Monday morning, when I get on the bus, I know right away that something isn’t right. People are whispering, and I can feel eyes on me from every direction. There’s judgment in every glance, like they’re all in on something I haven’t heard yet.

  I’ve been in situations like this before, when everyone seems to know something you don’t, and deep down, you know it’s about you. It’s like your name’s already been dragged through the dirt online, and now you’re just waiting to see how bad it is.

  I felt it on Friday too. Back then, I ignored it. I’d just come back to school after a few days off, and people love to talk, especially when your name is even slightly connected to someone like Oliver. I might’ve played into it a little, showing off in my favourite outfit, riding that newfound confidence, which faded by the end of the day. Today, though, I’m back to my usual introverted self, and I’m still getting that attention, only it’s a lot more than last time. And it feels different, like it’s more serious.

  The stares don’t stop. The laughter has a sharper edge. This isn’t about me missing school or being linked to Oliver. This is something worse. Something personal.

  I don’t know what the rumour is yet, but I can tell it’s spreading fast. They lean in, whisper a few words, and then laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I know how this kind of thing spreads through group chats and Snap stories. Some anonymous account is stirring the pot, using someone else to take the heat. I’m not part of any online group. I don’t fit into their little circles. I don’t even have real friends anymore. That means I never find out what’s happening until it’s already blown up. And by the time I do, it’s always too late.

  I’ve been their target before. The first time, they said I only got good grades because I cheated. I cried when the rumour spread, and the whole class started looking at me differently. When it happened again, and I was blamed for things I didn’t do, I learned to pretend it didn’t matter. But this feels worse than any of those times.

  Once the bus stops in front of our school, I keep my head down and head straight to class. There’s no sign of Oliver anywhere. As soon as I step inside, the classroom bursts into laughter. It’s so loud, all at once, like they’ve been waiting for this moment.

  Then I see it.

  There’s a drawing on the whiteboard of two girls kissing. One of them is clearly me. The sketch is detailed, almost too good, like whoever drew it actually knows what they’re doing. And as if that isn’t enough, my name, Scarlet, is written in thick block letters above her head, just in case anyone misses it.

  The other girl is drawn more vaguely, except for the hair. Dark brown with a chocolate tint. It could be anyone. Maybe it’s supposed to be Selena. She’s the only girl I’ve ever really talked to like a friend. But her hair isn’t that shade.

  This is darker. Richer.

  Oh.

  It’s Emily. Of course, it’s Emily. That’s exactly her hair.

  What are they trying to say? She’s my enemy, and the whole class knows it. Are they trying to say we’re seeing each other? That we both liked Oliver, didn’t get him, and somehow ended up together? That doesn’t make sense. He’s still with her.

  And why would she agree to this? Without her consent, this picture wouldn’t be here.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I sneak a glance at her. We came on the same bus this morning. I remember seeing her and Selena rush into the classroom ahead of me, not their usual casual walk. Now she’s sitting in her chair, laughing like everyone else.

  What is happening?

  I don’t understand any of this. And I don’t want to.

  I walk to my desk, pull my notebook out of my bag, and pretend to write as soon as I sit down. Even with my head down, I can still feel the stares. Chairs scrape across the floor as people shift to get a better look at me. I act like I don’t notice any of it.

  A few minutes later, Oliver walks in. He goes down the row where I’m sitting, then crosses at the back to get to his seat. That’s the way he’s always gone, even though there’s an easier route. When he passes me, he doesn’t stop or glance in my direction. He keeps walking past me like I don’t exist.

  Once he settles in his chair, Tom, who’s sitting next to him, points at the board and says something. Oliver glances at me for a split second, but I keep my head down. He leans over and says something to Tom, quiet enough that I can’t catch it. Tom then stands up, strolls to the front of the class, grabs the eraser, and wipes the drawing away.

  The students laugh again. Not because it’s funny, but because this is a show for them now. Tom finishes by spinning in a circle and throwing in a few dramatic dance moves before bowing, like he’s on stage. The class goes wild, and laughter erupts again. Oliver is the only one who doesn’t join in. He keeps his eyes on his phone, scrolling.

  I try to block them out. I focus on my breathing, on staying calm. Luckily, Ms. Bowen walks in soon after, and I shift my attention to the lesson.

  Two hours later, recess starts. I don’t move from my seat. I doodle in my notebook as everyone else rushes out the door. A few minutes later, the most popular group in our class comes back in - Selena, Emily, Erin, Paige, and Isabella.

  When I see Erin’s face, it clicks. She’s the one who drew that picture. She’s the best at drawing in our class. No one else could capture me that perfectly.

  They cluster around Erin’s desk, two rows ahead of me. Erin looks at me like I’m something under a microscope. Selena stays in her seat, a little to the side, pretending she’s not part of it. That’s when I know they’re plotting against me, and it’s coming.

  “She was so desperate she had to do this,” someone says, loud enough for me to hear.

  “She actually thought Oliver wanted her,” another girl adds. “He didn’t. No one does. So now she’s trying girls?”

  I finally lift my head. They’re all looking straight at me. Selena leans slightly to the side and smirks.

  “Why are you so desperate, Scarlet?” Erin asks, her lips twisted in contempt. “No one ever liked you, that’s why?”

  I don’t say a word, though I keep my eyes on them. Paige snickers. “What do you expect? Trash house, no dad, a prostitute mom. No future.”

  I still stay quiet. It’s smarter to stay quiet than to fall for their tricks.

  Emily lets out a dramatic sigh. “She’ll do anything for attention because she’s not getting any at home. Have you guys seen her mom? She looks like a hippo. All she does is eat. You can tell she doesn’t care. I don’t even know how that whore still works in that field, not in that shape.”

  Paige adds, “Like mother, like daughter.”

  Emily continues, “She definitely writes about us in some sad little diary. You know… ‘Everyone’s so mean. No one loves me.’ There must be one in her backpack, so she can take notes before forgetting.”

  Isabella steps up to my desk and starts pulling out my books, one at a time, dropping them on the floor like she’s unwrapping gifts. I sit there, frozen. Then she reaches into my backpack, pulls out my lunch, and pops open the lid.

  “Toast? That’s it?” she scoffs. “Your mum couldn’t even pack a proper lunch?” She lets the container fall to the floor. “Oh no,” she says, with fake sweetness. “Your lunch fell.”

  That’s when Oliver walks in. Tom’s right behind him. They both stop and take in the scene. Oliver shoots Selena a disappointed look. Suddenly, she’s so busy writing something in her book. He doesn’t say anything but nods to Tom before heading to his seat.

  Tom walks over to my desk. He picks up my toast and puts it back in my lunchbox. He then grabs my book and packs everything back into my bag, setting it gently on my lap.

  I don’t say thanks. I’m not thankful to anyone. They’re all the same.

  I open my water bottle and take a sip. That’s when Emily reaches into her pocket and tosses a crumpled five-dollar bill on my desk.

  “Here,” she says. “Since you obviously can’t afford lunch.” Laughter explodes around me.

  I grab my backpack, stand up, and walk out. I don’t say a word. I don’t let it break me.

  The five-dollar bill stays right where she left it.