The Ice Between Us

Harriet

Doing a slow 360 in front of the full-length mirror mounted to my wall had basically become my morning ritual. I lifted the hem of my plain grey shirt, and—yep—there they were. The stomach rolls. First thing I saw. Always. Then my eyes jumped to my breasts, then back to my stomach, then to the inner battle in my head.

Maybe I should just stay home today.

Skip the cruelty, the whispers, the not-so-quiet laughter. Pretend I was sick and avoid another round of “Look who’s trying to fit into jeans again.”

*Knock knock.*

“Harriet! Come down for breakfast or you’ll be late!” my mum shouted from downstairs.

Her voice cut through my thoughts like a blade so I yanked my shirt down, exhaled, and gave my mirror self a flat stare.

This was me.

Hi.

I’m Harriet Avery. Female, if that wasn’t obvious. Seventeen. A Senior at Crestwood High—a hellhole politely disguised as a school, ruled by hockey gods and the spray-tanned cheerleaders who orbit them like glittery little moons.

Okay, maybe not all of them are evil. My best friend Zoe Tran is a cheerleader—and the only person in that cursed building who would go to war for me without blinking. She’s got claws, a mouth that doesn't know how to whisper, and a heart bigger than her hair.

She’s also the only reason I haven’t set the school on fire yet. Figuratively.

But outside of Zoe?

I was that girl. The one who used to be thinner, used to be “pretty,” before puberty hit like a truck and left me with thighs that rub and a stomach I try to flatten every morning in front of this damn mirror.

I didn’t always look like this. But somewhere around freshman year, I started eating to feel something, and I guess I just… never stopped.

And once the weight came, so did the bullying. Especially from Chloe Hargrove—cheer captain, ice queen, queen bee, queen bitch. You get the idea. If someone’s whispering behind your back in Crestwood, it’s probably Chloe. And if it’s not her, it’s one of her blonde minions echoing whatever insult she spat first.

Every day was just another level of survival. Another hallway to walk like a warzone. Another reason to build my armor thicker than my thighs.

And today just felt… weird.

There was a knot in my stomach that didn’t feel like nerves or anxiety. It felt like a warning.

And I had no idea just how right I was.

Downstairs, Dad was already heading out, briefcase in hand, tie crooked like always. Mum kissed him by the door. A quick, tired peck that somehow still made me want to gag.

“Harriet, I packed your lunch,” she called, rushing into the kitchen. “You’re already late.”

She shoved a brown bag into my hand. It was warm. Homemade. Like always.

How do I tell her I never eat it?

That I can’t eat it.

Because lunch at school means pulling it out in front of everyone. Letting them see me eat. Letting Chloe and her evil clones whisper, “No wonder she looks like that.”

Most days, I tossed it in the dumpster or left it “accidentally” on the bus. Sometimes, the janitor got lucky.

I just smiled, took the bag, and muttered a thank you before heading out.

Usually, Zoe picked me up—she had a car, a convertible, and way too much energy before 8 a.m.—but today she had early cheer practice. I didn’t want to stress her, so I hitched a ride with my dad instead.

He didn’t say much on the drive. I didn’t either.

My parents and I weren’t exactly close.

They weren’t bad people—they just… didn’t get me. I think they were hoping for a boy, someone easier to understand. But lucky them. They got me instead: a teenage girl with too many emotions, stretch marks, and a tendency to cry during commercials.

And frankly, I’m not sure they ever figured out what to do with that.

Dad’s idea of handling things?

“Boy troubles?”

Mum’s default advice?

“Learn to stand up for yourself.”

And cue the eye roll.

They meant well, I think. But feelings? Tears? Insecurities? Yeah… not really their language. I stopped expecting them to “get” me a long time ago. It became routine. A quiet sort of normal.

---

“Bye, Dad. Have a great day at work,” I said quickly as the car rolled to a stop in front of Crestwood High.

I was already halfway out the door, halfway to disappearing into the morning chaos when I heard:

“Wait, Harriet—your lunch!”

Crap. There went that plan.

I spun back around, pasted on a tight smile, and took the brown bag from his outstretched hand. “Thanks, Dad.”

He gave me that soft, tired look parents give when they think they’re doing enough.

Then he drove off.

And I stood there, bag  in hand, fake smile fading as the front doors of Crestwood loomed ahead like a damn arena.

As I walked into Crestwood High, everything felt… normal. Which should’ve been my first clue.

The usual scent of cheap cologne, locker dust, and microwave pizza. The buzz of half-asleep teens pretending not to care. I passed the trophy case, the stairwell where Chloe once “accidentally” shoved me into a trash bin, and the vending machine that hadn’t worked since sophomore year.

I kept my head down, eyes on my shoes, pretending not to hear the giggles behind me. My shirt felt tighter than it had ten minutes ago. The lunch bag was crumpling in my grip.

“Heard she broke the nurse’s scale last week.”

The voice wasn’t even whispered.

Another one snorted, “They probably cast her as the stage.”

Laughter. Always the laughter.

I gritted my teeth. Walked faster.

It was like breathing through a straw. Tight, shallow and aching.

I passed Chloe’s locker. She was leaning into her mirror, applying gloss like she had an audience, even though she always did.

She saw me.

Smirked.

And blew me a kiss.

Bitch.

************************

First period was Calculus, which usually meant blessed silence. Mr. Greaves was ancient and hated noise as much as I did. I slid into my seat at the back, ignored the snickering from the hockey twins up front, and focused on not crying into my binder.

I kept touching my face—checking for smudges, stray makeup, anything that might make me more of a target than I already was.

No one spoke to me. They never did.

Until the bell rang.

---

Second period was Drama Theory. The class I took because it was supposed to be easy, not because I had some secret dream of being on stage.

I was halfway through doodling knives into my notebook margins when the door slammed open and my best friend strutted in.

Late. As usual.

Hair in a messy ponytail. Lip gloss popping. Leg warmers neon pink. A literal hurricane in a skirt.

She dropped into the seat next to me, whisper-shouting:

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you auditioned for the play?”

I blinked. “What?”

Zoe narrowed her eyes. “Don’t mess with me. Your name’s on the board.”

“What board?”

She stared like I’d grown a second head. “The board. Auditorium hallway. They posted the cast list this morning. You got Cyrano!”

I laughed. Like, full-on barked. “Zoe. I didn’t audition. That’s—no. That’s insane.”

“I swear on my lip gloss, H. Your name. Front and center. Cyrano.”

The blood drained from my face.

Zoe’s face shifted from amused to worried. “Wait. You seriously didn’t—?”

“No.”

Her jaw clenched.

We both knew what that meant.

Chloe.

The prank queen had officially outdone herself.  

••••••••••••••••••

I couldn't wait for class to be over and as soon as the bell rang, Zoe grabbed my hands and we rushed to the hallway where the drama club was and right outside on the bulletin board........

The cast list didn’t lie.

There it was, right in front of me. The name that felt like a punch to the gut: Cyrano — Harriet Avery. 

In fluorescent pink highlighter, the name stood out like a neon sign. They had even added a fat black circle around it, spotlighting my name as if I were some kind of tragic figure on stage. It felt like a spotlight alright—a cruel one, shining directly on me while the rest of the world faded into the background. 

I found myself just staring at it, hoping, wishing for the universe to somehow intervene and fix this disaster. I kept waiting for someone, anyone, to laugh and say, “Just kidding! This is a prank!” I was positive that it had to be a joke, and any moment now someone would swing in and save me from this embarrassment. 

But nobody moved. The silence was deafening, and instead, the whispers started to grow louder and more insistent. People pulled out their phones, and in a flash, someone snapped a picture. My  humiliation captured for all eternity. 

And then came the laughter. That low, mocking kind of laugh that sinks into your skin like poison, wrapping around your heart and squeezing. 

“I mean, it makes sense,” a voice behind me chimed in, dripping with condescension. “Cyrano’s supposed to be tragic. And, like... not hot.” 

Ugh, as if that wasn’t bad enough. Another equally mean voice piped up, "Is she gonna write poetry while eating lunch alone?" Their words stung, each one feeling like a dagger aimed right at my already bruised ego. 

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Zoe appeared out of nowhere, standing in front of me like a shield made of tiny-but-mighty fury. She was like a fierce little warrior, blocking the board with her small frame, trying to protect me with sheer rage. 

“Back off!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through all the noise around us. But the damage was done. The laughter didn’t stop; it just felt like a constant echo in my ears. 

I turned away, the world spinning around me, and walked as fast as I could without outright running. My heart raced as if it was trying to keep up with my pounding footsteps. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn't think straight. In that moment of sheer panic, my bag slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, but I didn’t stop. 

I barely made it into the girls’ bathroom before the tears started to fall. It was like turning on a faucet—I didn’t even realize how much I was holding in until I was finally alone, and the weight of it all came crashing down.

Inside the stall, I slid to the floor and tried to disappear.

I pressed my back to the cold metal and forced myself to breathe quietly. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t make a sound.

Someone came in.

Two girls.

Their heels clicked on the tile. Voices too loud.

“You saw it, right? Harriet freaking Avery as Cyrano? I swear, Chloe is the queen of evil genius.”

“She’s gonna cry mid-monologue, I swear to God. What if she breaks the stage?”

They laughed.

And I broke.

Quietly. Silently. But still — broke.

---

I don’t know how long I stayed there.

Long enough for the bell to ring. Long enough for the halls to empty. Long enough for the tears to dry into tight, salty lines on my cheeks.

There was a knock on the stall door.

Zoe’s voice, soft now. “H? You in there?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”

“Come on. Let’s go home. I told Coach I felt sick. I’ll say you’re throwing up.”

I opened the door. Her eyes went soft when she saw me. She didn’t say anything — just pulled me into a hug.

What was I going to do now?