Chapter 3: The Towel Incident

She didn’t even know how she got home.

One second, she was seated in literature class, waiting for the teacher to come in — and then Monica humiliated her. Her ears had rung with laughter. The next minute — she was sprinting. Past classrooms. Down stairwells. Through the gates. Her lungs burning. Her feet pounding concrete. Her eyes blurred with tears.

She didn’t stop until the house appeared.

Her legs had brought her here on autopilot, fueled by embarrassment and panic.

I can’t go back there… Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

I should have faced that bitch. Now she’ll think she won.

The sound of clattering pans snapped her out of her thoughts.

The sound of clattering pans snapped her out of her thoughts.

She yanked open cabinet doors in the tiny kitchen, her hands moving with frustrated urgency. A pan of eggs sizzled on the gas stove, smoke already curling from the edges. She rose, clutching a small pot, her face still stiff with the sting of humiliation.

“You just an old naughty man…”

She froze. At first, she thought it was the neighbor’s voice — so she ignored it.

“No, Mag, you bring out the naughtiness in the old man.”

That voice. Was that—? Her grandfather?

Laughter drifted from the living room, light and breathless. She turned toward it and gasped.

There, in full view, stood her grandfather, wrapped in nothing but a towel, his arms loosely draped around an older woman in just a bra and panties. They all screamed at once as their eyes met.

“Papa?!”

“Little Bird?!”

The old woman squeaked and darted behind him, her cheeks flaming red. Her grandfather’s jaw fell open in shock.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

Stacey couldn’t even find the words. Then the smell hit her — acrid and bitter.

The eggs.

“Shit!” she cried, spinning back toward the stove. The air was thick with smoke now, the stench burning her nostrils. She switched off the gas and dumped the pan into the sink, clenching her jaw so hard her teeth ached. Her throat tightened with unshed tears.

Back at the counter, she reached for an iron sponge to clean up, but her elbow caught a bowl of flour. The powder exploded upward in a white cloud, coating her face and hair.

“Fuck!!” she yelped. That did it.

Tears broke free as she stumbled out of the kitchen, humiliation finally boiling over.

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

Hours passed.

She tossed on her bed, scrolling through random feeds on her phone. With all the moving, she hadn’t built any friendships that could survive distance — no conversations that lingered beyond school walls. No one to text. No one to call.

“Little Bird.” A gentle knock came at her door. Her grandfather.

She turned red, her face scrunching at the memory of him half-naked with his mystery woman. Her skin crawled.

“Little Bird, I got you your favorite. I know you haven’t eaten all day…”

Her stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble. She pressed her face deeper into the pillow.

“Stacey,” he called again, louder this time. She still couldn’t bring herself to face him.

“This child…” she heard him mutter, then footsteps faded down the hallway.

She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and sat up. Her gaze drifted to the wall, her expression hollow. Her stomach growled again, sharper now. It wasn’t just a grumble — it was pain.

Quietly, she opened her door and tiptoed down the hallway, her ears tuned for any sign of life. The living room was empty. She moved into the kitchen like a ghost, opening the fridge.

Nothing.

“I’m holding it. If you’re hungry, come get it.”

She jumped at his voice. Her shoulders sagged in defeat as she turned to find her grandfather sitting on the couch and holding a paper bag.

“Stacey, come sit here,” he said, patting the space beside him.

She stood frozen, heat rising in her cheeks. Her stomach ached like her insides were being eaten alive. The hunger throbbed now, dull and heavy. With a sigh, she crossed the room and sat — not beside him, but on the far couch, her body angled away.

“Here.” He patted the spot next to him again.

“Papa…” Her voice cracked, tears brimming.

“Little Bird, you know Grandpa’s always been a hottie. Women want him,” he teased with a grin.

Despite everything, she laughed — a short, breathy chuckle that surprised even her.

“I thought you had changed now that you’re older…” she said, sliding over to sit beside him. He handed her the bag, and she tore into it instantly.

“So, you were going to starve yourself?” he asked.

She shook her head, mouth already full.

“No, I was just waiting for you to retire to your room…” she said through a mouthful of wings.

Her jaw throbbed. It hurt to chew — a sharp reminder that she hadn’t eaten since morning.

“Who was that, Papa?” she asked, curiosity rising now that her belly had something to focus on.

“Oh, so now you want to know?” he teased.

“Well, you already forced me here,” she muttered, taking another bite.

“One of my girlfriends,” he said with a shrug.

“Papa…” she laughed, shaking her head.

“Little woman, what were you doing at home at that time?”

“Grandpa…” she whined, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“The first day wasn’t great?”

She shook her head slowly, her face falling. The chips in her mouth suddenly tasted like paper.

“What does Grandpa say?”

She knew what he meant — their pep talk. But those words didn’t feel strong enough to wipe away the shame she’d dragged home with her.

“Grandpa, they’re more mean here.”

“It’s part of what comes with growing.”

“I don’t like this part — the part that makes us move all the time.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he gave her shoulder a squeeze and pulled her closer.

“Don’t let it get to you. Wherever the train drops you…”

“Don’t stop. Keep moving,” they said together.

“Papa, will I ever make real friends?” she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were glassy, uncertain. Her face was scrunched with longing — a child on the edge of losing hope.

“The last year of high school might just be the best,” he said.

“But the first day wasn’t great…” Stacey’s voice was small as she searched his face, wishing he could promise it wouldn’t stay this way.

“Be positive,” he replied, grinning wide.

Just then, her phone buzzed. She reached for it and tapped the notification. Her thumb paused.

The screen filled with a video.

Her. When Monica threw her stained shirt on her. Her on the floor.

It was already playing, posted in the “Class of 2025 Senior Year” group chat.

Her stomach plummeted.