“Mostly not enough.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
You frown. “What is?”
“You’re trying to act like the strongest thing about you is supposed to be hidden. That’s got to mess with your head.”
It does.
You know it does.
But saying that aloud feels dangerous, like telling the truth might knock over some fragile structure your mother spent months building.
Monday morning proves Brad has indeed been planning something.
A fake flyer appears on half the lockers in school before first period. Pink paper. Glitter font. A cartoon tiara clip-art in the corner. WELCOME TO LINCOLN HIGH, FIGHTER PRINCESS! OPEN SPARRING IN THE GYM AT LUNCH. COME SEE DETROIT’S TOUGHEST TRASH TALKER.
Tasha rips one down and crumples it so violently it deserves points.
You stand there holding another copy, your face hot. Not scared. Not even exactly angry. More exhausted than anything. Public humiliation is such lazy theater. It needs no originality, only enough cruelty and enough spectators.
Tasha turns to you. “Say the word and I commit several tasteful felonies.”
You almost smile. “Tempting.”
By third period, teachers have removed most of the flyers, but the damage is done. The school is buzzing again. This time not with awe. With amusement. Curiosity. Anticipation. Brad is trying to convert your strength into a gimmick, something to point at and laugh at until he regains control of the narrative.
He forgot one thing.
Narratives can bite back.
At lunch, the gym doors are indeed propped open.
A crowd has formed, loose and electric. You almost keep walking. The smartest thing would be to ignore it. Let the joke rot in its own oxygen. But then you hear Brad’s voice from inside.
“Guess Detroit girl’s all bark.”
And something in you decides you are done letting idiots write scenes for your life.
You hand your tray to Tasha.
“Hold this.”
Her eyes light with dangerous delight. “With pleasure.”
You walk into the gym.
The crowd parts with that eerie smoothness people only manage when they are collectively very aware something memorable is about to happen. Brad stands near the center court in sneakers and a smug expression, like he thinks setting a stage means he owns the outcome. Kyle is filming. Of course Kyle is filming.
Brad spreads his arms. “There she is.”
You stop several feet away.
“What do you want?” you ask.
He grins. “Just figured if you’re such a badass, maybe you should show everybody.”
The students around you murmur.
You could refuse.
You probably should.
Then again, refusing means feeding the exact machine he built, weeks of jokes and bait and public poking. Fighting means risking suspension, headlines, your mother’s heartbreak, and becoming exactly the circus act she feared. Either way, Brad is hoping to turn your existence into his entertainment.
You cross your arms.
“No.”
