he first time I met Max Carter, I knew he was trouble.
It was kindergarten, and the sun beat down on my back as I knelt in the sandbox, carefully building a castle with another little boy who had trouble speaking. I liked him—he was quiet like me, patient and sweet. We didn’t need words. We just built together, side by side, making tiny turrets and moats. I was focused on making my sand tower just right when Max, with his wild dark hair and mischievous smirk, marched over like he owned the playground. I watched, mouth agape, as he grabbed the other boy’s shovel without even asking.
I stood up quickly, hands on my hips, frowning at him. “You can’t just take things that aren’t yours,” I told him, my tiny voice firm despite the tremble of nerves.
Max looked at me, his dark brown eyes gleaming with something I didn’t yet recognize—something cruel, something that made my stomach twist. Without a word, he kicked a spray of sand right into my face. The grains stung my eyes and filled my mouth, choking me for a moment as I coughed and sputtered. I could hear him laughing as he ran off, leaving me standing there, humiliated.
That was the moment I learned that Max Carter did whatever he wanted, and no one ever stopped him.
Even then, I remember thinking he looked like a storybook prince—shiny shoes, polished hair, not a speck of dirt on him despite the chaos of the playground. His backpack had his initials embroidered on it in gold thread. Mine was a hand-me-down from my cousin, the straps patched and one zipper broken. It was the first time I felt that sting, the one that comes from realizing some kids are born on mountains and others are made to climb them.
By middle school, he had perfected the art of making my life a living hell. Max wasn’t just a bully—he was my bully. While other kids might get the occasional prank or cruel nickname, I was his favorite target. And I knew why.
My mom worked too hard for too little, and it showed in everything we had and everything we didn’t. I wore thrift-store jeans with hems I learned to stitch myself, too-thin sweaters in the winter that left me shivering at recess. Our apartment always smelled like arroz con habichuelas and fried plantains—warm, comforting smells that made me feel safe at home but embarrassed at school.
I wasn't ugly, but puberty had not been kind. Acne dotted my cheeks and forehead, and my wild, wavy red hair—inheritance from my fiery abuela on my father’s side—refused to be tamed. It puffed, frizzed, curled in defiance no matter what I did. I tried every cheap shampoo, every home remedy, every brush known to man, but it never listened.
My skin was a smooth caramel hue, kissed with golden undertones that glowed in sunlight. I had full lips that curved into a stubborn pout when challenged and sharp cheekbones that my mom said were regal, like the women in old family photos back in Puerto Rico. My nose was a little wide, a little proud, just like my heritage. My wide, almond-shaped eyes were framed with thick lashes, their dark brown color often mistaken for black. When I smiled—on the rare occasions I did—dimples appeared in both cheeks.
But none of that mattered in school. In a place where wealth meant worth, I was invisible at best, and a target at worst.
Max saw every insecurity in me like a wolf scenting blood.
“Hey, pizza face!” he’d call across the hall, his voice dripping with mockery.
If I tried to shrink away, he’d find another way to humiliate me. Once, in the cafeteria, I made the mistake of sitting alone, trying to focus on my chess book as I ate my lunch. I barely noticed him walking past—until I felt something cold and wet smack into my back. I froze for a split second, before the sharp scent of mashed potatoes and mystery meat hit my nose, and I realized he had dumped an entire tray of lunch on me.
I could feel the eyes of everyone in the cafeteria on me as I jumped up, running to the bathroom to try and clean myself off, my cheeks burning with shame.
As I pushed the door open, I heard his voice again, just loud enough for everyone around him to hear.
“Oops. Guess nerds don’t just play with food on the board, huh?”
That night, I cried for hours. Not because of the food or the mess, but because it was another reminder of my helplessness. Another reminder that Max Carter, with all his power, could make me feel small.
The worst day of middle school, though, was when he stuck gum in my hair during homeroom.
I hadn’t even noticed at first. I only realized something was wrong when another girl gasped, her eyes wide with horror. I reached back, my fingers sinking into a sticky, tangled mess at the base of my skull. When I turned, I found Max leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a smug grin on his perfect face.
“Guess you’ll have to cut it all off now. Too bad, ginger.”
I didn’t even cry. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I held them back. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Instead, I ran to the nurse’s office, where I spent an hour while she tried to salvage my long, wavy hair. The damage was done, though. I had to cut off four inches that night, and I didn’t go to school the next day.
High school was supposed to be different. I should have faded into the background, let Max move on to some other unfortunate soul. But he didn’t. If anything, he got worse.
By then, Max was the golden boy. Handsome in a way that made girls forget how awful he was, rich in a way that made teachers look the other way. He came from old money—his father owned half the city, and his mother ran charity galas like royalty. The Carters lived in a mansion so big it made the news whenever their Christmas lights went up. He drove a sleek black car to school the day he turned sixteen, and even the principal called him “sir.”
His dark hair had grown into thick waves, always artfully messy, and he was built like some Greek god sculpted for destruction. His uniform clung to him in all the right places, and his crooked smile was dangerous. The girls fawned over him, the boys wanted to be him, and I—
I just wanted to survive.
But no matter how hard I tried to stay invisible, Max always found a way to bring me back into his orbit. He didn’t need to try. All it took was one comment in the hallway, one cruel glance in the lunchroom, one mocking laugh. And every time, I would shrink just a little more.
But there was one thing that kept me sane—one thing that Max couldn’t take from me.
Chess.
My father taught me to play when I was five. I remember sitting on his lap, watching as he carefully moved the pieces across the board, explaining their roles. Chess was ours, our special thing. When he passed suddenly—too soon, too unfairly—it was the only piece of him I had left. I spent years getting better, perfecting my game, until I was the best.
Chess became my escape from Max and the world around me. It was the one thing that I could control, the one thing I could rely on to give me a sense of accomplishment.
It was the only thing in my life Max couldn’t ruin.
Until he did.
One afternoon, I walked into the Chess Club room to find Max Carter lounging in a chair, acting like he owned the place. The room went silent when I stepped inside, and all eyes turned to me. My heart started to race, and I froze in the doorway.
“What is he doing here?” I demanded, my voice shaky but loud.
Our coach, Mr. Timmons, beamed with excitement. “Max is joining us! Isn’t that great?”
No. No, it wasn’t.
I glared at Max, who smirked back at me, flipping a knight between his fingers like he even knew what it was called. The audacity. Max Carter, the golden boy, wasn’t even supposed to be in a room like this. His world was football games, wild parties, and private schools that probably bought his grades. He had no business in my world, in the one place where I was supposed to be safe from him.
But then, I watched him play.
To my absolute horror, Max Carter was good.
No, scratch that. He was brilliant.
I couldn’t believe it. He moved his pieces with a skill that left me breathless. He knew the game better than I did, better than anyone in the room. And when I lost to him in my first game, I knew it wasn’t a fluke. He had been playing chess for years, had perfected his craft without anyone knowing, and suddenly, chess wasn’t a safe space anymore. It wasn’t mine.
I tried to quit then. I wanted to. I couldn’t compete with him. But my coach convinced me to stay. The club needed me. We needed to win Nationals.
We did. We won Nationals, and I should have been proud. But all I could remember was the moment Max turned to me, grinning like the devil himself, and said, “Chess is for losers.”
Then, just like that, he quit. As though the whole thing had meant nothing.
And suddenly, my victory felt like nothing too.
That was the moment he took something I loved and made me feel like I had to hate it. That was the first real hit to my self-esteem.
Years later, as I stand in a hospital room, looking down at the battered, broken man in the bed, I wonder if he even remembers what he did to me.
Because I never forgot.
And no amount of money, no amount of charm, will ever erase the scars he left behind.
