On the first day of school, the hallways smelled of floor wax and cheap cologne, buzzing with the murmur of voices, occasional laughter, and the rhythmic clang of locker doors slamming shut.

It was overwhelming—not in the way that made me want to shut down, but in the way that made me hyper-aware of everything around me.

I walked a step behind Beverly and Tiffany, my hands shoved into the pockets of my cargo shorts. The fabric was stiff and slightly scratchy—new, just like my Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt, which still smelled faintly of the store. Mom had bought it for me along with a pair of Converse, the same ones Beverly wore.

Beverly’s backpack hung casually off her shoulder, covered in a mix of stickers: a peace sign, a Nirvana band logo, a “Good Vibes” one, a heart-shaped one with the word “love” scrawled across it, and another boldly proclaiming, “Don’t Follow Me.”

A contradiction. She liked being followed.

She had on a plain white T-shirt and a pair of denim jeans, not too tight but not baggy either. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, with a simple baby pink elastic band pulling back the strands away from her face.

Tiffany, in contrast, had gone all out. She wore a pink blouse with delicate lace trim, paired with a flared pleated skirt. Her white knee-high socks completed the look, and her hair, styled in curls and tied up with a pink ribbon, bounced with every step.

I kept my head down as we moved through the crowd, listening to their conversation without adding to it. Tiffany had been talking nonstop, bouncing from one topic to the next—her summer vacation, the teachers she hoped we wouldn’t get, the cute boy she saw near the lockers. I tuned most of it out until I heard my name.

“…just reads. Like, all the time.” Tiffany’s voice was light, but there was an underlying edge to it.

I recognized that tone.

I’d heard it before.

It was the one people used when they didn’t want to be outright rude but still needed to make it clear you were different, that you didn’t quite belong. It was an observation framed as a flaw, designed to sound like nothing at all.

Beverly’s response came immediately, sharp and defensive. “So?” One syllable, clipped, brimming with challenge.

It wasn’t a question—it was a warning.

I noticed the way her posture changed, the way her shoulders squared slightly as she turned to Tiffany.

Tiffany shrugged, unbothered, not even realizing I could hear every word. “I don’t know. It’s just…weird. He barely talks. And he’s always got his nose buried in some book.”

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay silent. Not because I was hurt; Tiffany didn’t matter to me. But Beverly did. And right now, she looked furious.