A Chance To Rise

Chapter 5, Rich Boys.

The art classroom door swung shut behind Zaid and Bassam as they stepped into the hallway, the smell of acrylic paint and clay still clinging to their clothes. Bassam carried his sketchbook carefully under his arm, its pages filled with precise charcoal drawings that had earned him an approving nod from their teacher.

"The teacher said he'll give me top marks for my portfolio," Bassam said, adjusting the strap of his backpack. "This should pull my average up significantly."

Zaid kicked at a loose floor tile with his worn sneaker, his own sketchbook stuffed carelessly into his bag. "At least one of us can draw," he muttered. "I can't even make a straight line without a ruler. And you heard what he told me.

'Just pretend it's art. Convince yourself first, then convince me.'" He made air quotes with his fingers, his voice taking on a mocking tone.

"Since when is passing a class about acting skills?" Zaid exclaimed.

Bassam slowed his pace as they turned down the less crowded west corridor. "The teacher's not entirely wrong though," he said thoughtfully.

"There are legitimate art movements that reject traditional techniques. Abstract expressionism, Dadaism - they all believe art is about the artist's internal-"

"Come on," Zaid cut him off, rolling his eyes. "You really think most of those 'artists' believe their own nonsense? They're just scammers who figured out how to get rich off pretentious rich people."

They paused near a bulletin board cluttered with club announcements. Bassam tilted his head, considering. "Maybe some are frauds," he conceded. "But others might genuinely see the world differently than we do."

Zaid groaned and ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Doesn't matter either way. Now I have to spend all week making terrible drawings and coming up with some philosophical crap to explain them."

He mimed holding a glass, putting on a pretentious accent: "This piece explores the fragility of human existence through deliberate technical imperfection. See? I can play this game with the best of them."

Bassam's lips quirked in amusement as they reached the stairwell. "Just don't overdo it. Last year someone turned in a blank canvas called 'The Void of Consumerism'. He got suspended."

---

The school bell's shrill ring still echoed in the hallway as Zaid and Bassam finished packing their art supplies. Bassam carefully rolled his drawings into a protective tube while Zaid shoved his crumpled sketches into his backpack with little ceremony. They stepped out of the classroom into the bustling corridor, where students rushed in every direction.

As they turned the corner near the lockers, a figure stepped directly into their path. Zaid felt his stomach drop when he recognized the white-card student, he was the same one who had bullied them in the cafeteria on the first day, the same hands that had elbowed Zaid hard during PE last week.

Bassam stopped abruptly, his shoulders tensing. "Get out of my way," he said coldly, his voice low but carrying an edge like sharpened steel.

The boy smirked, leaning casually against a row of lockers. "Why so tense?" he asked, spreading his hands in a mock-innocent gesture. "I just came to say hello." His eyes flicked between them with amusement. "Or are you still upset because we messed  with you in the cafeteria last time?"

Bassam's fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Get out of my way" he said, each word measured and precise.

The boy, Fares, as they would learn shrugged dramatically. "Fine, I won't get in your way or mess around with you." He straightened up and extended a hand that neither Zaid nor Bassam moved to shake. "I actually came to introduce myself and make amends. My name is Fares." When met with silence, he continued, undeterred. "I'm a year older than you, so this is my last year before graduation." His smile turned conspiratorial. "That's why I wanted to have some fun and liven things up - I didn't expect you to get so upset."

Bassam turned sharply on his heel, grabbing Zaid's elbow to steer them away, but Fares moved with surprising speed, his hand clamping down on Bassam's shoulder. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "I'm serious about making things right."

Zaid could feel Bassam trembling with barely-contained anger beneath his grip. Fares continued, undaunted: "Come to my room today, we have the latest PlayStation model. Let's have a tournament." His eyes gleamed as he added, "Aren't you tired of sitting alone in your depressing room? Come play with us."

Before either could respond, the hallway suddenly felt smaller as Fares' friends appeared around them, a group of blue and white-card students forming an impenetrable semicircle. Zaid caught a glimpse of familiar faces among them: the boys who had tripped him in the courtyard, the ones who whispered "scholarship case" whenever Bassam walked by.

"Come on," Fares said, though it wasn't an invitation anymore. His grip on Bassam's shoulder tightened as his friends closed ranks. Zaid tried to pull Bassam away, but strong hands were already guiding, or pushing them forward down the hallway, toward the elevator that led to the privileged students' suites.

---

The door clicked shut behind them with an expensive-sounding thud. Zaid's worn sneakers sank into plush carpeting deeper than any he'd ever felt, while Bassam stood frozen just inside the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the suite with barely concealed shock.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panoramic view of the city skyline, the afternoon sun glinting off chrome and glass surfaces throughout the spacious room. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, flanked by sleek gaming consoles and surround sound speakers. The scent of lemon polish and something subtly expensive, sandalwood perhaps hung in the air.

Fares strode past them, tossing his blazer onto a leather couch "Make yourselves at home," he said with a careless wave of his hand, "don't be shy."

Zaid's fingers tightened around the strap of his backpack as he exchanged a glance with Bassam. Before either could speak, Fares turned to his assembled friends. "Alright, who's hungry? What do we want to order?"

A lanky boy with perfectly tousled hair stretched across an armchair. "Sushi," he declared. "That new place on 5th."

His friend, lounging on the couch with his feet on the glass coffee table, shook his head. "Nah, steak. I'm craving proper meat today."

The debate continued for several minutes before Fares pulled out his phone. "Sushi it is," he announced, tapping at the screen. Then, as an afterthought, he turned to Zaid and Bassam. "What do you two want?"

Bassam's jaw tightened. "Not hungry," he said flatly.

"Same," Zaid added quickly, though his stomach growled traitorously, he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

A snort came from the boy by the window Ayman, as Fares would name him. "Of course these peasants don't eat sushi," he sneered, "Don't bother yourself."

Bassam was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. Fares moved with surprising speed, inserting himself between them. "Calm down," he said, placing a restraining hand on Bassam's shoulder. "Ayman's just joking." He shot a warning look at his friend before adding, "I'll order sushi for you too, I'm sure you'll like it."