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I knew Jaden. Quiet. Respectful. The kind of kid who never drew attention. If he was pushing back, something was wrong.
When I entered the classroom, the energy shifted. Conversations faded. Jaden sat alone, shoulders hunched, cap pulled low over his eyes. His hands were clenched in his lap, his body rigid — like he was bracing for something.
He nodded without lifting his head.
In my office, he stayed silent, the hat still on. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Please don’t make me take it off.”
I pulled up a chair. “You know the rule,” I said gently. “But if there’s a reason, I’ll listen. I promise.”
He hesitated. His shoulders trembled. Then, in a voice that cracked on the last word, he said, “The kids laughed at me. Said my hair looks stupid. Patchy. Messed up.”
I looked closer. His face was pale, drawn. There was more than embarrassment in his voice — there was shame. And something deeper.
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