My Bully Next Door

Ella

“Hey, James. Did your closet finally lose a fight with a dumpster?”

Laughter bursts behind me, loud and sharp, bouncing off the hallway walls.

I don’t turn around.

That is the first rule I ever taught myself in this school.

Don’t react.

Don’t engage.

And never, ever give them the satisfaction of seeing what it does to you.

So I keep walking.

My backpack feels heavier than it should, tugging at my shoulders as I make my way down the crowded hall. The straps of my oversized cardigan slip against my arms, and I pull them back into place without breaking stride. It’s too warm for the sweater. I know that. I also know people notice less when I wear layers, and less is good.

Less gets me through the day.

“Come on,” that same voice calls again. “I know you heard me.”

Of course I heard him.

Everyone hears Beckett Cross when he decides to be heard.

He doesn’t have to shout to own a room. He just does. He walks through school like every hallway belongs to him, like every person in it should move aside and make space.

Most people do.

The football captain. Golden boy. Coach’s favorite. Teachers love him. Girls trip over themselves for him.

And for reasons I have never understood—

Beckett Cross has decided that making my life miserable is one of his favorite hobbies.

Beside him, one of his friends laughs harder. “Maybe she’s pretending she can’t hear because her sweater’s plugged her ears.”

Sean.

Of course it’s Sean.

More laughter follows.

My face burns, but I keep moving.

I am three lockers away from mine when something light taps the back of my head.

Then another.

I stop.

A third little sting catches in my hair.

Spitballs.

Of course.

I close my eyes for one second, willing myself not to cry. Not here. Not now. Not where anyone can see me.

Slowly, I reach up and pull a soggy wad of paper free from the dark strands of my hair. My stomach twists when I look at it resting in my palm.

Behind me, the laughter gets louder.

I don’t know what hurts more anymore—what they do or how normal it’s become.

“Aw, look,” Sean says. “She found it.”

I don’t turn around right away.

If I do, I know what they’ll see on my face. Anger. Embarrassment. That humiliating shine in my eyes that always comes before tears.

And if Beckett sees that—

He wins.

I shove the spitball into the side pocket of my backpack and finally force myself to look over my shoulder.

There they are.

Beckett stands in the middle of the hallway with his friends gathered around him, looking exactly like he belongs at the center of everything. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark blond hair a little messy like he rolled out of bed looking unfairly perfect.

There’s a lazy, almost bored expression on his face.

But his eyes—

His eyes are fixed on me.

Always on me when he’s doing this.

He leans one shoulder against a locker and lifts a brow. “What?” he asks, like he didn’t just have a front row seat to it.

I stare at him.

There was a time, years ago, when I used to think he was the nicest boy I knew.

That’s the stupid part.

Before high school. Before popularity hardened him into something cruel. Before I learned that boys like Beckett Cross are only kind when there’s an audience that matters.

Now I know better.

“What do you want?” I ask, and I hate how quiet my voice sounds.

His grin tilts, slow and mean. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out if that sweater gets bigger every year… or if you do.”

A few people nearby laugh.

That one lands exactly where he wants it to.

Heat floods my cheeks so fast I swear the whole hall can see it. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.

Walk away.

That’s what I always do.

It’s safer. Easier. Better than giving him the scene he wants.

But today—

Maybe because I barely slept last night.

Maybe because my mom left before sunrise again and forgot to say goodbye.

Maybe because I’m tired of starting every morning feeling like I’m something for people to kick around—

I can’t make myself move.

I look straight at him.

“At least my personality doesn’t need a team of idiots to survive,” I say.

The hallway goes still.

The words are out before I can stop them.

Every one of Beckett’s friends makes the exact same face—a mix of shock and delight, like they just witnessed something they weren’t supposed to.

My pulse jumps into my throat.

I should not have said that.

Beckett pushes off the locker.

Just like that, the lazy expression disappears.

He starts toward me, one slow step at a time, and the crowd parts without him even asking. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to keep meeting his eyes.

His voice drops low.

“You want to try that again?”

Everything in me tells me to back down.

Because I know how this goes.

He says something worse.

They laugh louder.

By lunch, everyone knows.

By tomorrow, I’m something new to make fun of.

That’s how this works.

But something stubborn rises anyway.

“No,” I say, my throat dry. “I think you heard me the first time.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

His jaw ticks.

For a second, something flashes across his face—surprise, maybe. Or irritation. Or something I can’t name.

Then it’s gone.

His mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “Careful, James.”

“Why?” I ask.

His gaze drags over me for one awful second before coming back to my face.

“Because the second you start thinking you can fight back… people start paying attention.”

A chill runs through me.

Because he’s right.

That’s the worst part.

“Maybe that’s your problem,” I say anyway. “You need people looking at you all the time.”

“Damn,” someone mutters behind him.

Beckett’s stare sharpens.

And then—to my complete confusion—the corner of his mouth lifts.

Like he’s trying not to smile.

It disappears so fast I almost think I imagined it.

“Get to class,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I should say something else.

I should stand my ground.

Instead, I turn and walk to my locker with my heart slamming against my ribs.

My fingers shake as I spin the combination.

Behind me, the noise starts up again, lower now. I can feel it—that awful prickling sensation that tells me they’re still watching.

That he’s still watching.

I yank my locker open and grab my books.

“Ella.”

I freeze.

His voice is closer now.

Too close.

I turn my head just enough to see him beside me, one hand braced against the locker next to mine. His friends have moved on.

But he stayed.

Why did he stay?

“What?” I ask.

His eyes drift to my hair.

I hadn’t gotten them all.

Something unreadable flickers across his face.

Then he reaches out—

I jerk back before I can stop myself.

His hand stills in midair.

For the first time all morning—

He looks annoyed.

Not at me.

At himself.

“You missed one,” he says.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Did I?”

His mouth tightens.

Then, without another word, he steps back and walks away.

Just like that.

Leaving me standing there confused, angry, humiliated—

…and somehow even more unsettled than before.

I reach up slowly and pull the last spitball from my hair.

⸻

By the time school ends, I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

That none of it matters.

That it’s just another day.

Just another reminder of where I stand.

But when I turn onto my street—

There he is.

Beckett Cross.

Standing in his driveway.

Right next door.

Like always.

Like he’s always been there.

Like no matter how far I walk—

I never really get away from him.

He looks up as I pass.

Our eyes meet.

And something from this morning shifts again.

Not teasing.

Not laughing.

Just—

Looking.

I look away first.

Of course I do.

I always do.

But I can still feel it.

That weight.

That attention.

Following me all the way to my front door.

And for the first time—

It doesn’t feel like something I can ignore.

Not at school.

Not at home.

Not anywhere.