I turn to look at her, and for just a moment, I see myself reflected in her glasses. My hair is wild, sticking to my forehead with sweat. My eyes look too bright, almost feverish. And there’ssomething around my jawline, something that looks almost like…
No. It’s just a shadow. Just the lighting.
“Of course, Mrs. Patterson,” I say sweetly. “Though I think you might want to check Kass for hearing problems. She seems to be having trouble understanding simple conversations.”
I gather my things slowly, deliberately. Every movement is calculated to show that I’m not being dismissed, that I’m choosing to leave.
But even as I do it, I can feel their eyes on me. Not with the usual mixture of envy and admiration.
With concern. With confusion.
With something that looks almost like pity.
The scratching follows me down the hallway.
By lunch, the whispers have started.
I can hear them even when they think they’re being quiet, even when they’re three tables away. It’s like my hearing has been turned up to eleven, catching every hushed conversation, every worried murmur.
“...acting really weird lately...”
“...smells like wet dog or something...”
“...did you see her face? Did you see her makeup? It looked almost...”
I slam my water bottle down hard enough to make the entire table jump. The conversations around me die instantly, but I can still feel them watching. Always watching.
“Problem?” I ask the general vicinity, my voice honey-sweet and razor-sharp.
Nobody answers. They’re all suddenly very interested in their food.
But I can smell their fear now; sharp, acrid and delicious. It mingles with the scratching sounds that seem to be coming from everywhere; the walls, the ceiling, inside my own fucking skull.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom.
‘Got a call from school. Everything okay, sweetheart? Dad and I are worried.’
Worried. They’re all worried. Like I’m some kind of problem that needs to be solved instead of the perfect daughter they’ve always bragged about.
I type back quickly: ’Everything’s fine. Just dealing with jealous classmates as usual.’
But even as I send it, I catch sight of my reflection in the black screen of my phone. For just a second, my face looks... wrong. The proportions slightly off, the features too sharp.
I blink hard, and it’s normal again.
Calm. Be fucking calm.
I am not weak. I am not pathetic. I own this entire fucking school. I own every single one of these people sat here, gawping.
I snatch at my drink, letting out what should be a snarl, only it sounds far more like a hiss. I storm out, barely making it to the door before the entire place explodes with chatter.
By the timeI get home, I’m practically vibrating with rage and frustration.
“Honey?” Mom calls from the kitchen as I slam the front door. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I snap, taking the stairs two at a time.
“The school called,” Dad’s voice follows me up. “They’re concerned about…”
