Mira's POV
The paper hit my desk so hard I jumped.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I stared at the folded note. Nobody else seemed to notice. The classroom buzzed with morning chatter, backpacks thudding onto desks, chairs scraping against tile. But I sat frozen, staring at that white square like it might explode.
I knew what it was. I always knew.
My hands shook as I reached for it. Don't open it, a voice in my head whispered. Just throw it away. Pretend you never saw it.
But I couldn't. I never could.
The words inside were written in red marker, big and ugly:
NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE. LEAVE BEFORE WE MAKE YOU.
My stomach twisted into a knot so tight I thought I might throw up right there. I crumpled the note in my fist and shoved it deep into my backpack, adding it to the collection of others I'd been saving. Seventeen notes in three weeks. I'd counted them last night instead of sleeping.
"Hey, Mira!"
I flinched so hard my elbow knocked my water bottle off the desk. It clattered across the floor, rolling under someone's chair. Heat rushed to my face.
"Sorry!" I whispered, diving under desks to grab it.
When I sat back up, Emma Chen was standing next to my desk. Emma was nice. She'd let me borrow a pencil once without making it weird. But even nice people made me nervous.
"You okay?" she asked, tilting her head. "You look kind of pale."
"I'm fine," I said quickly. Too quickly. My voice came out squeaky and strange.
Emma's eyes drifted to my backpack, where the edge of the crumpled note peeked out. I yanked the zipper closed.
"Okay," Emma said slowly. She didn't sound convinced, but she walked back to her desk anyway.
I pulled out my chemistry textbook and pretended to read, but the words blurred together. My mind kept circling back to the note. Who left it this time? Was it the same person who'd written the others, or did multiple people hate me? How did they even get here before me? I'd arrived at 6:30, a full hour before school started.
Someone must have come even earlier. Just to make sure I knew I wasn't welcome.
The morning announcements crackled through the speaker. Principal Martinez's voice droned on about the upcoming fall dance and soccer tryouts. Normal kid stuff. Stuff that had nothing to do with me.
I'd been at Westwood Academy for exactly twenty-three days. Twenty-three days of eating lunch in bathroom stalls. Twenty-three days of keeping my head down and my mouth shut. Twenty-three days of trying to be invisible.
It wasn't working.
"All right, class," Mr. Peterson said, clapping his hands together. "Pop quiz time!"
Groans erupted around me. I actually felt relieved. Tests were easy. Tests were predictable. Tests didn't leave notes on your desk.
Mr. Peterson handed out the papers face-down. "You have fifteen minutes. No talking, no phones, no excuses. Begin."
I flipped over my quiz and my stomach sank.
The entire page was covered in red marker. Not quiz questions. Words.
FREAK. LOSER. GO HOME. NOBODY LIKES YOU.
Over and over and over, filling every blank space.
My vision went fuzzy at the edges. The classroom felt too hot, too small, too loud. I couldn't breathe right.
"Mr. Peterson?" My voice barely made it past my lips.
He didn't hear me. He was writing the homework assignment on the board, his back turned.
I raised my hand higher. "Mr. Peterson?"
"Not now, Mira. Everyone should be working."
But I couldn't work. I couldn't think. Someone had gotten to the quizzes before class. Someone had specifically targeted mine. Someone knew exactly where I sat.
I glanced around the room, trying to catch someone looking at me, waiting to see my reaction. But everyone's heads were bent over their papers, pencils scratching away.
Except one person.
Jake Marshall sat three rows over, and he was staring right at me. When our eyes met, he smiled. Not a friendly smile. Something else. Something that made my skin crawl.
Then he went back to his quiz like nothing happened.
My hands trembled as I raised them again. "Mr. Peterson, there's a problem with my—"
"Mira, I said not now." His voice had an edge to it. "If you're finished early, check your work."
I wasn't finished. I couldn't even start. But I lowered my hand and stared at the ruined quiz, tears burning behind my eyes. I would not cry. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
The fifteen minutes felt like fifteen hours.
When Mr. Peterson finally called time, I was the first one to flip my paper face-down. I walked to his desk with my head low and placed it in the pile, red-side down, covered by other quizzes.
Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he'd think it was my fault somehow. Maybe it didn't even matter.
I went back to my seat and pulled out my phone under my desk, even though we weren't supposed to. I needed to see something normal, something that wasn't filled with hate.
Three new messages lit up my screen.
Unknown number.
My blood turned to ice.
We see you.
We're watching.
Today's the day.
My phone slipped from my shaking fingers and clattered onto my desk. Several kids looked over. Jake was smiling again.
"Mira?" Emma whispered from behind me. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up completely.
The bell rang for next period, and everyone stampeded for the door. I sat frozen until the room emptied out, staring at those three messages.
Today's the day.
The day for what?
I forced myself to stand on wobbly legs and gathered my stuff. The hallway was a river of students flowing between classes, shouting and laughing and living normal lives. I pressed myself against the wall and tried to blend into the lockers.
That's when I saw them.
Posted on every locker, taped to every wall, covering every bulletin board: printed pictures of me. Photos I didn't even know existed. Me eating alone at lunch. Me reading in the library. Me getting off the bus.
And written across each one in thick red letters:
WESTWOOD'S BIGGEST MISTAKE
The hallway spun. Voices crashed over me like waves. Someone laughed, high and cruel. I couldn't tell who. It could have been anyone. Everyone.
I ran.
I didn't know where I was going, just that I had to get away. My backpack slammed against my spine as my feet pounded down the hallway. Teachers shouted after me but I didn't stop.
I burst through the exit doors into the parking lot, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
And that's when I saw it.
My mom's car in the parking lot, driver's door hanging open.
Mom was supposed to be at work. She dropped me off two hours ago.
Why was her car still here?
I walked toward it on shaking legs, my phone clutched in my hand. The driver's seat was empty, but her purse sat on the passenger seat, her coffee still in the cup holder.
A piece of paper was tucked under the windshield wiper.
With trembling fingers, I pulled it free.
Five words, written in that same red marker:
WE HAVE WHAT YOU LOVE.