I forced myself back into line, my skin burning under every stare. Just thirty more days. And then maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be allowed to breathe.
The changing room always smells like cheap body spray, sweat, and something metallic; like blood that dried too long ago to matter. It was a clatter of noise, too. Zippers, lockers slamming, girls’ voices bouncing off the tiled walls, sharp and careless. I moved to the far bench like I always did. Head down. The bag clutched in both hands. I knew better than to draw attention, but it never seemed to matter.
My t-shirt clung to my arms for a second as I peeled it off, damp with nervous sweat. I folded it like it might earn me invisibility, smoothing the fabric down on the bench, like being careful could somehow keep me safe. Then I pulled out my clean tank top from my bag. Then I changed, fast and quiet, my back turned to the room, a wall of cheap metal lockers my only shield. I could feel their eyes anyway, little pinpricks on my skin, tracking my movements.
"Aw, look, Chloe’s wearing boy shorts again." This time I thought it might have been Megan’s voice. Who knows anymore? The words cut through the locker room like a boxcutter slicing open something raw. I froze, my fingers fumbling with the hem of my tank top.
Laughter, a messy, ugly wave, washed over me.
My hands started shaking, just a little, just enough that I hoped no one noticed. I tugged my gym shirt down hard over my stomach, trying to hide the vulnerable space below my ribs. My cheeks burned like I’d stepped into the fire, a heat that had nothing to do with exertion.
I didn’t turn around. Couldn't.
Keep getting dressed. Get dressed and get out. I pulled on my pair of jeans.
"Hot Topic must be branching into lingerie for emo freaks," someone else chimed in, her voice dripping with fake innocence.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard enough to taste copper. The skin was already a landscape of tiny lumps and ridges from how often I did that, a hidden map of all the times I couldn't speak or scream. I told myself not to cry. Not here. Not again. Not in front of them.
They didn’t know why I wore boy shorts, felt safer cocooned in the slightly longer fabric. They didn’t know that I hated how regular underwear made me feel exposed, like my body was a billboard I never asked for, a shape that was always wrong, always judged. They didn’t know that when I was fourteen, feeling exactly like this, I’d carved escape routes into my arms with razors because I didn’t know any other way to make the shame stop. Or that sometimes, even now, I still pressed my fingers to those raised lines on my skin like they were a map leading me out of this body, back to somewhere safe, somewhere invisible.
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But none of that mattered to them. They only saw a girl they could tear apart piece by piece, a living target for their boredom and cruelty, someone they could wound without consequence.
I sank onto the bench, forcing myself to focus on tying my shoes. The worn laces felt rough under my trembling fingers. One loop, then the other. Pull tight. Breathe. It doesn’t matter. It’s almost over. One more month. Thirty days. You’re almost free. Just get through this.
The door slammed behind me, the sound sharper, louder than the rest of the changing room noise. A sharp, sudden shove hit between my shoulder blades, precisely in the center of my back, hard enough to steal my breath. I stumbled forward, my knees hitting the cold metal locker. The clang echoed through my skull like a scream I wasn’t allowed to make, a jarring, metallic shockwave.
“Watch it, whore.”
The word hit harder than the push, a physical blow straight to my gut.
Brooklyn Vick stood behind me. Great her, again. Her face was a mask of disdain, lips curled like she was doing me a favour by even acknowledging my existence. Her eyes scanned me slowly, from my messy hair to my battered sneakers, like I was something dirty she’d just found stuck to her shoe. As if I deserved that word, that push, all of it.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but the edges blurred anyway, watery and weak. Whore.
The word didn’t just echo in my ears; it vibrated in my ribs, in the hollow space where my heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
I had one boyfriend. One. Last year. It lasted three weeks. We barely even kissed, just awkward fumbling in the dark. I never let him see me with the lights on. I never let anyone see me with the lights on.
And she, Brooklyn, she’d been with half the soccer team, rumours followed her like a shadow, and somehow she still walked around like a crowned queen, untouchable. No one said a word to her. Not like they did to me. I felt something twist in my chest, sharp and ugly, a tangled knot of pain and fury and helplessness. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even look at her.
I just swallowed it all like I always did, the bitter taste coating my tongue. My throat felt tight, practiced at this, at forcing down the hurt until it settled like stones in my stomach.
I picked up my bag, stuffed the rest of my things inside, my movements stiff and automatic, and walked out without looking back. My face felt blank, carefully constructed to show nothing. My body felt like glass wrapped in skin; thin and breakable and desperately pretending not to be.
Their laughter followed me out the door, a chorus of cruelty that clung to the air.
It always did. There was no apology. There never was.
The hallway outside was cold; linoleum underfoot, lockers humming faintly with the vibration of school life. People moved in clusters. I walked alone, my eyes fixed on the ground. I could still hear Kiley’s voice. Hear Brooklyn call me… I could hear Megan laughing. I could hear that smug little bite in their voices. Fucking Kiley was the worse, the leader: Careful, flatline. Like it would stick to my skin forever.
My legs were sore. My back hurt from the punch. My ribs ached from holding in the things I wanted to scream. And there was still math class waiting like a trap.
