Chapter Three

The next few classes are all the same, teachers telling me I did poorly, getting low grades and at this point I'm genuinely frustrated as I make my way to the last class of the day.

I knew I didn’t fail those tests.

That’s the part that kept repeating in my head as I walked into class, like a quiet, stubborn voice refusing to go away. I had studied until my eyes hurt, until the words blurred together and I could recite definitions in my sleep. For once, I had been sure.

So when the paper hit my desk with a dull slap and a red mark that barely scraped a pas for the fourth time this afternoon, something inside me didn’t just hurt—it… cracked.

“Barely acceptable,” the teacher said, not even looking at me. “You should be grateful.”

A few students leaned over immediately.

“Let me see—oh wow,” one of them laughed. “That’s rough.”

“Guess studying doesn’t fix everything,” another added.

Heat flooded my face, but my hands felt cold as I pulled the paper closer, like I could hide it from their eyes. My fingers trembled slightly, smudging the edge where the ink hadn’t fully dried.

“I studied,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

The teacher’s head snapped up. “Are you implying I graded you incorrectly?”

The room went quiet—not kind quiet. The kind that waits.

“No,” I said quickly. “I just—”

“Then accept the result and move on,” they cut in sharply. “Excuses won’t help you.”

A soft chuckle came from the back. “They always have excuses.”

“Of course,” someone replied. “What else do you expect?”

Laughter followed. Not loud. Not explosive. Just enough to settle over me like something heavy.

I sank into my seat, staring at the paper until the numbers stopped making sense. Maybe I had made mistakes. Maybe I wasn’t as prepared as I thought. Maybe I just… wasn’t enough.

That was easier to believe. It always was.

The rest of the class blurred together—words on the board, voices answering questions, the scrape of chairs. None of it really reached me. I just nodded when I was supposed to, wrote when I was told to, existed in the smallest way possible.

When the bell finally rang, everyone rushed out like they couldn’t wait to leave.

I stayed behind.

Not on purpose—I just moved slower. My hands didn’t seem to work right, like they belonged to someone else as I packed my bag.

Voices drifted from the front of the room.

I wasn’t listening at first. I wasn’t trying to.

“…still think it was unnecessary,” someone said quietly.

I froze.

“That’s not your call,” the teacher replied. “You know how this works.”

My heart started beating a little faster.

“The score was the highest in the class.”

Silence.

Then a sigh. “Exactly. Imagine the message that sends.”

I stopped breathing.

“They’ll get ideas,” the teacher continued. “It’s better this way. Keeps things in order.”

A second voice—hesitant. “But changing it that much… it’s obvious something’s off.”

“No one’s going to question it,” the teacher said flatly. “Not for them.”

Them.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.

“It’s not like it matters anyway,” they added. “An omega isn’t going to do anything with a top score.”

Something inside me went very, very still.

All the confusion from earlier—the doubt, the twisting feeling in my chest—it shifted into something else. Something heavier.

I didn’t realize I had stepped back until my shoulder brushed against a desk. The sound was small, but it felt loud.

The voices at the front stopped.

I didn’t wait to see if they noticed.

I turned and walked out of the classroom, each step steady even though my legs felt like they might give out at any second.

The hallway was empty now, the noise gone, replaced with a kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides.

I made it to the lockers before my hands started shaking.

The paper was still in my bag.

For a second, I didn’t want to look at it again. I didn’t want to see that red mark, didn’t want to feel that same drop in my chest.

But I pulled it out anyway.

Barely passing.

The number stared back at me like it was the truth.

But it wasn’t.

I knew it now.

I had done everything right. I had studied, memorized, understood. For once, I had been enough.

And it still didn’t matter.

My grip tightened on the paper, crumpling it slightly at the edges.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t me.

It was them.

The realization didn’t make it better. It didn’t fix anything. If anything, it made everything feel worse—because there was nothing I could change, nothing I could do to make it fair.

I leaned my forehead against the cool metal of the locker, closing my eyes.

For a long moment, I just stood there, holding a truth that no one else would admit.

Then, slowly, I folded the paper.

Not to hide it.

Just to keep it from falling apart completely.

Like everything else.

The walk home is supposed to be the easiest part of the day.

No teachers. No classrooms. No tests.

Just the road, the air, and me.

That’s what I used to think.

Now, it just feels like another place where no one has to pretend.

I leave the school gate with my head down, bag clutched tightly to my chest. The sun is still high, warm against my skin, but it doesn’t feel comforting. It just makes everything more visible.

I try to time it right—leave a little later, walk a little faster. Avoid groups. Avoid attention.

It almost works.

Almost.

“Hey—there she is.”

My steps falter before I can stop myself.

I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I know that voice. I know the way it curls around my name without even saying it. That was the voice of Wesley Moore, Tiffany's personal lackey and apparently he wasn't alone he never was.

so I ignored him

I keep walking.

Footsteps follow.

“Why are you always running?” another voice calls out, amused. “We just want to talk.”

My grip on my bag tightens. My heart starts pounding, loud and fast, like it’s trying to warn me.

“Please,” I whisper under my breath. “Just let me go.”

They don’t.

A hand catches my shoulder and spins me around. The world tilts for a second, and I stumble, barely keeping my balance.

“Where’s the rush?” one of them asks, smiling like this is all a game.

“I have to go home,” I say, my voice shaking despite how hard I try to steady it.

“Home’s not going anywhere.”

They circle me slowly, blocking the path forward. The road suddenly feels too empty, too wide. No one nearby. No one watching.

Or maybe people are watching.

They just don’t care.

“Did you cry in class today?” someone asks, leaning closer. “You looked like you were about to.”

“I didn’t,” I say quickly.

“Aw, that’s disappointing.”

Laughter.

One of them nudges my bag. “What’s in here? More failed tests?”

“I didn’t fail,” I say before I can stop myself.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

“Oh?” The smile fades into something sharper. “So now you’re talking back?”

“No—I just—”

The shove comes suddenly, sending me a step back. My heel catches on the uneven edge of the road, and I almost fall.

“Careful,” they mock. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

More laughter.

My chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air. I try to move around them, but they step in front of me again, blocking the way like it’s nothing.

“Say it again,” one of them says. “Go on.”

I shake my head, my voice barely there. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what?” Another step closer. “Like you think you’re better than us?”

“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I don’t think that.”

“Then what do you think?”

I don’t answer.

I’ve learned that no answer is ever the right one.

A hand shoves my bag off my shoulder. It hits the ground with a heavy thud, the zipper splitting open just enough for my books to spill out onto the dusty road.

“Oops.”

They don’t help.

They never help.

I drop to my knees, scrambling to gather my things before anything gets stepped on. My hands shake so badly I fumble, papers slipping through my fingers.

One of them presses a shoe down on a notebook, holding it in place.

“Say thank you,” they say casually.

The words echo in my head.

Say thank you.

My throat tightens. I stare at the ground, at the dirt smudging the edges of my pages, at my reflection faintly visible in the scuffed surface of a fallen textbook.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Louder.”

“Thank you.”

“Good.”

The pressure lifts. I quickly pull the notebook free, clutching it to my chest like it might disappear if I don’t.

They step back, already losing interest.

“Try not to embarrass yourself tomorrow,” one of them says, turning away.

“Actually,” another adds with a grin, “do. It’s funny.”

Their laughter fades as they walk off, leaving me there on the side of the road.

For a while, I don’t move.

I just kneel there, surrounded by my things, my hands still trembling as I slowly gather what’s left.

The road is quiet again.

Like nothing happened.

Like it never does.

I zip my bag carefully this time, making sure it won’t open again. My fingers linger on it for a second longer than necessary.

Then I stand.

My legs feel unsteady, but they hold.

I start walking again, slower now.

Home isn’t far.

But it feels like it is.