Hard to Get Away With

EMERSON

Dread coils low and tight in my stomach the second my boots hit the scuffed linoleum of Westheart College’s main corridor. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like dying insects, washing everything in that sickly institutional glow that makes even the lockers look hungover.

I keep my chin level, shoulders back, but the air already feels thicker—charged with the particular kind of malice only packs of bored, self-important girls can manufacture before nine in the morning.

I shouldn’t even be here.

Mid-semester transfer. One phone call from my dad three weeks ago and my entire life got uprooted like it weighed nothing.

*We’re moving, kid. Westheart needs a new football coach and they want me. Pack light.* That was it. No discussion. No warning. Just the familiar sound of my father’s voice deciding for both of us again.

So here I am, walking the halls of a school that looks more like a castle than a college—stone facades, iron gates, and the kind of money that makes the air itself smell expensive. Westheart is for the elite.

The ones whose parents donate buildings and name scholarships after themselves. I’m here because of Dad. Because the new coach’s daughter apparently comes as part of the package deal.

Not that I missed my old campus. That place was a shithole—cracked sidewalks, mold in the dorm showers, and a student body that treated ambition like a personal insult.

The only person worth anything there had been Jenny. The one who texted me three crying-face emojis when I told her I was leaving. Everyone else? Background noise. I didn’t have friends to say goodbye to. Just Jenny, a half-empty duffel bag, and the knowledge that once again I was being dragged somewhere new because of a man who lived for the field more than he lived for anything else.

Still. Looking around at the polished floors and the students in clothes that cost more than my entire old wardrobe, I can’t pretend this place doesn’t feel like another planet. A prettier, colder planet. One that already seems determined to remind me I don’t belong.

Barely three steps past the threshold and the whispers start. They don’t even try to be subtle. They want me to hear.

“Who the hell dressed this mess?” A sharp voice slices from a tight cluster near the lockers, loud enough to turn a few heads.

I don’t look up. I keep walking, boots striking a steady rhythm that echoes just a little too loudly in the sudden quiet.

My black cropped tank sits exactly where I want it—high enough to show the line of my stomach, fitted enough to make it clear I didn’t roll out of bed in yesterday’s laundry. High-waisted jeans hug every curve like they were sewn on me.

The denim jacket tied around my waist swings with each step, deliberate, casual, mine. I know what I look like. I checked in the cracked mirror of the gas-station bathroom twenty minutes ago. Flawless isn’t a strong enough word. Especially not compared to the pastel parade currently judging me like I’m the one who showed up underdressed.

“She’s trying way too hard… like, who even wears *that* anymore?” another voice chimes in, dripping contempt.

“That trash thinks she’s some kind of queen? Please. More like a joke.”

A cruel little laugh drifts behind me. “Bet she’s got no clue how much she sticks out. Ew, what a try-hard.”

“Simone isn’t going to like her. She looks like a fucking bitch.”

The boys, of course, are worse.

“Fuck, look at those full lips. I’d like to see them wrapped around my cock.”

“She’s already walking around here like she owns the place. We’ll have to shut that shit down. Put that skank in her place.”

At that last one, my gaze snaps up. A petite blonde stares at me with pure venom. She stands next to a girl whose back is to me, long auburn hair swept over one shoulder. I narrow my eyes at the blonde. She instantly shrinks back against her locker.

I should keep walking. I almost do.

Instead I stop and turn around.

The corridor seems to hold its breath. I let my gaze travel slowly over the cluster like I’m inspecting something that crawled out from under a dumpster.

There are five of them, all variations on the same theme: expensive sneakers that have never touched a real sidewalk, crop tops in pastel shades that do nothing for their washed-out complexions, and the kind of matching energy that screams they coordinated in a group chat at midnight.

At the center stands the obvious leader—tall, blonde, carefully highlighted hair that costs more than most people’s rent, and a face frozen in permanent mild disgust.

Her pink athletic set is so tight it looks painted on. A tiny gold necklace spells out “QUEEN” in letters so small and desperate it’s almost sad.

She meets my eyes and smirks, waiting for me to flinch.

I try to smother the grin that threatens to break free.

There are girls like her everywhere I go. After fighting this fight for so long, I’ve learned they’re not worth the energy. They pack a nasty bark, but when it comes to their bite they’ve got nothing but a set of expensive fake nails they’re terrified of breaking.

I walk past them without slowing, without glancing back, without giving them a single second of the attention they’re so desperately begging for.

Behind me, the whispers sharpen into something uglier.

“Did you see that? She just ignored us.”

“Oh, she’s bold. Real bold.” A vicious little laugh.

“Let’s see how long she lasts ignoring us. Simone’s do something.”

Fuvking bitches. I hope I make it out of my first day without someone else’s blood beneath my nails.

I stop and then turn around.

I tilt my head and let the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then I speak in a voice sweet enough to rot teeth.

“Wow. You really practiced that little routine in the mirror this morning, didn’t you? All of you. I’m touched. Truly. It’s not every day a whole committee of fashion disasters decides my outfit is worth a group critique.”

A couple of them shift. The leader’s smirk falters for half a second.

I keep going, voice still light. “Let’s start with you, Your Majesty.” I nod at the blonde. “That pink set is doing God’s work trying to hold everything in place, but I can hear the seams screaming from here. And the little necklace? Bold choice. Nothing says ‘I need external validation’ quite like wearing your own job title in jewelry.”

One of the girls makes a small offended noise. I don’t look at her.

“And the rest of you,” I continue, letting my gaze drift lazily over the group. “Matching pastels in August. Adorable. You look like a pack of expired marshmallows left in the sun too long. Tell me—do you take turns deciding who gets to be meanest each morning, or is it just whoever woke up looking the most dehydrated?”

The leader finds her voice again, sharp and brittle. “Excuse me?”

I smile, slow and mean. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was the vocabulary too advanced? Let me simplify. You’re standing there in an outfit that cost more than my entire week of groceries, talking shit about my clothes like your opinion is currency. It’s not. It’s pocket lint. And the fact that you needed four backup dancers to say it out loud tells me everything I need to know about how loud it is inside that empty little head of yours when you’re alone.”

Someone behind her mutters, “Who even is she?”

I answer without looking away from the blonde.

“Someone who’s survived worse than a hallway full of girls who peaked in high school and decided the rest of their lives would be spent ranking other people’s outfits. You’ve got the wrong girl if you think a few recycled insults are going to make me cry in a bathroom stall. I left a shithole campus mid-semester, said goodbye to the only friend who mattered, and got dropped into this castle because my dad’s the new football coach. So no—your little fashion tribunal doesn’t scare me.”

The corridor has gone completely still. A few students further down have stopped walking, pretending to check their phones while they listen.

I take one step closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to make the space between us feel smaller. The leader’s eyes flick down to my boots, then back up. She doesn’t step back, but the impulse is written all over her face.

“Here’s the part you’re going to want to remember,” I say, quieter now. “I didn’t come here to play your ranking game. I didn’t come here to make friends with people whose entire personality is ‘mean girl starter pack.’ I came here because I have somewhere to be and something to prove, and your opinions are about as relevant to that as the gum stuck under these lockers. So keep whispering. Keep staring. Keep pretending your pastel uniforms and matching hatred make you powerful. But the second you decide to actually step to me instead of hiding behind your little chorus, you’re going to find out exactly how wrong you are.”

I let the silence sit for a beat, then add, almost as an afterthought, “And for the record—my hair looks like this on purpose. Yours looks like it lost a fight with a box of bleach and a YouTube tutorial. There’s a difference.”

I turn away before any of them can invent a reply. My boots start moving again, steady, unhurried. Behind me I hear the first sputtering attempt at a comeback, then someone shushing them. The whispers will start up again the second I’m out of earshot. They always do.

But the dread in my stomach has loosened its grip. In its place is something colder and sharper.

I’ve walked through fire that would turn these girls to ash. Their little corridor performance is nothing. Background static. They think they’re the predators here.

They’re about to learn the difference.