Later, in the hallway, a group of girls waved Lena over.
"Hey! That drawing you did in art was amazing," one of them gushed.
"Thanks," Lena said, her cheeks turning a little pink.
I hovered beside her, unsure if I should say something or just evaporate. One of the girls glanced at me, then leaned in toward Lena.
"You don't have to babysit him, you know."
Lena stiffened. Just barely. Then she linked her arm through mine and said, "He's my best friend. If that's a problem, go sit somewhere else."
The girl blinked. "Relax, I was kidding."
"No, you weren't," Lena said, and walked off with me still in tow.
My heart did this weird little ache-and-thump thing in my chest.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The teacher was already halfway through a lecture on ecosystems, scribbling diagrams that looked like a spider had taken a biology exam and failed. I sat near the back, doodling spirals in the corner of my notebook, trying not to nod off.
Then came the words of doom:
"Alright, we're starting our partner project today. I'll assign pairs. No switching."
I sat up, my fingers curling around my pen. I glanced toward Lena. Three rows ahead, pencil in her mouth, hoodie sleeves pushed up, ready to go. She looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. She smiled. I smiled back.
Please, let it be her.
"Lena Carter and… Max Green."
The air left my lungs with a dull thud.
Max whooped like he'd just won the lottery. "Yesss! Dream team!"
Lena laughed. "Don't screw this up."
"I was born screwing things up," he said, and they bumped fists.
I barely heard the next names.
"Ash Bennett and… Tina Wu."
I glanced over. Tina didn't even look up from her desk. She was already pulling out her colored pencils and a ruler, like she planned to do the whole project herself and didn't care if I even showed up.
I swallowed the stupid lump rising in my throat. This shouldn't matter. It was a group assignment. Just one class. But as I watched Lena and Max lean their heads together, laughing at something Max whispered, I felt a tight coil in my chest.
I bent over my notebook and started drawing. Not the assignment. Just a sketch: two figures on opposite cliffs, the space between them filled with clouds.
It wasn't anyone's fault. Not really.
She was still my best friend.
But maybe… maybe Max was just easier to laugh with.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The hallway after the last bell felt like a battlefield. Lockers slammed shut like grenades. Backpacks thudded against backs as kids stampeded toward freedom. I waited out the chaos near my locker, pretending to reorganize my books just so I wouldn't have to walk out into the noise all at once.
That's when I heard it.
"Hey, Broomstick!"
My shoulders tensed. Dylan, with three other boys, taller, louder, their faces already half-shadowed by smugness, were walking straight toward me. They weren't the usual troublemakers. Just the kind of seventh graders who'd decided they were gods because they'd started shaving once a month.
"Still wearing hand-me-downs from the '90s?" one of them jeered.
Another slammed into my shoulder, sending my books scattering across the floor. Papers fluttered like startled birds. I bent down silently, my heart hammering. My fingers trembled as I reached for a crumpled worksheet.
"Where's your girlfriend, ghost boy? She finally get tired of dragging your dead weight around?"
I didn't answer. I didn't move. I just focused on picking up the mess.
They didn't laugh, not yet. One leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.
"You ever look in the mirror and wonder why no one likes you?"
The others chuckled.
"Bet even your girlfriend gets tired of pretending."
Something inside me went still.
I tried to grab my books from the locker, but a hand slammed the door shut.
Metal rattled. My reflection in the locker door shook too; warped and ghostlike.
"Hey," another said, tilting his head, eyes cold with curiosity. "Do you actually talk to anyone besides her? Or do you just… follow her around like a pet dog?"
They didn't hit me. They didn't need to. Every word landed cleaner than a punch.
One of them "accidentally" knocked my notebook from my hands, sending my sketches sprawling across the floor. The other two snickered as I scrambled to pick them up. A rough shoe stomped down on one before I could grab it.
"Oops," the boy grinned.
I wanted to scream, or punch him, or vanish. But instead, I said nothing. I knelt, grabbing pages, ignoring the scuff mark across a half-finished drawing of a window cracked open to stars.
Their laughter didn't echo. It stayed, hanging in the air like humidity.
I just sat there, staring at the smudge of dirt over the pencil lines.
I hated that I needed saving.
I hated being so weak.
But mostly, I hated that even as I stood beside Lena, it felt like I was already falling behind.
Middle school had become a landmine field, and I was the kid with clown shoes trying not to explode.
The next day wasn't any better. The boys from yesterday didn't say much, but their looks said enough. That smirking glance over the shoulder, that elbow nudge when I walked by, like I was a walking joke they hadn't finished laughing at yet.
By lunch, I'd mastered the art of walking with my head down and shoulders tight, like I could physically shrink shame. Lena sat beside me, but Max had taken to tossing grapes into his mouth from two tables away, and most of her energy was spent either laughing or ducking.
I didn't blame her. Not really.
Later that evening, I curled up in bed with my journal, trying to make sense of it all the only way I knew: by writing.
Middle school is a jungle.
Some kids swing through it.
Others get eaten.
Today, I was chewed and spit out.