Hit-High

Students go to a high school for assassins and hitmen. To graduate you need to survive. To earn credits you need to fight.

Chapter One

Wind rustles the leaves while I stroll down the sidewalk. My palms press against my chest as my fingers grip my backpack straps tightly. Every so often a few strands of hair fall within my view, I try to blow them out of my face but they keep falling back down. Today is a big day, my Dad made that perfectly clear to me earlier. When I woke up he had breakfast on the table, eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits with gravy, milk, juice, the whole shabang. 

"Are you excited for your first day?" He chirped at me then continued on without waiting for a response "I remember my first day at HHS. You know back in my da..."

To be honest, I didn't exactly listen to his monologue this morning. I'm too preoccupied. He’s right. It IS a big day. Today marks the first day of the rest of my life meanwhile simultaneously marking the possibility of an early funeral. I know my Dad is like a legend when it comes to this place but he’s Grim. Well his name is actually David Schultz but people in the business call him Grim, aka The Reaper, aka Mr. Three Fifteen.

I'm just Ryan... 

I mean don't get me wrong, I've been training for this my whole life like literally since I started walking. You know how Dads will take their kids to the park then go get some ice cream? Well my Dad took me to the gun range then the boxing ring. 

...Then ice cream...

Anyways, I can’t help but think that it's one thing to throw a knife at a target and a completely different thing to graduate HHS. I keep moving forward as I see the school gates in the distance. I consider waiting at the bus stop I'm passing for a dirty greyhound seat out of this place but I keep on walking. 

As I pass through the school’s gates and onto the campus I can almost feel the air shift in weight. It’s almost as if there was some kind of pressure pushing everything down. Some kids are on the lawn talking, others look like they are going to straight piss themselves. I just keep my head forward and walk into the building like I've done it a million times before.

 

One of the basic societal tricks my Dad taught me was the art of acting like I was supposed to be somewhere. That, as long as you walked confidently and with assumed purpose, no one would stop you. Although, having a disguise or an authoritarian prop of some kind helps as well. For example, a hard hat and a clipboard can gain you access into most secure places. No questions asked. 

I mostly use it to see movies in the theater for free. 

There are even more kids inside. The school halls boom with the sounds of a hundred conversations. Orientation day is always peaceful, predetermined by the school administration. I pull out my schedule that I had been mailed the week prior and look to see where my home-room is.

Hall A - Room 107 - Mr. Dawson

HHS is a little different than most high schools. You only get one teacher. That teacher will show you everything they know although sometimes they can call consults or additional instructors if needed. What teacher you get basically determines what kind of year you are going to have.

Mr. Dawson is incredible to my understanding. Famous even. They used to call him Lockjaw because anyone who ever went toe to toe with him never opened their mouth again… or at least, that’s what people say about him. Badass though, right?

I navigate the packed halls by side stepping through and around student after student which is another skill my Dad taught me when I was younger. How to work your way through a crowd quickly and silently by moving with it’s waves. He taught me how important it was to go unnoticed but to move with haste even if there are obstacles in your way and it does come in handy when trying to get to the front row of a concert.

When I finally reach the room I look at the numbers to the left of the door, A107 with braille markings underneath. I hesitate a moment before reaching for the doorknob and take a deep breath like I’m about to jump off a diving board.

 As I open the door I see a few rows of desks in front of a bigger desk in front of a dry erase board. I don't see anyone who looks like a teacher and by that I mean old I guess. However, a few kids are huddled together chatting and a few others are already in their seats. A couple of people turn to look at me but only for a split second before averting their gaze. Kind of like when you lock eyes with someone accidentally then pretend you didn’t just do that.

The desks already have names taped to them so I skim the rows until I find the desk with my name on it and throw my backpack on top of it. The desks are those classic school type with the faux wood top and the dark blue plastic seating that does wonders for the spine, all connected by scuffed up metal rods. I slide down into my seat and take a book out of my backpack. I don't read a single word in it. I just stare at the pages as I listen around me. 

One more thing about HHS that's a little different than most schools... 

Here at HHS…

Someone is going to try to kill you.

And you've got to kill someone.

That's just how it works at Hit-High

Author's Note

This is the first chapter of a novel I have been working on. I would like to hear thoughts and what you may expect later in the story. Any comments are much appreciated! I haven't much proof read it so if you find anything feel free to let me know!

Reviews

[Helen]

I like your writing style - it drew me in while being easy to digest. It made me interested in the next chapters, even though the subject matter is not necessarily 'my thing'