Chapter 2

Ella

By lunch, everybody knows.

Of course they do.

News travels through our school faster than wildfire, especially when it involves someone people actually care about.

Or in this case, someone people definitely care about and someone they usually pretend doesn’t exist.

I know before anyone says a word to me.

I can feel it.

The second I step into the cafeteria, conversations seem to hitch for a fraction of a second. Heads turn. Not all of them. Just enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to make my stomach tighten.

The cafeteria is loud as usual. Hundreds of students crammed into one space, voices overlapping, chairs scraping across the floor, lunch trays clattering together. Normally I like the noise. It gives me somewhere to hide.

Today it feels like all of it is aimed directly at me.

I pass one table and hear my name.

Another table and hear Beckett’s.

A group of sophomore girls glance in my direction before immediately looking away.

Great.

Fantastic.

Exactly what I wanted.

I tighten my grip on my tray and keep moving.

Maybe if I sit down quickly enough, everyone will find something else to talk about.

Maybe pigs will also learn to fly.

“ELLA!”

Relief washes over me so fast I almost laugh.

Lila.

She’s waving both arms over her head like she’s directing air traffic.

I make my way toward our usual table and slide into the seat across from her.

For exactly three seconds, everything feels normal.

Then she gives me a look.

Uh oh.

I’ve known Lila since middle school.

That look never means anything good.

She narrows her eyes.

“What did you do?”

I nearly choke on my drink.

“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“Because,” she says slowly, “the entire school is acting like you punched a teacher.”

“I didn’t punch anybody.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

Lila stares at me.

I stare back.

Neither of us blinks.

Finally she leans back in her chair.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

I sigh.

Unfortunately, she’s right.

“I may have said something.”

Her eyes light up immediately.

“Oh, this is good.”

“It’s not good.”

“It’s definitely good.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

I groan.

Lila practically vibrates with excitement.

If curiosity were an Olympic sport, she’d have at least three gold medals.

“He started bothering me in the hallway.”

“Shocking.”

“I know.”

“And then?”

I hesitate.

Because saying it out loud somehow feels worse.

The whole thing had happened so fast this morning. One second I was standing there trying not to cry, and the next I was talking back to Beckett Cross in front of half the school.

Part of me still couldn’t believe I’d actually done it.

“I didn’t walk away.”

Lila blinks.

Then blinks again.

“You what?”

“I didn’t walk away.”

Her mouth falls open.

“Oh my God.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It absolutely was a big deal.”

“It really wasn’t.”

“Ella.”

I wince.

She uses that tone when she’s trying very hard not to yell.

“You mean to tell me that Beckett Cross started his usual nonsense and instead of escaping like a sensible person, you stayed there and argued with him?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“Because it is bad.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands.

This is exactly why I hadn’t wanted to tell her.

Lila lets out a dramatic gasp.

“You’ve finally snapped.”

“I have not snapped.”

“You absolutely have.”

“I said one thing.”

“To Beckett Cross.”

“Yes.”

“The Beckett Cross?”

“Unfortunately.”

She points at me.

“You’re lucky you’re my best friend because otherwise I’d ask for an autograph.”

A reluctant laugh escapes before I can stop it.

The corner of her mouth lifts immediately.

There it is.

The reason Lila always knows when I’m struggling.

She can find cracks in even my worst days.

The laughter fades quickly.

Reality settles back in.

I glance around the cafeteria.

People are still looking.

Not everybody.

Not constantly.

But enough.

Always enough.

My appetite disappears.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Lila’s smile fades.

“Why?”

I gesture around the room.

“This.”

She follows my gaze.

The whispers.

The glances.

The attention.

When she looks back at me, her expression softens.

“You really hate this, don’t you?”

The question catches me off guard.

Because most people don’t ask.

Most people assume.

Most people think being noticed is a good thing.

I stare down at my tray.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out quieter than I intended.

“I really do.”

Lila doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.

So I keep talking.

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I just…” I exhale slowly. “Every time people notice me, it’s because they’re laughing.”

The words feel heavier once they’re spoken aloud.

More real.

“When people pay attention to someone like Beckett, it’s because they like him.”

I pick at the corner of my napkin.

“When people pay attention to me, it’s usually because I did something wrong. Or because somebody found something new to make fun of.”

The table falls silent.

For a moment, all I hear is the cafeteria around us.

Then Lila reaches across the table and flicks my forehead.

I stare at her.

“What was that for?”

“Because you’re being mean.”

My eyebrows pull together.

“To who?”

“Yourself.”

I roll my eyes.

“Here we go.”

“No, seriously.”

She points at me again.

“You talk about yourself like you’re some kind of walking disaster.”

“I’m realistic.”

“No.”

She shakes her head.

“You’re scared.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Because she’s right.

I hate that she’s right.

I’ve spent years convincing myself that staying invisible is a choice.

That it makes me smart.

That it protects me.

But underneath all of that?

Maybe I’ve just been scared.

Scared of becoming an even bigger target.

Scared of giving people another reason to laugh.

Scared of hoping things could be different.

Lila studies me for a moment.

Then she smiles.

And immediately I know I’m in trouble.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“That’s your planning face.”

She grins wider.

“Funny you should mention that.”

I groan.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The terrible idea.”

“It’s not terrible.”

“It’s always terrible.”

She ignores me completely.

“Step one.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even started.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because you’ve been trying to give me makeovers since eighth grade.”

She gasps dramatically.

“First of all, rude.”

“Lila.”

“Second of all, I was right.”

“You once convinced me bangs were a good idea.”

Her face immediately scrunches.

“Okay, we don’t talk about the bangs.”

“The entire school called me Mushroom Head.”

“That was one time.”

“It was two months.”

She waves a dismissive hand.

“Ancient history.”

I stare at her.

She stares back.

Neither of us says anything.

Finally she cracks first.

“Fine. The bangs were a mistake.”

“Thank you.”

“But this is different.”

“That’s exactly what you said about the bangs.”

A laugh bursts out of her.

“I walked right into that one.”

I can’t help smiling.

Just a little.

Unfortunately, she notices.

And that’s all the encouragement she needs.

“My cousin Mateo owns a salon.”

Here we go.

“He’s amazing.”

“Mhm.”

“He does pageants.”

“That somehow makes me more nervous.”

“He does wedding hair.”

“Worse.”

“He made a woman cry once.”

I stare at her.

“That’s not helping your case.”

“Happy tears!”

She points dramatically.

“Happy tears.”

I laugh despite myself.

The sound surprises me.

It feels strange after the kind of day I’ve had.

Lila softens.

“Just think about it.”

I hesitate.

That was always the problem.

Not that she pushed.

Not that she pressured.

She made things sound possible.

And possibility was dangerous.

Because it came with hope.

Hope that maybe things could change.

Hope that maybe she was right.

Hope that maybe there was more to me than the version everybody else saw.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lila immediately beams.

“Excellent.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is in Lila language.”

I shake my head.

Somehow she’s already planning my future.

And somehow…

I don’t hate the idea as much as I used to.

⸻

After school, I walk home alone.

The afternoon sun hangs low over the neighborhood, painting everything gold.

Usually I like this part of the day.

The walk home gives me time to breathe.

Today my thoughts won’t leave me alone.

They circle endlessly around the same things.

The hallway.

The confrontation.

The whispers.

The way Beckett looked at me afterward.

Most of all, the moment beside my locker.

The weird expression on his face when he pointed out the spitball still stuck in my hair.

None of it makes sense.

Beckett Cross has spent years making my life miserable.

People like him don’t suddenly become thoughtful.

They don’t suddenly notice things.

They definitely don’t stay behind after their friends leave.

Turning onto my street, I immediately spot him.

My stomach drops.

Because there he is.

Standing in his driveway.

Just like yesterday.

Just like every day.

The house next door.

The boy next door.

The problem next door.

For a second, I wonder if he sees me.

Then he looks up.

And I know he does.

Our eyes meet across the distance.

Neither of us waves.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches between us.

Strange.

Uncomfortable.

Different.

I break eye contact first.

Of course I do.

I always do.

But as I walk toward my front door, I can still feel his gaze.

Following me.

Watching.

And for the first time in a very long time, a thought settles into the back of my mind.

Maybe Lila was wrong.

Maybe I wasn’t invisible.

Maybe I never had been.

Maybe I was just invisible to everyone except the one person I wished would stop looking.