The Stage of Ashwick High
Elara always knew Mondays were cursed, but this one? This one took the crown.
She could feel it the second she stepped into the schoolyard, like the universe had placed a sticky note on her forehead that read: Target today.
The air was warm already, too warm for October, the kind of heat that clung under sweaters and made you regret every life decision involving long sleeves. Jonas was already sweating like a marathon runner, clutching a half-eaten donut in one hand and his backpack in the other. Sierra was arguing with Mila about whether or not aliens would actually want to visit Earth ("Why would they? Look at the cafeteria food, it's basically an anti-tourism ad").
And Elara? Elara just wanted invisibility. Just one day where her name wasn't dragged into Vivienne Blackthorn's perfect, glossy orbit. But wishing that was like wishing fire wouldn't burn.
The day unraveled quick.
---
Mr. Benson asked a question about treaties Elara actually knew the answer to (finally, her brain for once useful). She raised her hand cautiously. Not too high. Just… enough.
"Ah, Elara," Benson said, peering over his glasses.
And right as she opened her mouth—Vivienne coughed. Except it wasn't a cough. It was an imitation. A cruel, nasal version of Elara's voice saying "Ummm" on repeat.
The whole row of students cracked up.
Elara's throat closed. The words tangled. By the time she managed to say the answer, her voice sounded broken. Too quiet. Too late.
"Correct," Benson muttered, but the sting of laughter clung like gum to her shoe.
And Vivienne smiled like she'd just solved world hunger.
---
Vivienne had somehow switched her notebook with Elara's when she wasn't looking. So when Mr. Clarke collected homework, Elara handed in a notebook filled with pages of doodled hearts and "V + L = ???" scrawled over and over.
Laughter rippled across the class. Mr. Clarke raised an eyebrow at her like she was either a secret romantic or a complete idiot. Probably both.
"Not funny," Elara whispered, trying to explain, but no one listened.
Jonas whispered, "Well hey, at least it wasn't my snacks she stole this time."
Elara wanted the floor to open up and eat her alive.
---
By lunchtime, the tension in her chest was so heavy she could barely breathe. She carried her tray—soggy fries, mystery meat, a carton of milk—like it was radioactive. Her friends were already at their usual corner table. Jonas was halfway through his burger before she even sat down. Sierra had her boots propped on the bench, daring the world to tell her to stop. Mila waved dramatically, like she was in a soap opera.
"Elara!" she cried. "Darling, sit, you look like you've been chased by wolves."
If only Mila knew how close that metaphor might one day cut.
But Elara managed a weak smile, sliding into her seat. "Just… long morning."
"You look pale," Jonas said through a mouthful of fries. "Like vampire pale. You okay?"
"I'm fine," she lied.
And then Vivienne happened.
She didn't walk into a room. She arrived. Like some queen making an entrance, her heels clicking against the linoleum, her perfume somehow cutting through the cafeteria stench of grease and teenage sweat. She had her posse with her, two girls trailing like satellites, orbiting her gravity.
They sat at the table dead center of the room, the stage of Ashwick High. Where everyone could see them. Where Vivienne wanted everyone to see her.
And of course, she needed a show.
"Hey, Rivers!" Vivienne called suddenly, her voice slicing across the noise.
Elara's fork froze mid-air. Her friends all turned. The cafeteria did that awful ripple, heads swiveling, whispers catching like wildfire.
Vivienne smirked. "Why don't you come up here a sec?"
Every instinct screamed No. Don't. Hide. But refusing Vivienne was worse. Refusal made you weak, pathetic. And Vivienne never let weak things survive.
So Elara stood. Slowly. Her legs felt like they were moving through cement.
"Go on," Mila whispered fiercely. "Don't let her win."
Sierra muttered, "I'll punch her if she tries anything."
Jonas just handed her a breadstick. "For courage."
It wasn't much, but it was something.
She walked to the center of the cafeteria, heat prickling her neck. Vivienne leaned back in her chair, lazy, like a cat toying with a mouse.
"So," Vivienne said sweetly, "you've been so quiet lately, Elara. I think everyone deserves to hear you speak. How about you… read this for us?"
She held out a folded sheet of paper.
Elara hesitated, then took it. Her fingers shook as she opened it. Words stared back at her, scrawled in neat, mocking handwriting:
A love poem. To Jonas.
Her stomach dropped.
"I—I didn't write this," she started, voice cracking.
But Vivienne was already standing, sweeping the paper away and reading it aloud herself. Loud. Clear. Cruel.
"'Oh Jonas, your eyes like twin pools of gravy, your lips dripping ketchup like the gods themselves—'"
The cafeteria erupted. Laughter thundered off the walls, so loud it made Elara's head spin. Jonas choked on his burger, eyes wide with horror.
Elara's face burned. Tears threatened, hot and furious.
But Vivienne wasn't done. She waved the paper like a flag. "Elara Rivers, secret romantic! Who knew the nerd had a crush on her best friend? How… tragic."
Elara couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. She wanted to scream, to claw, to vanish.
Instead, she ran.
The cafeteria doors slammed behind her, laughter echoing in her ears like a cruel chorus.
---
She didn't stop running until she hit the bathroom. Empty. Cold. She locked herself in a stall, sinking onto the toilet lid, clutching her chest. Her heart pounded like a trapped bird.
And then—there it was. The voice. Louder now. Sharper.
They humiliate you. They break you. But you are not theirs to destroy.
Elara gasped, gripping the stall wall. "Wh-what…?"
Silence. Just her ragged breath.
But she swore she felt it—something rising inside her. Something ancient. Fierce.
Not yet. Not fully. But soon.
---
Back in the cafeteria, Vivienne sat like a queen on her throne, satisfied. She didn't notice the faint tremor in the air, or the way the shadows in the hallway seemed a little… thicker than before.
She didn't notice the storm building.
But it was coming.
And Elara Rivers was no mouse. Not forever.
---