As soon as I sit down, she says to Rick, “Can you believe they let people like her sit in the back with the cool kids?” Paige scoffs, giving me a look-over like I’m something nasty stuck to the bottom of her designer shoes.
I grind my teeth, pretending to be fascinated by my chemistry notes. “Just trying to blend in,” I say.
“You’ll never blend in. I mean, just the way you dress is—“ She makes a face like something bitter just smeared her tongue.
I don’t reply, opting instead to keep my eyes on my notebook. It’s easier this way, and she doesn’t need to know my choice of style has a purpose—not to draw attention to myself, which works like a charm, except with her. She always manages to weasel in a critique or two.
Rick Sanders, meanwhile, devotes his day to kicking the back leg of my chair. Every so often, there’s a little jolt that drives me crazy. I jerk my head around, scowling at him, but he just smirks, and I can see it in his eyes. He takes pleasure in knowing that Iknow that he gets away with too much, and I can’t do anything about it. A real piece of work, that one.
After the tenth kick or so, I can’t stand it anymore. I spin around and blurt out through my teeth, “Can you please stop that?”
Rick leans back. “Relax, Lang. I’m just stretching my legs.”
The nerve of him!
“Miss Lang, pay attention, please,” Mr. Kendrick says.
Of course, he chooses this exact moment to look up from his notes
I sink in my chair. “Sorry,” I say, my face flushing. I hate how unfair it is. Rick gets away with kicking my chair like a toddler, and I get called out for it.
The rest of the class passes in a blur of frustration. Rick continues his antics, and Paige stares at me every time Mr. Kendrick turns his back to us, mumbling something I can’t quite make out.
The class finally ends, and I sprint out of there, desperate to escape. Rick catches up to me in the hallway, his hand over my shoulder in what seems like a friendly gesture.
“Hey, sorry about earlier. No hard feelings, right?” His voice sounds slick, insincere.
“No hard feelings,” I say with a half-smile, wishing he would just go away.
“Thanks, Lang.”
I couldn’t be more relieved when he finally leaves my side. But as I walk to my locker, I notice something strange—people staring, more than usual.
Making my way through the crowd, I hear snickers, muffled laughter, and whispers. Someone passes me and says, “Hey, Dorkella.”
I spin around. “What did you just call me?”
The boy just laughs and keeps walking.
Then one of Paige’s fans walks by. “Nice name, Dorkella,” she says, giggling.
I stop in my tracks, heart pounding. Why are they calling me that?
More people pass by, uttering the same word. Dorkella. Dorkella. Dorkella. It’s like a cruel game.
Panic grips me, and I feel my throat tightening, my breathing shallow and rapid.
In an instant, I’m not at Meridian High anymore. I’m eight years old again, standing on the playground at recess, surrounded by a group of kids pointing fingers and laughing at me because I tripped and knocked over a stack of cones during gym class.
The memory hits me like a physical blow. My small hands had been shaking that day as I tried to navigate the obstacle course Mr. Garcia set up. One misstep—that’s all it took—and I went tumbling forward, arms windmillingfrantically.
Then laughter erupted all around me as I lay sprawled on the ground, my knees stinging where they’d scraped against the asphalt, hot tears welling at the corners of my eyes.
“Clumsy Chrissy! Clumsy Chrissy!” The chant spread like wildfire through the circle of kids that formed around me.
My throat closed up tight. I could hear the thumping of my heart so loud in my ears that it drowned Mr. Garcia’s distant calls for order.
The taunting followed me for weeks afterward. That’s when I learned it was easier to stay quiet, to stay invisible. To fade into the background where no one noticed me. Because being noticed meant being hurt. Being noticed meant becoming a target for ridicule.
