His Favorite Hate

Vee – Age 8

I don’t remember the first time Xavier Knight looked at me like I was the punchline of a joke only he understood. But I do remember the first time he said it.

“Ugly Vee.”

Three syllables. That’s all it took to make my stomach twist and my chest burn.

We were in third grade. It was raining. Not the soft kind of rain you see in movies—the kind that feels romantic and gentle. No, this was cold, angry, mud-churning rain. The kind that turns playgrounds into war zones and sneakers into heavy, soggy nightmares.

I was standing at the edge of the school steps, hugging my backpack like a life raft, my purple cat socks soaked through. I loved those socks. My mom bought them for me after my hamster died. They were soft, fuzzy, and somehow comforting—like a shield. But that day, they were dripping and disgusting.

That’s when Zay stepped into the puddle right next to me.

I didn’t even see him coming. One stomp, and the icy splash hit my shins. Mud streaked up my jeans, and all I could do was gasp. He didn’t say sorry. Of course he didn’t.

He just looked down at my socks, tilted his head, and smirked.

“You wear those to scare people off, Ugly Vee?”

Laughter erupted around us. Kids I didn’t even know giggled like they were watching a cartoon. I could feel my ears burning. I wanted to disappear into the puddle and never come back.

But Xavier just stood there, hands in his hoodie pockets, like a king watching chaos unfold.

I didn’t cry. Not then. I had already learned not to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I turned away, walked down the steps, and pretended I couldn’t feel the mud squish between my toes. He followed me with his eyes the whole time. I felt it—like heat against the back of my neck. That stare of his. Heavy. Focused.

I didn’t know it then, but that stare would haunt me for years.

It wasn’t the last time he called me names. He had a collection of insults just for me. “Vulture Vee,” “Creepy Vee,” “Vee the Invisible.” He was creative like that. Every week, a new version of me he hated.

But I also noticed the weird things.

Like how he shoved a boy named Caleb once for calling me “bug-eyed.” Or how he got detention for throwing a rock near the swing set—right after another girl tried to cut in front of me. Or how, even when he was laughing at me, he never let anyone else get too close.

It was twisted. Messed up. And I hated him for it.

I spent every year after that trying to stay out of his way—hiding in the library, eating lunch behind the gym, switching classes when I could. But somehow, he was always there. Watching. Smirking. Like I was his own personal joke that no one else could touch.

By high school, I figured I’d just become background noise to him.

I didn’t think I mattered anymore.

And when I got accepted to Westbridge University—a whole state away—I finally felt free. Like I could breathe.

He would never follow me there.

Right?