The Night Before Prom

She barely made it past the hall gate before it happened.

Wham.

Her shoulder smacked into someone, and Stacey’s juice box exploded — the sticky red liquid splattering all over a girl’s crisp white top.

Gasps erupted.

Stacey’s heart stuttered. “I—I’m so sorry—”

“What the hell!?” the girl shrieked, staggering back and staring at the mess on her shirt like it was acid.

The hallway froze.

Whispers swirled around them like wind.

“Oh no,” someone muttered. “That’s Monica.”

Stacey’s eyes widened. Her worst nightmare had just grown legs.

“You stained my uniform, freak!” Monica snapped, her voice slicing through the air. She yanked off her designer sunglasses and glared with venom. Her friends circled like hyenas.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you blind or just stupid?” Monica sneered. “Oh wait, don’t answer. It’s obvious.”

Laughter rippled through the hallway. Phones were already out. Filming.

Stacey’s face burned. Her fingers clenched around the now-crushed juice box. Her legs begged her to run, but her body stayed frozen in place.

“I—” she tried, but the words crumbled in her mouth.

Monica leaned in, voice like a dagger. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Blue Ville has standards. Accidents like you don’t last here.”

More laughter erupted. And then Monica tossed her stained shirt at Stacey’s chest with a dramatic scoff.

“Hold that for me.”

The wet fabric slapped against Stacey’s hands.

Her lungs locked. Her head screamed to fight back, but her feet took over, carrying her blindly down the hallway as the laughter followed her.

Who is she?

She looks so lost…

She’s so skinny. Gross.

The words chased her. Every whisper sliced deeper.

She kept walking, schedule crumpled in her palm, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. That her first day wasn’t already a disaster.

She turned a corner and pressed herself against a wall, trying to catch her breath. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—

Her hands were shaking. Her eyes burned.

Her red hair, always too bright, always too loud, felt like a spotlight. She wanted to crawl out of her skin.

She glanced up—only to find someone staring at her.

A boy. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Leaning against a locker on the other side of the hallway. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t whispering.

He was just… watching her.

Expression unreadable. Like he knew her.

Their eyes locked for a second too long.

And then he turned and walked away.

Stacey blinked, shaken. Who was that? Did she know him? Why was he watching her?

Before she could think, the bell rang.

Late.

She rushed to find her class. The corridors were endless, lined with students who didn’t notice or didn’t care. She tried asking for directions.

“Excuse me—can you tell me where English Class A is?”

Two girls glanced at her, took in her stained uniform, and burst out laughing before walking away.

She swallowed the shame and kept moving.

Then she saw it. A sign near the elevator.

English Class – This Way.

She pushed into the elevator and kept her head down, cheeks still on fire. A few students stared. No one spoke.

When it opened again, she rushed out. Her eyes scanned the hallway — finally, she spotted the sign:

ENGLISH A.

Relief surged through her.

She pushed through the classroom door—

And then someone stuck out a leg.

She tripped. Hard.

The room erupted.

“She falls like a stick!” someone howled.

“She’s the Monica girl!”

Stacey pushed herself up, knees burning, and eyes stinging.

“Is this English A?” she asked weakly.

A voice snapped from the front of the class.

“What’s going on here?”

The teacher — Mr. Harris — stood there, arms folded.

“New student?” he asked.

“Y-yes, sir. Stacey Edward. Humanity student.”

“This is junior college, not senior high, and speak louder next time.”

More laughter. Hotter. Meaner filled the air.

“Take the elevator back,” he said sharply.

She nodded, humiliated, and fled. This time, she didn’t stop. Not even when her breath started to hitch.

Down the wrong elevator, into the wrong hallway.

Empty.

She leaned against a wall, trying to breathe.

Just hold on, Stacey. You’ll be fine. It’s just a bad start.

Then—

“Chuu!”

She turned sharply.

Two girls were kissing by the window.

Her hand hit a desk by accident — it crashed loudly.

They froze.

“Who are you?” one growled. The other had a piercings and a neck tattoo.

“I-I didn’t mean to see anything,” Stacey stammered.

“You spying on us?” the taller one snapped, stepping forward like a storm.

“N-no!”

“You gonna tell the principal?”

“I’m not— I’m just lost!”

The girl with piercings grabbed her shirt. “Tell anyone, and I swear—”

Stacey stumbled back. “I won’t! I swear!”

They glared at her, jaws tight.

“Get out.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. She ran again.

Back down the hallway, hair wild, heart louder than her footsteps.

She finally found her actual English class, but as she reached the door—

The siren blared.

Class was over.

Stacey walked in anyway, desperate.

She didn’t see the person coming.

They collided. And again she hit the ground.

The laughter that followed was like a knife twisting in her chest.

She looked up.

And locked eyes with Monica again.

Stacey didn’t wait.

She stood, brushed herself off, and walked away without a word.

But on the inside?

She was crumbling.