Humbling Owen-Kyle

The worst part about Owen Kyle isn’t that he’s beautiful.

He walks around like the hallways were built for him, like teachers should part like the Red Sea when he strolls through, like juniors should clear his path before he even thinks about lifting a foot. That’s the first thing on my mind as I head toward my first class. And I hate it. Every bit of it.

I take the corner leading to my hallway, and, of course, he’s there. The devil himself, right on schedule.

I try to ignore him, like I do every other day. But I know, deep in my bones, that he’s about to pull something.

And before the thought even settles, he does.

A sophomore is walking toward him, clearly nervous but still minding his own business. When they pass each other, Owen throws his shoulder out just enough to knock into him. The kid’s books and papers fly everywhere, scattering across the floor in a sad little explosion.

The boy apologizes immediately, even though it wasn’t his fault. That motherfucker did it on purpose.

Owen doesn’t acknowledge him or the apology. He just steps over him. Not on him. Over him. Like the kid is a crack in the pavement he doesn’t care enough to avoid.

He doesn’t even look down.

His friends laugh. One mutters, “Watch your space, kid,” while another casually steps on the edge of a paper, dragging dirt across it with the heel of his box-fresh white sneakers, like the mess is an inconvenience to him.

The sophomore whispers another tiny, “Sorry.”

Sorry.

My blood heats instantly, like someone flicked a switch in my chest.

And what do I do?

Nothing.

Because who am I to stand in Owen Kyle’s way? If I even try, I’ll just end up crushed under his stupidly perfect sneakers like everyone else.

So I keep walking, swallowing the heat in my chest, and head to class. I’m ready to vent the second I get there, but the room is empty. Great. Just what I need: time to sit in my anger with no witnesses.

I drop into my seat and breathe through it, trying not to explode. A minute later, the door swings open and Milla and Star walk in together. They always do, they live in the same direction, so they show up as a pair like some best-friend twin package deal.

They spot me immediately. Probably because my face is still locked in “murder mode.”

“Girl, fix your face,” Star says, sliding into the seat beside me. “What’s wrong?”

I give her a look. The look. The look that says, Seriously? Take a guess.

“Ugh, he did it again?” Milla asks, dropping her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“You know he did,” I whisper-hiss, leaning closer. “He walked over a student like the kid didn’t even matter.”

Before they can respond, a voice behind me jumps in.

“Ohh, uh… what did I miss?” Pri asks. I didn’t even notice her come in.

“The usual,” Star and Milla say at the same time.

Pri raises a brow at me. “Chloe, let it go. You let this guy get under your skin every other day, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Just ignore him.”

“You know I can’t pretend it’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s not.”

“Then ignore it,” Star says, shrugging like it’s that simple.

“It’s not like he does it to you,” Pri adds.

“Am I supposed to wait until it’s my turn?” I shoot back.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says quickly.

They keep talking, all three of them throwing out the same advice they always do: ignore him, let it go, it’s not worth the stress, but they don’t get it. I’m not built to pretend this stuff doesn’t bother me. I can’t sit and watch him treat people like trash while everyone else excuses it. They just don’t understand.

So while they’re chatting, something clicks in my mind,  a decision. A reckless one, sure, but it settles into place like it was waiting for me.

“You know what?” I say, finally, cutting them off. “I’m not going to ignore it. I’m going to make him stop.”

They all go silent, three pairs of eyes drilling into me like I just announced I’m joining a cult.

“What does that mean?” Star asks slowly.

I sling my bag strap off my shoulder and lean in. “Meet me at my house after school. It’s private, and my parents won’t be around.”

They stare at me like I’ve lost my mind, but one by one, they nod.

Because they’re my girls.

Concentrating in class becomes impossible. All day, my mind keeps drifting back to the plan. I replay it over and over again, tightening it in my head, scribbling pieces of it in my notebook whenever the teacher isn’t looking. Every time I sink too deep into it, Star glances at me like she’s watching a slow-motion mental breakdown.

She’s not wrong.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’m buzzing with restless energy. I wolf down my food faster than I ever have before, barely chewing, barely tasting, then rush straight back to class while everyone else is still lining up for fries. I already have the plan in place, but it needs to be perfect, airtight. No mistakes. No second-guessing. So I keep writing, crossing things out, rewriting, adding new thoughts until my handwriting starts to look like chaos.

When the final bell rings, I jump out of my seat like I’ve been waiting all my life to be freed. I remind the girls, again, to meet me at my place after school. They’re walking home; I have to take the bus, which only fuels my impatience.

The ride feels twice as long as usual. By the time I finally step off, I’m vibrating with anticipation. I get home, drop my bag on the couch, and head straight to the fridge. I grab a cold drink, pop it open, and take a long sip while pacing the living room.

Any minute now, they’ll show up.

They take way too long to get here. At first, I’m fine, pacing, sipping my drink, convincing myself they’ll show up any minute. But then my stomach growls loud enough to echo, reminding me that I basically inhaled my lunch without actually eating it.

I check the fridge, praying for something edible, and thank every deity ever when I spot leftover pizza. I toss a slice into the microwave and watch the seconds tick down like a countdown to my big reveal. By the time I’m done eating, my friends still aren’t here, and the house is too quiet for my mood. My mom will be home soon, not that she’ll care what I’m doing, but still, I’d rather get this talk done before she walks in and starts her usual halfhearted small talk.

I grab my phone and call Pri first.

She picks up with a breathless, “Hey, girl.”

“Where are you?” I ask, already annoyed.

“I had to do some work at home… and eat,” she says. “But I’m leaving now. I’m on my way, promise.”

“Thank God,” I mutter.

Next, I call Star. She and Milla answer on speaker, loud and chaotic as usual.

“We’re literally walking,” Star says. “Relax, we’re almost there.”

“Good,” I tell them, and hang up before they start distracting me.

While I wait, I suddenly realize I’m still in my school clothes, stiff, sweaty, and definitely not the outfit I want to wear while unveiling a master plan. I hurry to my room, swap into something comfortable, and check myself in the mirror just as the doorbell rings.

Finally,

My girls are here.

Time for the master plan.