Today's the big day. Heart hammering. Fingers twitching. Wall of results. Tiny marks in tiny boxes. Every number a life sentence.
If this goes well… any university I want. Any. It buzzes under my skin like a trapped insect.
Grin creeping up. Smug. Pre-smug. Of course I aced it. Of course.
Step closer. Inhale. Smell the paper. Smell my future. Any second now.
And from the far lip of the hallway, voices slither in—
"Ugh, I kinda wanna punch him… just to see that goofy little smile fall right off his face.
"Isn't that Simon Spungler? The kid who pissed himself all through elementary? "
"Yep, that's Spunga. Thinks he's hot shit now."
"Please. Spunga acting all high and mighty… dude's a pants‑wetter."
"Look at him. Standing there like he owns the damn hallway."
"Seriously. Spunga strutting like the biggest loser in the school."
"Dead serious, he probably still smells like old piss… nobody ever sat next to him, afraid it'd seep onto their shoes."
"Yeah, that disgusting bastard always pissed under the big desk where all of us were sitting."
"Stank sooo bad.. like musky granny fanny or something."
"ewww"
Words burrow cold, twisting low. "I did it". Grin crawls up like a parasite. Shouldn't. Can't stop.
He doesn't dance away. Doesn't punch air. Just turns from the wall. Shove. Boom. Vibrates up arms, chest, teeth. Body jerks.
"What's so funny, Spunga?!" Knife. Cuts the space.
Lexxa Dravene. Huge. Presence like a physical thing. Shoulders like steel beams. Eyes sharp. Cold. Pulling gravity into her orbit. Doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Presses.
Pulse spikes. Fingers twitch. Neck flushes fire. Ears burn. Chest tightens. Lungs shrink. Body screams before brain catches up.
Smug grin. Fading. Melting. Lexxa leans. Shifts. Room shrinks. Skin crawls. Shame blooms, presses, burns.
And underneath it.. something else. Dark. Impossible. Stupid. Heat crawling low. Thrum I can't name.
Another shove from Lexxa. Harder. Closer. Smug grin shatters. Melts. Gone.
I pull myself up. Pulse racing. Fingers twitching. Stomach knotted. Avery Sloane's eyes glint… condemning.
"You think it's funny… laughing at our grades..?"
"Avery?!"
"…We just saw you, Spunga… looking at everybody's grades and laughing at ours. Mister Peepants, thinking he's something special now. We all know you still fucking pee your pants."
I whip around. Casey Lane smirks, sharp, coiled. "P‑pee myself? N‑no… n‑no, I don't… I'm a grown adult… I'm a grown adult…and I was only looking at my own grades..."
Shoved again. Hard. Close. Instant. Off balance. Paper rips. Numbers scatter. Walls scrape knees, stomach presses cold plaster. Spine hums. Breath stutters.
Casey Lane sprays perfume around, flicking her wrist, smirk sharp. "Precaution… in case you stink up the place with your pee."
Air thick. Perfume bites sharp, floral and chemical, curls under my nose and sticks to my skin. Heat crawling low. Fingers jitter. Chest thunders… Breath short. Spine humming. Can't stop smelling it. Can't look at them..
Fingertips brush the torn sheet. Avery lifts it, letting it dangle in front of me, swaying like a pendulum. She taps it lightly against my chest. Fingers graze mine as it swings closer. I jerk back, heart throbbing Fingers jab mine as it brushes close. I spasm.
"Oh, Mister Pee‑Stain~ perfect little grades, huh? Wow… how pathetic. But really… who gives a damn? Can you even explain why maths is useful in real life, or are you just staring at numbers like an idiot? Tell me… when will you ever actually use it… apart from counting your tiny, sad, worthless money?"
Head down. Eyes flick. Dart. Never settle. Tongue knots itself. "M‑maths… very… useful… in… life…" My voice squeaks. Can't move. Can't breathe.
Boot cracks against my side. Sharp. Instant. Breath jerks. "Stand up when you talk to my friend… eye contact… and show some goddamn manners," Casey hisses.
Floor cold. Spine humming. Chest drumming. Perfume thick as smoke under my nose. I can't blink. Can't lift my head.
But I have to. Another kick waits if I don't. Push up.
Six sets of legs. Smooth. Flawless. Uniform skirts. Predators lined up. Room tilts. Skin crawls. Heat slides low. I swallow.
Paper trembles in Avery's fingers, swinging like a whip. Heel taps. Tap. Tap. Tap. Metal on tile. Hard. Threatening.
"I'm waiting…" Her voice scratches across my skin.
I push up, trembling, keeping just out of reach. Avery hasn't struck yet. Maybe closest to her is safest.
"M‑maths… important is for… life…" Words crawl out, clumsy. "You… you need it… to… pay bills… count money… taxes… tips… shopping… interest… budgets… jobs… everything… numbers… everywhere… you… you can't… not… know… numbers… if you wanna… survive…"
Their eyes hook into me. All at once. Like grappling lines.
Heat detonates under my skin, blooming like a chemical burn.
Sweat gathers in secret places, the kinds of corners skin isn't supposed to leak from.
Every stare presses in—thumbs on my windpipe, testing structural weakness.
She laughs. A little blade of sound.
Glances over her shoulder at the others, smile too bright, too knowing.
"Okay, wise guy… so maths is more important than something… like cooking?"
A snort erupts from the back. A hiss too—like a kettle boiling over.
"Cooking's where we got our perfect grades."
My voice stumbles out of me, a wounded thing trying to crawl to safety.
"C-cooking's… important too, but… maths is… everywhere. You need it for recipes—
ratios, measurements, temperatures… even baking bread needs maths… it's all… numbers…"
Casey gasps like she's just discovered fire.
Presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide, mocking awe.
"Ohhh... Spunga's a gourmet now? Gonna open Pee-Wee's Pizzeria? I wanna see you cry when nobody orders. "
Finger scrapes me, nails jagged as shards, Casey jabs me in the chest, testing, prodding.
"So… what's the fucking volume of your piss? Arc, trajectory, splash radius, angles, height, velocity… all spraying across the classroom floor, spunga… You fucking nerd! Work that out."
Detonation.
Laughter erupts—too loud, too jagged, ricocheting off the walls like broken glass.
I flinch. Cannot.
Heat crawls up my spine, burrows beneath my ribs, sinks lower—heavy, molten, humiliating.
Their laughter strips me down to bones and nerves. And I just stand there. Pretending the act of breathing isn't tearing me open from the inside.
The laughter dies in jagged little gulps.
Not gone — just sucked back into throats, waiting.
Then movement.
Two shadows peel forward.
Not walking. Approaching.
Predator-gravity. Floorboards creak like they're warning me to run.
Fingers hook under my arms.
Not gentle.
Not curious.
Claiming.
One hand clamps my wrist — cold, firm, nails biting crescent moons into my skin.
The other grabs the back of my collar, yanking me half off my feet.
My body folds like bad metal. Weak points flaring. Breath punched sideways.
"Aw, look," Casey' voice murmurs behind my ear, voice humid, close enough to taste.
"Little mathematician's shaking."
My legs scramble for balance, but they don't let me find any.
They hold me up just enough to keep me conscious, keep me present, keep me scared.
Their grip tightens.
Like they're testing whether bones snap clean or splinter.
"I don't need violence," she says, turning the torn page like she's inspecting a dead insect.
"I can destroy this guy without even touching him."
She flicks her eyes to the other two. A tiny nod. Permission. Command. Both.
They step back—not far, just out of arm's reach—circling like sharks doing the math on a slow swimmer.
Avery smiles. Sweet. Cruel. Deadly.
Sloane leans in like she's reading the fine print on my face. "Then let's see it, Spunga. Prove your precious math matters more than our cooking..."
My mouth opens. Wrong words fall out.
"M‑maths... cooking's... maths? I mean... it's everywhere... everything... numbers... in the bread, in the bills, in... in… everything... y‑you need it..."
Her eye-roll lands like a slap. Slow. Cruel. Like she's bored of gravity.
"So you think you can survive without food...?"
Casey's laugh lands like a sledgehammer. Wild. Brutal. Like she's smashing shards of glass just to see what sticks.
"Yeah? How about we lock your scrawny ass in the basement for a week… no food, nothing, just fucking rats for dinner… see if you're still jerking yourself off about maths being important then…"
My stomach drops. My throat tightens.
And still—
still—
some sick spark in me lights up like this is exactly what I deserve.
I put my head down in shame.
Then stab. Sharp. Immediate. My whole body jerks like someone hit a reset button.
Casey's voice lashes down, pure venom, pure command.
"What did I say about breaking eye contact?"
Something flashes at the edge of my vision. A compass. The cheap plastic kind from school kits. Except right now it's a shiv. A hypodermic. A tiny metal promise.
I can't tell if it's actually there or if my brain is coughing up hallucinations just to keep me obedient.
I risk a glance at Avery. Quick. Like a rat poking its head out of a trap. Hoping maybe this trap isn't set to snap.
Hope is a stupid parasite crawling under my skin. Movie‑mercy. Fairy‑tale mercy. Lies. I swallow anyway.
My throat clicks. Tongue fumbles. Pulse ricocheting.
Avery's grin slices the air.
"You're paying attention to me now? Good…"
I shiver. Eyes locked on her.
"Y… yes."
Her smile digs in. Cold. Sharp.
"Good boy… We are proud girls. Proud of our cooking. Sponge cakes. Flour, sugar, eggs, butter… pinch of salt. Ordinary. But we twist it. Whipped cream. Vanilla. Cocoa. Powdered sugar dusting. Glaze. Pipe the decorations… frosting swirls like veins, precise ratios holding it all together. One wrong measure, and it collapses. Just. Like. You."
A rustle to my left. Bag crinkles.
Casey to my right—leg twitching like a spring.
The compass stab still throbs along my calf.
Pain hums low.
Every nerve firing. Every breath a gamble. I can't look away. Can't risk another stab.
Eyes locked on Avery. Can't blink. Can't flinch. Can't let myself die in slow motion here.
And splash—
something wet lands on my head.
Slimy. Clinging to my hair. Sliding down my face.