Page 51 of Summoned
But all night long, my mind returns to an old memory.
In sixth grade, Daria caught the flu and had to stay home. If I’d been smarter, I would’ve pretended to be sick too and remained in bed. But pride has never let me admit fear—not even to myself.
That morning, I stepped into the schoolyard with my heart pounding wildly, palms sweaty against the fraying straps of my backpack. Maybe I’d get lucky and avoidthemaltogether. Or if I did cross their path, I’d just endure it. I always had.
Daria and I had spent two months unintentionally provoking those girls just by being ourselves. We didn’t skip classes, didn’t smoke behind the building, and didn’t laugh when they picked a weaker target. That was enough to make us stand out.
But this was the first time I had to face them alone. And deep down, I knew it would go wrong. I was their “favorite.” Somehow, they could sense that my pride was stronger, that my anger was more volatile than Daria’s. That breaking me would feel like a bigger triumph.
They found me in the afternoon, on the way home. Back then, I didn’t have a private driver, a father with a well-known last name, or any way to stand up for myself—other than lowering my head.
Clementine led the pack, as always, flanked by her shadows, Dana and Sophie. But that day, there were moreof them. The kind of girls everyone at school avoided.
They attacked me with the same old insults: “nerd,” “weirdo,” “loser.” Daria and I had a usual tactic: wait them out. Let their words lose power, or their interest shift to another target. Eventually, they’d get bored and move on.
“Where’s your stupid little friend?” Clementine hissed. I clenched my jaw, glancing away. She grabbed the front of my blouse. “I asked you a question, moron.”
Heat surged up my neck. They’d never touched me before.
“Get off,” I snapped, swatting her hand.
Another girl stepped in front of me. She was one of those notorious for her outbursts, always looking for an excuse to explode. “So you’re the cockroach who made out with Dana’s boyfriend at that party.”
“What?” I gaped. I’d never kissed a boy in my life.
“Don’t pretend, bitch. People saw you.”
“I don’t—”
A third girl curled her fingers into my hair and yanked hard. A sharp sting shot across my scalp.
“What’s this color supposed to be?” She sneered. “Gross.”
“Everything about her is gross!” someone shrieked. Laughter erupted.
The insults blur in my memory now, a jumble of cruel words flying from many mouths. Too many jeers, too many hands yanking my hair until my scalp burned. They shoved me from every side, clawing at my backpack as I twisted, desperate to escape. But they had already formed a circle around me, tightening with each second. I was prey, trapped and overwhelmed. The final shove sent me sprawling, knees scraping against the concrete, the air knocked from my lungs.
I tried to get up, but they pushed me down. My backpack had spilled next to me, and all around were scattered pencils, pencils, pencils… Pencils instead of tears.
I refused to cry. I kneeled there, arms over my head, holding onto the last thing they couldn’t take—my tears. Because if I gave them that one victory, I’d never recover.
The laughter hurt more than the bruises. It would leave a lingering echo, one that would haunt me even when no one else could ever touch me again. They were laughing at me. All of them. The bystanders. The world. They didn’t see girls ganging up on someone smaller.
They saw justice. The weakling, put in her place.
And maybe they were right.
I’m not sure if I was born like this or ifmy family shaped me, but I’ve never been one to complain. Not now, and not back then. For a long time, I thought speaking up would only worsen the situation. Daria told her parents right from the very beginning, but they couldn’t do anything. The girls didn’t stop. They just became more cautious and shifted their attacks outside of school. Besides, I was afraid my father would see my words as a sign of weakness.
That evening, however, while we had dinner, the tears came on their own. My mother didn’t notice as she rose from the table to get more bread. It took my father a moment.
“What’s wrong, Nicole?” he asked.
I gathered all my courage to open up about everything—how they attacked me for no reason, how they pushed and insulted me. I needed a day off to recover. I longed for my father to hold me and tell me it would be all right, and that he’d call their parents and put a stop to it.
Instead, he placed his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Icould call your headmistress, but what do you think will happen? She’ll scold their parents, if she does anything at all, and that’ll be the end of it. Theonlything you can do is learn to fight back.”
I didn’t want to fight.
