Page 24 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I slip the note into my pocket with the others. Three now, all folded together. A small weight I’m aware of through every class, every hour of the day.
I’m still thinking about her words when everything shifts. The hair on the back of my neck rises, survival instincts kicking in before I consciously register what’s wrong. The hallway feels different. The noise has dropped slightly, not enough formost people to notice, but enough to trigger every inner alarm I’ve learned to trust. Bodies shift, creating space where there shouldn’t be any. Eyes cut sideways, watching for something they know is coming.
My ribs ache from last night’s sleep on concrete. My stomach has been empty since yesterday’s stolen apple. The lights overhead are too bright, making my head throb. So, of course, today will be the day Dan Hartman decides to target me.
Dan Hartman is the kind of guy who smells blood in the water. A stereotypical jock, captain of the football team, popular, loud, good looking. And a bully. He’s clever about it though.
I’ve watched him work over the past few weeks. The way he picks his targets—always someone alone, who won’t fight back. The casual shoulder check in the hallway. The books knocked off a desk. The cruel laughter disguised as a joke. He knows exactly how far he can push before a teacher notices.
I recognize the look in his eyes. The need to prove something by breaking something else. I’ve seen that look before. On different faces, but always the same hunger underneath.
The hallway turns into a minefield. Whispers ricochet off lockers. Stares burn against my skin. Students wait for something to happen.
My brain tracks exit routes automatically. Classroom door to the left. Bathroom to the right, locked for cleaning. Main entrance straight ahead, through a crowd that won’t move. My muscles tense, preparing for movement I haven’t decided to make yet. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the sound of my own breathing.
“Hey, Transfer.”
My spine locks. I set off toward the main entrance without acknowledging him. It’s not enough. He steps into my path, all swagger and smirking confidence. The crowd parts for him like he’s fucking Moses and they’re the red sea.
His cologne hits me first, expensive and aggressive. Everything about him screams excess. Clean clothes. Full stomach. A home to go back to. Parents who give a fuck.
“You deaf or something?”
I shift, intent on moving around him, but he moves with me, a predator toying with his prey. My hands shake, and I shove them in my pockets. I can’t let him see weakness.
He’s bigger than me. Not taller, although he probably thinks he is. Six-two at least, two hundred pounds of muscle. His hands are huge, knuckles scarred from football practice. He knows how to use his size, how to make his body a wall. But size isn’t everything. I learned that lesson young.
Men twice his size thought they could break me.
They were wrong too.
“Something wrong with you?”
I don’t reply. Engagement means visibility, and visibility means danger. Visibility means someone asking questions I can’t answer about where I live, who takes care of me, and why I’m always alone.
Silence is my weapon of choice. Speaking will give him ammunition, reacting will give him satisfaction.
But Dan doesn’t like being ignored. His hand shoves against my shoulder, hard enough to test me, but not enough for a teacher to call him out. My body rocks slightly, absorbing the impact. I let it dissipate without resistance. Fighting back is what he wants. It gives him permission to escalate. So I stay loose and quiet, and keep my gaze focused on the exit.
Three more steps and I’ll be past him.
“Fucking dirty pussy.”
I stop walking, lift my head and meet his stare with one of my own.
It’s a mistake. I know it as soon as I do it. But there’s something inside me that won’t bow down or flinch. I won’t givehim the satisfaction of seeing me afraid, even though my heart is hammering so hard I can taste it in my throat.
Every instinct screams at me to run.
Something flickers in his expression. Annoyance maybe, or surprise that I’m not backing down. People like me are supposed to fold, and know our place.
I should push my way through the gathering crowd, but my mouth moves before my feet do.
“You done?”
The crowd shifts. A shocked laugh rings out, quickly stifled. Someone else sucks in a breath. The temperature in the hallway changes to that electric current of anticipation. They want to see this. They want to see what happens when someone finally pushes back.
I’ve just escalated this from posturing to conflict, and there’s no taking it back now.
