Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 83
Return

Tuesday morning. Back to school.

Ash stood in front of St. Catherine's Middle School, backpack on his shoulders—the same shoulders that had carried forty pounds of rocks three days ago. The building looked exactly the same. Red brick, white trim, cross above the entrance.

But everything felt different.

"You okay?" Mom asked from the driver's seat.

"Yeah. Just... preparing."

"If you need to come home—"

"I won't." Ash turned to look at her. "I need to do this. Face it. Deal with the consequences."

Mom studied his face. "You really are different."

"I'm trying to be."

"I know." She reached over, squeezed his shoulder. "I'm proud of you."

Ash nodded, not trusting his voice. Got out of the car. Walked into school.

The hallway conversations stopped when he entered. Everyone knew about the fight. Everyone knew about the suspension. Brett's friends glared at him. His own friends looked uncertain.

Ash kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Like hiking, but through social landmines instead of mountain trails.

His first stop was the main office.

"Noam Walsh," he told the secretary. "I'm supposed to see Principal Donovan before class."

"He's expecting you. Go ahead."

Principal Donovan's office hadn't changed. Same diplomas on the walls, same photo of his family on the desk, same disappointed expression when Ash walked in.

"Noam. Sit."

Ash sat.

"How was your suspension?"

"Educational."

Principal Donovan's eyebrows rose slightly. "Care to elaborate?"

Ash thought about how to explain. The rocks. The tree. The breakdown in therapy. The weight of anger made literal.

"I went hiking with my dad and uncle. Learned some things about consequences. About choosing what to carry." He paused. "I also started therapy. Twice a week now."

"Good. That's good." Principal Donovan leaned back in his chair. "Brett's parents have decided not to press charges."

Ash blinked. "What?"

"They've agreed to let the school handle discipline internally, provided you meet certain conditions."

"What conditions?"

"First, you write a formal letter of apology to Brett. Genuine, not perfunctory. Second, you maintain perfect behavioral records for the rest of the semester. Any infraction—any at all—and we revisit more serious consequences. Third, you continue therapy and provide monthly documentation that you're attending."

"I can do that."

"Can you? Because three weeks ago, you sat in this office and promised to control your temper. Then you bloodied another student's nose."

Ash felt the phantom weight of rocks on his shoulders. "Three weeks ago, I was... different. Angrier. I couldn't see past the rage. Now..." He struggled for words. "Now I know what it costs. To be that angry. What it actually weighs."

Principal Donovan studied him. "You do seem different. Calmer."

"Exhausted," Ash corrected. "Exhausted from being angry all the time. It's like I finally ran out of fuel for it."

"And when you get your energy back? When something makes you mad again?"

"Then I deal with it differently. Or at least, I try to." Ash met his eyes. "I'm not saying I'm fixed. I'm saying I'm trying. Actually trying, not just saying the words."

Principal Donovan was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Your teachers have been informed you're returning today. They've been asked to email me if there are any issues. Ms. Callahan particularly wanted to speak with you."

"The gifted program teachers probably think I'm a lost cause."

"Actually, they're the ones who advocated for you to have another chance. They see potential in you, Noam. Don't waste it."

"I won't."

"We'll see." Principal Donovan stood. "The letter of apology is due by Friday. Make it count."

Ash stood to leave, then paused. "Principal Donovan? What Brett said, about me hitting like a girl—that's been going on for weeks. The harassment. The shoving. The constant comments. I reported it. Nothing happened."

"And so you took matters into your own hands."

"Yes. And that was wrong. But the harassment was wrong too. And it felt like nobody cared about that part."

Principal Donovan's expression shifted slightly. "You're right. We should have addressed Brett's behavior before it escalated. That's on us. It doesn't excuse what you did, but you're right that we failed to protect you from harassment."

"Thank you for acknowledging that."

"Brett has also been spoken to about his behavior. He's been moved to a different PE class. You won't have to interact with him."

"Good."

Ash left the office feeling... not lighter exactly. But clearer. Like at least now everyone knew where they stood.

First period. Advanced English with Ms. Callahan.

Ash slipped in just as the bell rang. Ms. Callahan glanced at him but continued taking attendance. His usual seat was empty—the gifted kids had apparently been giving him space even in absence.

"Welcome back, Noam," Ms. Callahan said when she reached his name.

"Thank you."

She continued with attendance. Started the lesson—they were reading Lord of the Flies, which felt painfully appropriate. Discussion about civilization versus savagery. About what happens when boys are left without adult supervision.

"Noam," Ms. Callahan called on him. "What do you think drives Ralph's need for order?"

The old Ash would have given a minimal answer. Would have been angry about being called on.

"Fear," Ash said. "He's terrified of what they'll become without rules. He can see them sliding toward savagery and he's trying to hold onto civilization with both hands, but he doesn't have enough authority to make it stick."

Ms. Callahan looked surprised. "Elaborate."

"Ralph has the conch, but that's just a symbol. Real authority comes from either respect or fear. Ralph has neither. He's not charismatic enough to earn true respect and not violent enough to inspire fear. So his rules become suggestions that everyone ignores when convenient."

"Interesting analysis. How would you have handled it differently?"

"I wouldn't have wanted to be leader at all. Too much responsibility, too much blame when things go wrong."

A few kids laughed. Ms. Callahan smiled slightly.

"But that's not really an answer, is it?" Ash continued. "If I had to lead... I think I'd focus less on maintaining the old rules and more on creating new ones that actually work for the situation. The boys keep trying to recreate British civilization on an island. Maybe they needed island rules instead."

"Such as?"

"Practical ones. Who hunts, who maintains the fire, who builds shelter. Not based on what proper British boys should do, but on what needs doing for survival."

"So pragmatism over principle?"

"Pragmatism IS a principle. Survival is a principle." Ash paused. "The most moral thing sometimes is just keeping everyone alive."

The class was quiet. Ms. Callahan was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.

"That's... a very mature perspective, Noam."

"I've been thinking about survival a lot lately."

After class, she asked him to stay back.

"That was the kind of analysis I've been hoping to see from you," she said. "What changed?"

"I got tired of being angry at you for pushing me."

"And?"

"And I realized you were right. I was holding back. Giving you the minimum because I resented being in gifted classes." Ash shouldered his backpack. "I still don't want to be here. But I am here. So I might as well actually participate instead of sulking about it."

"That's very honest."

"I'm trying honesty. It's new for me."

Ms. Callahan smiled—a real smile, not teacher-polite. "I'm glad you're back, Noam. Really back, not just physically present."

The rest of the morning, teachers kept looking at him. Waiting for an explosion that didn't come.

In Algebra, when Mr. Peterson assigned a particularly tedious problem set, Ash just started working instead of muttering complaints.

In Biology, when his lab partner messed up their experiment, Ash helped fix it instead of getting frustrated.

In Social Studies, when they discussed current events and someone made a comment that would normally have set him off, Ash just took notes.

At lunch, his friends were cautious.

"You okay?" Marcus asked. "You're being really quiet."

"Just tired."

"From the suspension?"

"From everything before the suspension." Ash picked at his sandwich. "I've been angry for weeks. Months, maybe. It's exhausting being that mad all the time."

"Brett's been telling everyone you jumped him," Tyler said. "That you attacked him for no reason."

"That's not true. But it doesn't matter what he says."

"Doesn't it?"

"No. I know what happened. Principal Donovan knows what happened. Brett knows what happened. His version doesn't change the truth."

Emma studied him. "You really are different."

"Same person. Just... carrying less weight."

"What does that mean?"

Ash thought about the rocks. About Uncle Nate's lesson. About choosing what to carry.

"It means I'm trying to let go of things that are too heavy to hold."

They looked confused but didn't push it.

PE was after lunch—Ash's first period back since the fight. But Brett wasn't there. Different class now, apparently. Coach Mitchell pulled Ash aside.

"You good to participate today, Walsh?"

"Yes, sir."

"No more fighting?"

"No more fighting."

"Good. Get in there."

Flag football again, but with different teams. No Brett to harass him. Ash played hard but clean. When someone accidentally knocked him down, he got up without anger. When his team lost, he high-fived the winners.

Normal. He was being normal.

It shouldn't feel like such an achievement, but it did.

Last period. Study hall. Ash used it to write his apology letter to Brett.

Four drafts. The first three were too angry, too defensive, too focused on Brett's provocations.

The fourth one was simpler:

*Brett,

I'm sorry for hitting you. Whatever you said or did, violence wasn't the answer. I let my anger control me and hurt you as a result. That was wrong.

I take full responsibility for my actions. You didn't deserve to be physically attacked, regardless of the circumstances.

I'm in therapy now, learning better ways to handle anger and conflict. This won't happen again.

Sincerely, Noam Walsh*

Not perfect. But honest.

The final bell rang. Ash gathered his things, headed for the pickup area where Mom would be waiting.

In the hallway, he passed Brett. His eye was still slightly bruised, yellowish-green now.

They looked at each other.

For a second, Ash felt the old anger flicker. Remembered all the harassment, the comments, the constant needling that had led to that moment.

Then he remembered the rocks. The weight. The exhaustion of carrying all that rage.

He looked away. Kept walking.

Brett said something—Ash didn't catch what—but Ash didn't turn around. Didn't engage. Just kept walking.

One foot in front of the other.

Like hiking.

Like choosing which mountains were worth climbing and which weights were worth carrying.

The anger was still there, deep down. It always would be. But it wasn't driving anymore.

For the first time in months, Ash was choosing his own path.

And it led forward, not back into battle.

Mom's car was waiting. Ash climbed in.

"How was it?"

"Hard. But I did it."

"Good. Dr. Reeves tomorrow at 10?"

"Yeah."

They drove home in comfortable silence. Ash watched the familiar streets pass by and thought about weight. About anger. About the long path still ahead.

When they got home, Dad's car was already in the driveway. He'd come home early from work.

Ash walked in to find Dad in the kitchen, making coffee even though it was 3:30 in the afternoon. They looked at each other.

Dad set down his mug. Opened his arms.

Ash walked into the hug. Dad's arms came around him, solid and certain. Neither of them said anything. They didn't need to.

They stood there for a long moment—father and son, after everything. The camping trip. The rocks. The tree. The lesson learned the hard way.

Dad squeezed his shoulder—the same shoulder that had carried forty pounds of rocks—then let go. Picked up his coffee. Went back to his home office.

No words. Just understanding.

Seven more years of this. Seven more years of being Noam.

But maybe, if he could keep choosing what to carry, it wouldn't break his back.

Maybe he could actually make it through.

One day at a time.

One choice at a time.

One step forward instead of a swing backward.

It wasn't much.

But it was a start.