All the time you spent planning this.

The money you forked over for the cake.”

I laugh and lean in.

“But enough about you two.

Now give me my dog.”

OUTNUMBERED

It all happens so fast.

Kortnee holds the cake closer to me.

I flip it back,

smashing cake all over her face.

Clumps of frosting fall off

and land on her feet.

She scoops away chunks

from her mouth and nose.

“I can’t believe you did that!”

“I defended myself.”

I close in on Marissa.

“I said, give me my dog.”

“Make me.

It’s two against one,

so you’re out of luck,

loser.”

“I think your math’s off,”

Catalina says,

appearing all of a sudden

at my side.

“Looks like it’s two against two.”

“Three against two.”

Anaïs shows up and locks arms with her.

“Six against two,”

Javier, Nat, and Izzy say.

CAPTURED ON VIDEO

Gigi covers me in kisses

all the way home.

“They didn’t get the video

they’d planned on,

but I made a great one,”

Catalina says.

“Take a look.”

It’s short and shows

the cake

smashing against Kortnee’s face.

It plays forward and backward.

Over and over.

I’m tempted to post it

on social media,

but that would be attacking

Marissa and Kortnee

and not defending myself.

So I just send it to Viv.

I’m pretty sure

I hear her laughing

clear from Indiana.

HASN’T HAD HER SHOTS

I tell Dad

Gigi needs to go to the vet.

“I don’t think Marissa’s had her shots.”

The vet finds a small scratch on one eye,

probably from Gigi

crawling around bushes

as she chased the squirrel.

Eye drops will make it all better.

So, physically, she’s okay.

Mentally, she’s not.

When I go for a swim,

she-who-hates-water whines to join me.

She lies on my stomach as I float,

trusting me more than ever.

I feel guilty.

What happened to her

is my fault because I’m fat.

That’s wrong thinking.

I replace that thought.

What happened to Gigi

was because Marissa and Kortnee

are mean girls.

BEHOLD THE THING

I’m sitting on my bed

with my back to the door

as I brush my hair.

The bristles hit

the mother of all tangles.

I wince.

“I can help.”

Mom sits next to me.

I reluctantly hand her the brush.

She works one section at a time,

careful not to tug.

I close my eyes as the brush

massages my scalp.

Relaxing.

Soothing.

Comforting.

Words not usually associated with Mom.

“I didn’t realize

how bad it was getting for you.”

“The chair?

The photoshopped picture?

Those weren’t clues?

And you see how I get treated—

sometimes you even blame me

for the way others treat me.

That’s wrong, Mom.

But what’s worse is

the way you treat me.

You can be my worst bully.”

Mom hangs down her head.