions followed.
People reacted.
Nobody called it bullying.
They called it jokes.
By October, Emily appeared constantly.
A photograph of her old backpack.
Museum artifact.
A picture of Michael picking her up after Youth Council in his sanitation work jacket.
Princess Trash and the Royal Carriage.
A blurry picture of Emily eating breakfast on the bus.
Five-star dining.
Laura stopped reading after that.
Michael continued.
Emily wished he would not.
“What else?”
Dr. Price asked whether Emily wanted a break.
“No.”
Michael looked at her.
“Em.”
“I want to know.”
Jordan had exported the chat history before leaving the group.
He had left after the bus incident.
His statement said:
I laughed at things I knew were wrong because I didn’t want Dylan turning the chat on me.
Emily stared at that sentence.
Same reason nobody defended her.
Not agreement.
Fear.
Did that make it better?
She did not know.
Seventeen members did not participate equally.
Three posted frequently.
Six reacted with laughing emojis or comments.
Five mostly read.
Two privately told Dylan to stop but remained in the group.
Jordan eventually saved evidence.
Dr. Price said the school would assess each student’s conduct separately.
Emily appreciated that.
She did not want everyone treated like Dylan.
She also did not want silence mistaken for innocence.
The worst screenshots came later.
Dylan had written:
Harper thinks getting Youth Council makes her important.
Another student asked:
Why do you care so much?
Dylan replied:
Because she took my spot.
Someone wrote:
Skill issue bro.
Dylan answered:
Dad says schools love poverty stories because administrators can brag about “opportunity.”
Emily read that twice.
Michael noticed.
“His father said that?”
“According to Dylan.”
That did not prove Gregory Mercer had said it.
It proved Dylan claimed he had.
Then another message.
Dylan:
She needs to remember people like her get invited in. They don’t own the place.
Laura pushed the tablet away.
“That’s enough.”
Emily did not object.
Her stomach hurt.
On Monday, Pinebrook suspended Dylan from school for five days while the formal harassment investigation continued.
Three other students received temporary disciplinary holds from athletics and clubs.
Rumors exploded.
Someone leaked the existence of Back Row Royals.
Nobody leaked the screenshots.
Yet.
Students began trying to guess who belonged.
Emily walked through the hallway feeling every glance.
Jordan found her outside the library.
He looked terrified.
“I’m sorry.”
Emily stopped.
“For what?”
“All of it.”
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“I should’ve left sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He swallowed.
“Dylan did it to Aaron last year.”
“Did what?”
“Turned everyone against him.”
Aaron Bell had transferred during spring semester.
Emily had heard his family moved.
“They didn’t move,” Jordan said.
“He transferred because of Dylan?”
“Partly.”
Jordan explained.
Aaron had confronted Dylan over a cruel video.
Dylan responded by circulating a rumor that Aaron had reported classmates to teachers for cheating.
Within weeks, Aaron lost most of his friend group.
Nobody attacked him.
Nobody threatened him.
They simply stopped inviting him.
Stopped sitting beside him.
Stopped answering messages.
Social disappearance.
“Dylan called it freezing someone out.”
Emily felt sick.
“So everybody knew?”
“Not everybody.”
“You did.”
Jordan nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then you watched him do it again.”
“Yes.”
Emily wanted to yell.
Jordan already looked as if yelling could not make him feel worse.
Instead she asked:
“Why did you finally send the screenshots?”
He looked toward the floor.
“Because of your face on the bus.”
That answer hurt more than she expected.
“What about my face?”
“You looked like you thought everyone agreed with him.”
Emily said nothing.
Jordan continued.
“I didn’t.”
“Neither did anyone who laughed?”
He flinched.
“Some probably did.”
“Then why laugh?”
“Because we were cowards.”
No excuse.
No softened phrase.
Cowards.
Emily nodded.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
She walked away.
At home that evening, Michael repaired the backpack strap.
Emily sat beside him at the kitchen table.
“You can buy me a new one.”
He looked up.
“You finally admit it?”
“It’s falling apart.”
“That thing has survived middle school, ninth grade, spilled orange juice, rain, and apparently physical assault.”
“Dad.”
He smiled.
Then threaded the needle through the canvas.
Emily watched his hands.
Work-rough.
Small cuts.
Dark line of grease beneath one thumbnail.
“Do you hate your job?”
Michael paused.
“Some days.”
“Because of the trash?”
“Because my supervisor thinks five a.m. is a personality.”
She smiled.
“I mean… do people look down on you?”
“Yes.”
The direct answer surprised her.
“What do you do?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If they control my paycheck.”
She laughed.
Michael continued.
“I used to care more.”
“What changed?”
“You.”
Emily frowned.
“When you were little, you thought my truck was the greatest machine on Earth.”
“It had flashing lights.”
“Exactly.”
“You let me sit in it once.”
“You told every kid at preschool your father drove a dragon.”
Emily smiled.
“I forgot that.”
“I didn’t.”
His hands slowed.
“You got older. You learned status. Brands. Neighborhoods.”
He shrugged.
“That’s normal.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
Emily’s eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.”
Michael sighed.
“You keep apologizing for having feelings.”
He placed the repaired backpack between them.
“Dylan’s cruelty belongs to Dylan.”
Then his phone rang.
Michael glanced at the screen.
His expression changed.
“Who is it?” Laura asked from the kitchen.
“County office.”
He answered.
Listened.
Then stood.
“What?” Emily asked.
Michael ended the call.
“Someone from Mercer Development contacted my supervisor.”
Emily froze.
“Dylan’s father?”
“I don’t know.”
“About what?”
Michael looked unsettled.
“They asked whether I’ve been discussing the bus incident at work.”
Laura stared.
“Why would they care?”
Michael had no answer.
But the next morning, Gregory Mercer’s attorney sent the school a letter accusing the Harpers of encouraging a “public campaign” against Dylan.
The letter mentioned Michael’s county employment.
May you like
And suddenly Emily understood that Dylan was not the only Mercer who knew how to make someone feel that their livelihood could become part of the conflict.
---
