THE GOLDEN BOY'S TARGET

(Ellie 's Pov)

I can't do this.

I've been standing in front of my new school for maybe ten minutes, and I only have ten more before my first class, but I can't move. There's a heavy feeling in my gut that's telling me to just turn around and go back home, where it's safe.

I stare up at the looming doors of the tall, pristine building, every inch radiating wealth. But it might as well be a fortress guarded by hungry dragons with the way my heart pounds in my chest.

I force myself to take a step forward. But a moment later I turn around, putting the building behind me. Would it really be that bad if I don't finish highschool? I mean granted there wouldn't be a lot of—

Wait, what am I doing? What am I thinking? This is stupid. I can't believe I'm debating the pros and cons of illiteracy in front of a school my parents are barely affording even with me getting a special admission slot. The thought of potential bullying shouldn't stop me. It won't stop me.

Besides, I'm sure I'm overthinking this. There might be a snide comment here and there but it's highschool, for crying out loud. What's really the worst that could happen?

Armed with my resolve, I steel myself and advance forward. I make it two more steps before I turn around again. Maybe I'll just go in through the back, no shame in that.

This school, and my entire neighborhood in fact, looks like it belongs in a glossy interior design magazine. Everything is so put-together, polished and perfect, it's almost unreal. 

We moved here a few weeks ago, after my dad got a really good job, to a house much bigger than our last one. I still have gotten over just how much wealth exists so casually here.

I turn the corner to the backyard. Students lounge around on the grass, fitting so seamlessly into the pages of that glossy magazine. Conversation and soft laughter flow easily through the air.

I feel so out of place, like I'm about to interrupt an efficient ecosystem. A wave of insecurity hits me, hard.

I'm wearing one of my best pairs of trousers, and a light blue silk top I usually save for special occasions, meticulously washed and pressed. And yet, I stick out like a sore thumb. I look shabby and so plain in comparison to everyone else.

I allow myself a moment of sulking before picking my chin up. It's just clothes. Besides, there's nothing I can do about that now. Psyching myself up, I venture out into the sea of students.

At first, I think I'm imagining it. My mind must be taking my insecurities and playing tricks on me so I grit my teeth and keep my head down.

But then I hear a girl giggle. Then a hushed whisper. Then more, and soon laughter blooms in groups of students.

I should keep my head down, I really should, but I can't stop myself from glancing up. So many pairs of eyes. . . And they're all looking at me with mirth in their eyes, like I'm a silly puppy chasing its tail.

“Welcome the charity case!” someone yells, and it causes loud unified laughter to erupt amongst them. I'm praying to God this damn backyard ends soon.

I pass a girl with hair so shiny it could be actual silk. She frowns as she catches me looking at her. I immediately look away and walk faster but not before she asks her friend, “Couldn't they have found someone better to waste our money on?”

The embarrassment makes me slouch into myself, unconsciously trying to just disappear. I'm standing right here, couldn't they wait until I’m out of earshot to judge me? Talk about me behind my back like normal mean kids?

I'm almost jogging now, hoping I don't trip. I keep my eyes firmly forward on the back door even as I know that the back of my neck and my ears must be bright red.

And mom was worried I'd be overdressed.

I take a deep, stabling breath as I reach the back entrance steps. It's just because I’m new, that’s all, I tell myself. This will blow over soon, really. I can only be a source of entertainment for so long. Once they find something else in their sparkly lives to gossip about, they'll promptly forget I exist.

There's a boy on the steps, long legs sprawled out, sitting in the self-assured way of someone with a lot of authority. He’s the only one there and I get the feeling it's not because everyone else wants to sit on the grass. I can't see his eyes because they're focused on the phone in his hand but his hair is such a stark platinum blond, it's almost white.

I stay close to the railing because I have a big fear of falling off stairs, and that puts me really close to him. As I approach, I tuck myself farther away from him to make sure no part of me will even so much as graze him.

The boy shifts his legs, moves one foot over the other.

It's a thoughtless move, just a tiny adjustment but I'm so tightly strung, so on edge, that I flinch. I miss a step.

It's only a second but panic grabs me as I imagine myself tumbling down the stairs. My breath catches, stifling the scream that stabs my throat. Lord please—

I catch myself, crouching down on the step. Thank goodness. That was so close. Not only would that have been painful, but on my first day too? I would have heard about it until I graduated.

A collective, alarmed gasp rings out from the students behind me, startling me. Oh no. Did everybody see that?

I look down to the backyard and nobody, not a single soul, is looking at me. All eyes are trained above my head. Apprehensive, I follow their gaze and a horrified look takes over my face.

My bottle fell out of the little pocket on the side of my bag and broke open. Now the boy is sitting there, looking at himself incredulously, wet from grape juice.

Why do I always find myself in these situations?

A picture forms in my mind, of me and my Father. Mom will be off somewhere, perhaps cleaning, perhaps reading a book but she'll know I’d done something again, so she'll stay away from the kitchen.

My father will be waiting by the kitchen window, arms crossed, stone-faced. “What did you do?”

And he'd be right to ask, I would have done something. I’ve tripped and broken the school’s fountain, twice. I've smashed a teacher’s windscreen with my head, making my parents pay for a window and a concussion. I once knocked a classmate down and rebroke her healing arm. I just seem to always be falling, to be barreling into something.

I wonder if they feel disappointment or regret sometimes. They must. Of all the children in the world, they adopted a defective one.