The locker door slammed behind me; sharp enough to echo down the hall. I flinched. My fingers, wrapped around a bundle of notebooks, tightened as I could somehow brace against the attention that was already coming. My locker had the words “Try Hard Emo Trash” scratched deep into the paint, permanent now, etched like someone wanted me to carry it with me.

  “Nice shirt, Chloe. What dumpster was that in?”

  Brooklyn Marks’ voice was all sugar and knives. The kind that smiled at you before it bit. She wasn’t a leader but still girls followed her. They were wearing tight jeans, glossy lips, tops that showed off their stomachs and matching backpacks, most of them giggled like trained birds.

  I didn’t answer. I never did. I just stood there, eyes on the floor, chewing the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting. It never did me any good to fight back, it just made it worse.

  At that time, I felt as if I belonged in a music video, one of those early 2000s kinds with rain on the windows and a girl sitting cross-legged on a rooftop. My hoodie was oversized, black and fraying at the sleeves, with a band logo peeling from the fabric. I was wearing my favourite plaid skirt, that peeked out from beneath it, paired with fishnet tights that had a few tears. I didn’t bother to fix it. My boots were scuffed and heavy, the kind that made my footsteps sound louder than they were.

  Even the way I carried myself, screamed emo or skater girl. It wasn’t uncommon for people to see me with my head tilted slightly down, earbuds always ready, and eyeliner smudged just enough to say I didn’t care (even if I did); I tried to feel a kind of quiet cool. But no one really saw me. Not in a real way.

  Later people would say that Chloe was cute, in the kind of way that felt accidental. Adorable when she laughed, which didn’t happen often, especially when her dimples crept out and surprised even her. Her hair was always slightly messy, dyed a dusky shade of lavender now fading to soft lilac at the tips, and braided loosely over one shoulder. She looked like someone who could front a garage band or write sad poems in a spiral notebook at midnight. Probably both.

  But I didn’t have people. Not really. They would say these things about me after I had died. I had no close friends. No lunch table. Just a quiet orbit, skimming the edges of other lives. Most days I felt like static in someone else's playlist.

  Brooklyn stepped closer, eyes flicking to the faint edge of a scar on my forearm. One that had slipped into view where my hoodie had slid up. I tugged my sleeve back down without a word. Fuck, I hate when other people see them. I wish I had never started.

  I had scars. Not metaphorical ones, though those too. Real ones. Up and down both arms. Pale and thin, like whispers I’d tried to bury. I had started cutting at fourteen. Stopped at fifteen, mostly, thanks to my school counsellor. But the marks had stayed, silent souvenirs from a time when it hurt too much to feel anything at all.

  I kept them hidden. Usually.

  But that didn’t stop Brooklyn, and she wasn’t even the worst of the girls. Another jab. More laughter.

  God, when is the bell going to ring, I thought.

  Brooklyn didn’t even look at me when she said it. She just tossed her pigtails, laughing at something on her phone before the words slipped out like they were nothing. “God, Chloe, do you even own a mirror? Or do you just dress in the dark and hope for the best?”

  The girls around her laughed, again, sharp and shallow.

  I felt my face flush like my skin didn’t fit right anymore. I didn’t say anything. I never did. I just pressed my nails into my palms and stared at the floor like maybe it could swallow me whole if I wished hard enough.

  The bell rang, mercifully. A scatter of footsteps and the sound of lockers slamming shut again as the crowd moved on. Brooklyn rolled her eyes with one last smirk and disappeared around the corner.

  I exhaled, slow and careful, like breathing too loudly might call them back.

  I turned and slipped into the girls’ washroom near the stairwell, locking the last stall behind me. That’s where my body finally let go. Cheeks hot with a muted kind of shame. Not because of what they said. But because she never said anything back.

  “Why am I just a coward? When will I stand up for myself, or try to get some revenge?” I whispered to myself. Tears came, but they weren’t dramatic. They just were. Quiet, steady. I let them run down without wiping them away.

  One more month. Thirty-one days. That’s all that was left until graduation. Until I could leave this school, this town, this chapter of being the ghost in someone else’s high school story. I pressed my sleeve to my face, straightened my skirt, and told myself the same thing I always did: They don’t get to win. Not forever.

  I slipped my mask on like a hoodie, expression blank, steps quiet and made my way to gym class where nothing ever changed, except how much it hurt.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The gym smelled like old rubber and the faint sting of bleach. Scuffed floors reflected the dull gray light leaking through the narrow windows near the ceiling. A half-deflated basketball rolled across the court with no urgency, like even it didn’t want to be there.

  I stood near the wall, arms crossed, my black hoodie balled up in the corner like something discarded. I tugged awkwardly at my hand-me-down gym shirt: gray, too big, stained faintly under the arms. The sleeves swallowed my hands, and the neckline hung just a little too wide, showing the thin lines of old scars when I moved the wrong way. My shoulders hunched instinctively.

  My gym shorts were too big, hand-me-downs from a cousin I barely spoke to anymore. Black, faded from too many washes, with frayed edges and a waistband that bunched awkwardly under the shirt I kept tugging down. They hung low on my hips, exposing me too much, but tightening the drawstring made them look worse like I was trying too hard to hide something no one wanted to see anyway. They clung to my thighs when I got sweaty, and every time I moved, I felt like I was being watched, judged: measured and found lacking. Like the fabric didn’t belong on me. Like nothing ever did.

  In the middle of the court, the other girls laughed. Not with me. Never with me.

  “Let’s move it, girls! Hustle!” Coach Reid’s voice echoed across the gym like a slap. Coach Reid looked like a thumb stuffed into a whistle lanyard; bald, red-faced, and always slightly out of breath even when he wasn’t moving. His gym shirt clung to his round belly, sweat blooming under the arms like a permanent badge of effort. He talked like he was still twenty-five and winning high school football games, but that was fifteen years and forty pounds ago. Most of us knew he peaked his first year teaching and had been coasting downhill ever since. He blew his whistle for effect, even though no one was confused about what to do. “Chloe, that includes you.”

  I flinched and started jogging with the others, shoes squeaking unevenly against the floor. The cold air bit through my thin shirt, and it wasn’t long before my breath came shallow and ragged. My legs already ached. I hadn’t eaten much, Mom and Dad hadn’t gone shopping before going to their conference, so I just had a granola bar and a quiet wish that today would be easier.

  It wasn’t.

  Behind me, whispers trailed like shadows.

  A soft, fake cough: “Freak.”

  Laughter.

  Another voice: “Didn’t know Hot Topic sponsored athletes now.”

  I didn’t look back. I just kept running, each step heavy, like dragging weights behind me. Then came the familiar voice. Kiley Yoman. Loud enough to cut through everything. “Pick up the pace, Emo Barbie! You’ll ruin your eyeliner with all that effort.”

  More laughter.

  Kiley ran easily as if the gym belonged to her. Her red hair was tied up in a high ponytail, sleek and defiant, and her winged eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. Her legs moved like pistons: controlled, effortless. I couldn’t help noticing the contrast. Where Kiley was muscle and heat and confidence; I was air and paper and quiet shame. I caught myself staring at Kiley’s chest again. Two perfect curves tucked into a ribbed white tank top that probably cost more than my whole outfit. They bounced when she laughed, like they had their confidence like they’d never been made fun of in a locker room. I hated how much I noticed. Hated how I felt like a flat sheet of paper next to her with all angles and me with nothing worth looking at. It wasn’t even that I wanted her boobs. I just wanted to know what it felt like not to flinch every time someone glanced too long in my direction.

  I quickly redirected my eyes, the last thing I needed was a rumour that I was gay for Kiley. Who fucking knew at this point? She was my worst bully. Maybe, maybe… I was developing feelings for my abuser, like my mom did with my birthday.

  Fuck, get out of your head, Chloe. You gotta run, I thought to myself.

  Kiley, at nineteen, late birthday or some shit. I always thought she failed a grade and was held back, but don’t say that to her face or she might give you a black eye. Anyways, She was practically royalty in this town; her family ran the biggest cattle operation in the county. Her dad sponsored school jerseys, and everyone knew not to cross her unless they wanted to lose friends, opportunities, or dignity. Even my stepdad, the loser that he was, worked in their slaughterhouse.

  Kiley hated me with a visible, burning passion, seemingly for no other reason than I existed, dressed in my thrift store finds and band tees, utterly unlike everyone else, especially Kiley. She especially loved making fun of my body, from my skater-style clothes to my flat chest.

  After the warm-up, we were divided into teams. Volleyball, fun. During a scrimmage, I tried to stay out of the way, hugging the sidelines like a ghost in sneakers. The ball flew, shouts erupted and then, just as I stepped sideways to avoid the fray, Kiley “accidentally” caught my foot.

  I hit the ground hard, my knees stinging against the slick gym floor. The gym fell quiet for half a second. Then Kiley said, just loud enough, “Careful, flatline. Don’t want to bruise your nonexistent assets.”

  Snickers all around. I stared at the floor and swallowed the burn in my throat. Coach Reid didn’t see. Or maybe he did and just decided not to deal with it. I pushed myself up slowly, my palms smarting. I didn’t cry. Not here.

  Just one more month. Thirty more days. Then none of this would matter. I went back to the sidelines and waited for the hour to end, the noise to pass, the ache to dull. Like I always did.

  In a rare moment, near the end of class, I was inspired to try. I don’t know why. I reached for the ball, a little too slow, and it bounced off my wrist with a sharp sting before skittering across the court. Of course, it rolled right to Kiley.

  She scooped it up with a smirk and held it like she’d just caught a prize. “Nice hands, Chloe. You play like someone scared of her own shadow.” Then, after a beat, her eyes flicked down to my legs. “Oh wait…you are. Forgot you’re all bones and bruises.”

  A few of the girls laughed, quiet but loud enough. That kind of laughter that sticks.

  “Are you going to run to Daddy? Wait, he already ran from you.” More laughter at the sign lines. Everyone knew that my birth Dad took off when I was six. It wasn’t like I was the only one to come from a broken home, but they sure did enjoy reminding me.

  I did see a few sad looks from the other girls on the team. Like Megan Shaw. She was my best friend back in elementary school, we used to hang out in class and read books together. I loved sharing the wizarding books with her, about the would-be Orphan boy. I always wished my letter would come and I could escape here. In middle school, Megan found a new group of friends, and my tale of loneliness only grew.

  I didn’t say anything to Kiley. I never did, not anymore. I learned that it just makes things worse. Just kept my face blank, even though I could feel the heat crawling up my neck. I hated how easy it was for her. How she never missed a beat when it came to finding new ways to tear me down.

  Coach Reid blew his whistle from the far end of the gym and barked something about hustle. He didn’t look over. “Time to change,” he barked.