[Chance]

Hellooo! I wrote a whole character study/analysis on Chase Ambrose in the past ^_^ I hope you enjoy... fair warning that some of this is purely off of headcanon and Chase is an UNRELIABLE NARRATOR, do not take his words as truth. He is not a good person here. 

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All things considered, Chase thought he was doing an amazing thing here. Yet the school was acting as if a simple prank on Joel was some horrifying life-ruining targeted attack, instead of a perfectly normal, light-hearted joke he’d made for the fun of it that had just been blown out of proportion. 

Sure, the lacrosse stick had clipped Joel’s front tire. And sure, maybe the bike had skidded, crashing into the sidewalk, sending Joel flying. And okay, maybe Joel now had a nasty scrape running from his jaw to his ear, and a wrist wrapped tightly in an ice pack. But it wasn’t like Chase meant for any of that to happen.

Except, of course, he did.

He’d aimed. He always had good aim.

He’d done it because Joel made that stupid face in PE, and Chase knew it would get a laugh out of the guys. And it had. At first.

Until Joel didn’t get up.

Until Shoshanna Weber dropped her drink, sprinting toward her brother, kneeling beside him and gasping when she saw the blood smeared along his cheekbone like war paint.

“You—you piece of—!” Shoshanna had lunged at him, teeth gritted, fists shaking, the only thing stopping her being Joel’s good hand, curled around her wrist.

“Shoshanna. No. Not worth it.”

“But Joel—he—you’re bleeding!”

“I said no.”

She glared daggers through Chase as people started gathering. Chase could already hear someone running to get a teacher.

This wasn’t good.

At first, Chase had laughed along with his friends, brushing it off with a casual, “It was a joke! Chill out.” But then the laughter faded. People were staring. The teachers were yelling. Joel was holding his wrist weirdly, face pale but eyes sharp with fury.

And then someone said it: “He meant to throw it.”

And suddenly, everything changed.

 

---

 

The principal’s office was colder than Chase remembered it. Sterile and stiff. The kind of place that expected you to fold. Chase had been here more times than he could count over several years. Aaron and Bear had just been questioned and now it was his turn to speak. Aaron had shot him a look wishing him good luck as they exited the room. 

Dr. Fitzwallace sat behind his desk, arms crossed. A pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Beside him sat the school’s vice principal, arms folded, lips pursed.

Chase sat in the chair across from them, his knees bouncing, palms sweaty. 

“We’ve spoken to several students, Chase,” Dr. Fitzwallace started slowly. “All of them say you deliberately threw your lacrosse stick at Joel Weber’s bike. That’s extremely dangerous.”

Chase blinked at him, then tilted his head ever so slightly, letting his face crumple in the exact way he’d practiced in the mirror once, back when he got caught sneaking out of the house in sixth grade.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said, voice trembling just enough. “It was—God, it was supposed to be a prank! Just a joke! I thought he’d dodge it or something, I didn’t think he’d fall like that. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

Dr. Fitzwallace remained unmoved. “Chase, throwing any object with force at someone’s bike is not a joke. This could’ve resulted in a concussion, or worse.”

Chase’s lip trembled. Internally, he was rolling his eyes. These people are so dramatic. I´ve had worse injuries happen to me during the playoffs. It was hard for him to perfect the act in a matter of seconds, especially when he was sure he was innocent. 

“But—he’s fine, right?” Chase said quickly, shifting in his seat. “I mean, yeah, it looks bad, but I—I didn’t mean to! I would never—you know me!” he turned to the vice principal, eyes wide, like a lost puppy. “You’ve known me since sixth grade! I—I’ve never been like this, you know I haven’t! This isn’t me!”

He was laying it on thick. But he had to.

Because he could feel it—the way the adults’ gazes softened, just slightly. The vice principal tilted her head sympathetically. Dr. Fitzwallace’s shoulders eased a fraction. Chase knew this game like second nature by now.

By the time his mother arrived, flustered and apologetic, Chase had his act down perfectly.

“I didn’t mean to, Mom,” he whispered, eyes downcast. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. It was a joke gone wrong. Please don’t be mad.”

Tina Ambrose, already anxious from the phone call, gathered him into a hug right there in the office. Chase looked downwards, letting his arms hang at his side instead of reciprocating. “He’s not a violent kid,” she said fiercely. “He’s never been in trouble like this before.”

Dr. Fitzwallace sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If I have this my way, he'll be suspended for two days. I don’t want to escalate it further, but Chase—you need to understand this isn’t just about you. You hurt someone. Intentionally or not, you’re responsible.”

Chase nodded solemnly, even as rage twisted inside him. Responsible? Him? No. This was just a misunderstanding. Joel always took things too seriously. Everyone was ganging up on him.

He was the victim here.

 

---

 

Outside, Joel sat on the bench beside the nurse’s office. Shoshanna stood beside him, leg tapping on the ground impatiently. She was on her phone, texting the video club about what had happened. 

As Chase passed, escorted by his mom, he paused in front of the two. He regarded Joel and Shoshanna with a look of visible disinterest, eyebrows slightly raised. He tilted his head at Joel and offered a half-smile. “Hey. Sorry about your face.”

Joel’s eyes burned with something primal, something just barely restrained. Shoshanna stepped forward, ready to swing again, but Joel caught her elbow. He gave her a look: I hate him as much as you do, believe me. 

“Don’t,” he muttered bitterly. He stamped his remaining rage down to a simmer below the surface. “He’s not worth it.”

Chase’s smile slipped just a little, clearly noticing Shoshanna´s movement. He had done his part, worrying over him and apologizing… that should've done the trick, hadn't it? The long hours spent in counselors offices taught him that. But he nodded, turned, and walked away—confident that the damage had been done.

As Chase and his mom reached the parking lot, his steps slowed just slightly. His mother was still murmuring something about being disappointed but knowing he “wasn’t a bad kid,” and how she’d “talk to the school about making this a learning opportunity instead of just a punishment.”

But Chase’s thoughts were stuck on the look Joel had given him.

That raw, cold rage.

Shoshanna too. The way she’d twitched, fists clenched, ready to leap at him like a stray dog protecting her own.

And yet… he’d apologized. He played the part. Didn’t they see that?

He tilted his head back against the seat once they got in the car, eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. He didn't pay attention to his mom calling someone over the phone, informing them of the incident.

He had done everything he was supposed to.

Counselors always said the same thing: Show remorse. Say sorry. Lower your voice. Nod. Say it won’t happen again. And then they’d write their little notes and offer a sticker or some melodramatic garbage like that.

So why hadn’t Joel accepted his apology?

Why hadn’t Shoshanna backed off?

 

---

 

It was second grade. Chase sat in the too-small chair outside the counselor’s office, swinging his legs while trying not to pout. He’d just gotten in trouble for pushing a kid off the swings. Again.

Mrs. Bernard, the school counselor, sat across from him, clipboard in hand, peering over her glasses with that soft, condescending smile he hated. "Chase," she said gently, "do you understand why what you did hurt Jake’s feelings?"

He stared at her blankly. “Because he fell?” he guessed.

Mrs. Bernard sighed. “Because it made him feel unsafe. People want to feel safe around their classmates. Now, what do we say when we hurt someone?”

Chase blinked. Then, slowly, deliberately, he forced his lower lip to tremble. He dropped his gaze to the floor. He even managed to squeeze his voice just enough to sound like he meant it. “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Bernard’s smile returned like clockwork. “That’s very good, Chase. See? That wasn’t so hard. Saying sorry shows you care.”

Chase nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

He didn’t care.

He just didn’t want to sit in this office anymore. And if all it took to get out of trouble was saying “sorry” with a sad face, then fine. Easy. Done. He’d say it every time, if that’s what people needed to hear.

 

---

 

 

Back in the present, Chase stared out the window, watching trees blur by. His expression was unreadable, face bathed in late-afternoon light. He looked calm. Maybe too calm. Like this entire day had never touched him at all.

“Chase,” Tina said softly. “Sweetheart.”

He didn’t even bother to look at her. “Yeah?”

“I know it’s been… a long day. And I’m not saying what happened was okay.” Her voice trembled slightly. “But I just want you to understand how serious this is. You could have hurt someone really badly.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Chase replied, eyes still locked on the road. “It was a joke.”

“That boy needed stitches, Chase.” Her tone sharpened, then dulled just as quickly, like a wave rising and crashing. She took a deep breath. “They said his sister nearly hit you.”

Chase gave a humorless snort, thinking about Shoshanna´s furious face as she confronted him. Stupid Shoshanna, “Yeah, she’s dramatic like that.” 

Tina winced. There was a long pause. “I just…” She exhaled, fingers tapping nervously at the steering wheel. “I don’t want you to go down a path you can’t come back from. I love you, honey. I really do. You know that, right?”

That finally made Chase blink. He blinked once. His eyes flicked from her hand on the steering wheel to the back of her head. Then, with the same deliberate patience he used in the counselor’s office, he offered her a small, practiced smile. His voice was gentle. Warm, even.

“I love you too, mom.”

 

---

 

A fourth-grade Chase kicked off his sneakers by the front door, his backpack thudding against the wall. The house should’ve been quiet. It was after soccer practice, and he was starving. But the moment he reached for the fridge, he heard it—raised voices from the backyard.

Again.

His heart sank.

The screen door to the yard was cracked open, letting the sharp, early spring air carry every word straight into the kitchen. “You always do this, Frank!” Tina’s voice, frayed at the edges. “You twist my words, and then you yell like I’m the problem—”

“Oh, I twist things?” His father shot back, voice dripping with irritation. “You’ve been lying for years! About everything! About me to your friends, to your kids!”

“I lie to protect them!”

“Bull—!”

Chase slammed the fridge shut, a soda can in his hand, fists tightening around the metal. He didn’t want to listen. He hated listening. But it was like the yelling glued him to the floor.

He stormed toward the hallway, only to find his older brother sitting at the bottom of the stairs, elbows resting on his knees. Johnny looked pale and tired, his lips pressed into a tight line. His hands fidgeted with the sleeves of his hoodie—an old one Frank used to wear before things got really bad.

Don’t they know he’s here? His ears rang with that thought. A flash of heat shot through his chest. How dare they fight like this in front of him?

Chase sat beside him, the can unopened and forgotten. “How long have they been doing this?” he asked, his voice low, heavy.

Johnny didn’t look at him. “A long time. I don’t know.” There was a weariness in Johnny’s voice Chase had never heard before. It made his stomach twist.

No one should talk to Johnny like that, he thought bitterly. Not even them.

That was it. He wasn’t just going to sit there.

Chase stood up abruptly. His jaw clenched. His shoes padded across the carpet as he marched down the hall and into the back room where the voices had risen again.

Tina and Frank turned toward the door, startled. Frank’s face was red, the vein in his temple pulsing. Tina looked like she’d been crying—again. Chase squared his shoulders. “We’re here,” he said sharply. “Both of us.”

They froze.

Chase took another step in. “We heard everything. Especially Johnny. He was here when I got here.”

Tina’s face crumpled into immediate guilt. “Chase—honey, I didn’t—”

“No,” he cut her off, voice cold. “You’re supposed to be the mom. He’s your son. You’re supposed to make him feel safe.”

“Apologize,” Chase demanded, glaring at his mother. “To Johnny. To me.”

The word landed like a slap. Tina blinked. She swallowed hard and said, voice cracking, “I’m sorry. You’re right.” His father didn’t say a thing. His arms were crossed, his scowl deepening - his anger directed towards his mother.

Chase turned on his heel without another word, leaving them in the doorway. As he passed Johnny again, he muttered, “Come on. You shouldn’t have to listen to that.”

He didn’t wait for Johnny to get up and follow him. Yet, from that moment he realized that he could fix everything this way. If he was loud enough, good enough, forceful enough - he could make adults act like adults. That he could protect himself and the people he loved most. 

No one would ever hurt him again.

 

---

 

 

The house was quiet when Chase climbed the stairs. Tina had stopped fussing, finally. The door to Johnny’s room was closed. Not that he cared. He didn’t even slam his own door. Just shut it with a quiet click, dropped his bag, and threw himself backward onto the bed, arms spread wide like he was the innocent one nailed to a cross.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, breathing evenly. Calm now. Sort of.

Everyone was overreacting. It wasn’t like Joel died. He had a scrape. Big deal. And a sprained wrist? Please. It was a joke. They were always screwing around during practice. If Joel had just moved faster—

Chase blinked slowly.

They were always ganging up on him when he didn’t deserve it.

He turned his head, eyes tracing the ceiling line. And then, slowly—as it sometimes did when he was alone—his brain tugged back on a memory. One that came to him not with fondness or pain, but as a strange kind of proof.

Fourth grade. The yelling. Johnny on the stairs. His own footsteps in the hallway, too loud for a kid his age.

He remembered walking into that room, standing between his parents, telling them to apologize. Tina did. His father didn’t.

He’d been right, hadn’t he?

No one had taught him to do that. No one told him to stand up. But he had, and they listened. That was the point. He’d made them listen.

He hadn’t done it for attention. He’d done it because someone had to take control. Johnny was too quiet. Tina was too emotional. His father was too angry. And he, Chase, had been the only one in that house who could get people to stop and shut up. It wasn’t like he held anything against his father, he really did love him, he even took inspiration from him for his diplomatic skills.

So now?

Joel’s busted lip and scraped face—whatever. If Joel didn’t want to get hit, he shouldn’t have been there. Or he should’ve seen it coming. It was just a stick. It was just a prank. He hadn’t meant for it to be a big deal.

And if people got upset? That was on them.

He rolled onto his side, rubbing his knuckles against the blanket. They always turn on you when they don’t get the joke, he thought. But when he apologized—even fake, even shallow—they should’ve accepted it. That’s how it worked. It should’ve worked.

When the fighting started, Chase had been seven. Maybe eight. At first, it happened late—behind closed doors, quiet and short and easy to ignore if you just turned the TV up loud enough.

But by nine, it was impossible to pretend.

Frank Ambrose didn’t scream often. He didn’t need to. All he had to do was talk loud, voice sharp as glass and eyes fixed on Tina like she was always an inch from messing something up. Like Johnny had already messed everything up.

But not Chase.

Frank didn’t look at Chase that way. He’d ruffle his hair. Laugh at his jokes. Take him out for ice cream and call him “champ.” Frank liked him. Chase found that he quite liked being liked.

So he watched. Watched the way his father controlled the room without ever raising a hand. How he made people shrink with just a tone. How he always won.

It was impressive.

At first, Chase thought if he could just copy that—if he learned how to make his voice stick like a knife, how to twist things so people couldn’t argue back—then maybe his family wouldn’t fall apart. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

He remembered one time Johnny got a bad grade on a math exam. He remembered, when he was little, sitting on the couch as Frank tore into Johnny over a bad grade. The living room light buzzed overhead. Tina hovered in the doorway, flinching but saying nothing. Chase sat with his juice box, still in his school clothes, eyes fixed on the way his father loomed over Johnny like a storm cloud about to burst.

Johnny had said nothing, not a word. And Chase had thought: He’s losing. He’s letting him win. 

Frank turned to him afterward, the whole room suddenly lighter. “You did good on your math quiz, didn’t you, bud?” Chase nodded. Frank ruffled his hair. “I knew you would’ve gotten a good grade. I’m proud of you, Chase.”

That was the first time Chase ever felt the shift.

Later that same day, Chase watched as Johnny wiped his sleeve across his face, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed with tears. “He’s such an asshole, Chase. He just—he says whatever he wants. He doesn’t even listen.”

Chase rested his chin on his hand, beginning to feel a bit confused. He didn’t know what this had to do with him. “So? You should’ve just told him you’d fix it,” he replied simply.

Johnny whipped his head around, staring at his younger brother. “What?”

“You know how he is. If you just say you’ll fix it, he moves on.” Chase’s voice was annoyingly calm. “That’s what I do.”

Johnny’s mouth opened, but nothing came out for a second. Then: “That’s not the point. It shouldn’t be like that! He’s our dad, Chase. He’s supposed to—care or something. He just—he just screams at Mom and treats me like I’m—like I’m some kind of disappointment.”

Another shrug. Chase was already bored of this conversation. He had no hard feelings against Johnny, but this wasn’t anything to do with him. “Whatever. He likes me fine.”

Johnny stood abruptly, causing Chase to startle back. “God, do you even care?!”

“No,” Chase said simply, not cruelly—just with a kind of dull finality. Like it was fact. “It doesn’t matter. Just try not to make him mad too many times and he’ll start to like you as much as he likes me.”

They never did understand. People like Joel, like Shoshanna, like Dr. Fitzer-whatever—they didn’t get how hard it was to be him. How much pressure he was under. To be liked. To win. To lead. The thing about feelings—other people’s feelings—was that they never actually helped anything. Chase had learned that slowly, like water rising in a glass.

At first, he’d tried. Really. When he was younger. When things still cracked him open, when he thought he could fix the arguments just by showing up, by being good. But people didn’t want to be fixed. They wanted to be mad. They wanted you to suffer for making a mistake, even if it was tiny. Even if it was a joke.

Joel’s face. Shoshanna’s glare. The teachers. The principal. All of them had looked at him like he was evil. Like they didn’t know how many worse things he could’ve done. Like they didn’t know how lucky they were that he held back.

They didn’t understand him. That was fine.

He’d been trying too hard. For years. Carrying all these feelings, balancing people’s tempers, watching every reaction—he’d thought that was how you survived. That if he could just manage everyone, like spinning plates, then everything would stay okay.

But that weight? That wasn’t his. Not really. Not ever.

He didn’t care what Dr. Fitzwallace thought. Or what Joel’s stupid video friends whispered about him. He didn’t care about the counselor’s bland, simpering questions like, “Why do you think they reacted that way, Chase?” Like it mattered. Like their overreactions were his responsibility.

What mattered was him. His future. His name.

People like Joel would fade. Shoshanna would graduate to being mad at someone else five hundred feet away from him. But he—Chase—he had plans. Big ones. He didn’t know exactly what they were yet, but he could feel them, waiting for him like a spotlight warming the stage.

He’d done the right thing. He’d apologized—twice, even. He’d shown up, face properly solemn, words clipped and careful, just like the counselors always said. “You need to express remorse, Chase,” they’d coached. “Take responsibility, Chase.” As if that was some spell that fixed everything. As if feelings were math problems—easy to solve, easy to fake.

He did what he was supposed to do. And still, they hated him for it.

The truth was… the more he tried to care, the worse it got. It hurt him more than it could ever hurt them.

People were fragile. Whiny. Their feelings got in the way of everything—clouded judgment, warped truth, poisoned everything decent. They thought their hurt mattered, that just because they were loud about it, it meant something. But Chase had spent years worrying about those feelings, bending around them, keeping the peace, managing every emotional landmine in this house and at school like he was the designated clean-up crew for everyone else's mess.

He was the one who had to keep everything from falling apart. As a kid, it had been Johnny’s outbursts and Frank’s yelling and Tina’s shaking hands—and Chase had stood in the middle, trying to patch it up, to carry the weight without being asked, to say what needed to be said. They never noticed. They never thanked him for it. They still didn’t.

Maybe Joel and Shoshanna didn’t scream or cry like his family, but their faces after the principal’s office had been just as exhausting. Full of righteousness. Full of that quiet, smug pain that made people pay attention. They knew how to play victims. And maybe Chase had picked up a trick or two. Maybe he was just better at it.

Let them whine. Let them rant. Let Shoshanna fume and Joel sulk and the teachers whisper about how they were “concerned” again. It wasn’t going to stop him. Worrying about their feelings had never helped him. All it did was distract him. Slowed him down. Made him feel like he owed people something just for existing.

But he didn’t owe anyone anything.

He was going to be someone. He could feel it in his chest—burning, endless, right. He wasn’t meant for scraped knees and lectures and after-school detentions. He was meant for more. All the little problems—the crying, the accusations, the injuries—they were just noise. Insignificant.

And if other people got hurt along the way?

That was never really his fault.

They should’ve known better than to get in his way.

 

[Chance]

OOUHH WAITTT haha I remembered I put a tiny bit of swear words in there... whoops! Be mindful for that, then 

Hi. Chance,

This is as excellent an example of fan fiction as I have ever seen! Do you write your own stuff? If not, why not? I want you to know that you've made it a really good thing that Chase fell off the roof. He was a terrible person in his early life!

If imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery, then I am beyond flattered. Thank you for sending it to me.

                                                                                                   -----Gordon Korman-----