"Lunch is in the freezer, and remember—study after school. Questions later."
Mom's voice cut through our tiny kitchen as she twisted my Afro into Bantu knots, her fingers moving fast, tugging just enough to sting.
I winced but stayed still. Sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed on the wall. I knew the drill—yes ma, no complaints.
"And remember, Nina Davis..."
She grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes to hers. That African mom stare—the kind that burned straight through your excuses.
I sighed and recited flatly, "Stay away from them boys."
Her smile spread, satisfied, like I was a soldier repeating training orders. "Good girl." A pat on the cheek, softer this time.
For a second, I saw what most people didn't: her tenderness. The woman under the armor.
My mom was strong. Beautiful. Brave. She walked out of an abusive marriage with nothing but me and a plan. Back in Lagos, she had a steady bank job, a small apartment, and savings. She threw it all into two U.S. visas.
One suitcase. One accent. One nine-year-old daughter clutching her hand.
Now, years later, here we were in Chicago. A one-bedroom apartment on the South Side. She worked two jobs, kept food in the freezer, and still braided my hair at night.
And me? I was supposed to make it count.
Study hard. Be invisible. Avoid mistakes.
The perfect daughter.
But it was senior year, and something in my gut said rules wouldn't hold forever.
---
I stood in front of the mirror, brushing imaginary lint from my blazer.
The navy fabric was faded at the cuffs. The lining itched where stitches came undone. It wasn't new, but it was pressed—Mom had ironed it while I did math homework.
The Westbridge Academy crest sat crooked on my chest. Gold thread dulled, but it still glinted like a badge I hadn't quite earned.
Pleated skirt? Hand-me-down. Flats? Scuffed but polished. Everything about me said "secondhand."
I adjusted my Bantu knots and breathed deep.
I looked decent. Normal. But at Westbridge, normal wasn't enough.
The rich kids wore tailored uniforms and sneakers so fresh they squeaked. They carried bags with logos you could spot from across the hallway. They had last names people whispered, connections older than the school itself.
Me? I had a scholarship. Teachers who expected me to work twice as hard. Students who barely saw me at all.
So I kept my head down. Survive. Don't stand out.
"Nina, the bus is here! Don't miss it—or you'll be walking, and you know what that does to your shoes!"
Mom's voice snapped me back.
I grabbed my school bag from the cupboard, dodging the open tin of beads and needles she'd used on my hair the night before. Her hands fixed everything—braids, hems, life.
"I'm going, I'm going," I mumbled, blowing her a kiss on my way out.
"Love you!" she called after me, giggling like she was the teen, not me.
---
The bus wheezed to a stop. I slid into my usual seat: second-to-last row, window side. Not too close to the loud kids. Not too close to the front with the try-hards. Rule one of school survival: don't stand out.
By the time we reached Westbridge, my chest was tight. My blazer too big at the shoulders. My flats still scuffed. My bag… practical, not pretty.
The school loomed like a castle—brick walls, polished floors, money in every corner.
I pushed through the crowd, kept my chin tucked, and made it to my locker. Voices bounced off the hallway walls—perfume clouds, camera clicks, laughter sharp as glass.
I was just shoving notebooks into the metal shelf when I felt it.
The shift in the air.
The Quad was coming.
Even before I saw them, I knew.
Savannah Dupont. Platinum blonde, uniform tailored to the edge of rebellion, lips glossed like a magazine cover. Daughter of French supermodel Maude Dupont. Savannah didn't walk—she glided. The school bowed in her wake.
Behind her: Nana Miller, runway in motion, tall and sharp as glass. Aliyah Jordan, basketball phenom, sneakers already whispered about by Nike. Nika Maharani, Bollywood royalty—quiet, but her last name carried thunder.
They moved as one, a walking commercial for power and perfection.
Me? Nina Davis. Secondhand uniform. Invisible scholarship girl.
I kept my eyes glued to my locker. With girls like Savannah, you weren't neutral. You were beneath their radar—or under their heel.
Click. Click. The sound of Savannah's heels.
A laugh—sharp, deliberate.
My pulse spiked, but I didn't turn. Relief only came when they passed by, ignoring me like I didn't exist.
Some days, invisibility was survival.
---
Westbridge was its own world—rumors and cafeteria wars, hallway standoffs and golden boys. Savannah ruled it. Most days I slipped through unnoticed.
But not everyone had that luxury.
Like my best friend, Kiki. Loud, brilliant, unapologetically nerdy. Too rich to be pitied, too different to be left alone. Savannah once called her a "glorified IT girl" just for fun.
I was pulling open my locker when her voice rang out.
"Mmm… is that who I think it is?"
I didn't need to ask.
I followed her gaze anyway.
Straight to him.
Devonte Jackson.
Six-foot-something, skin gleaming, cornrows neat and freshly oiled. Leaning against his locker like gravity obeyed him. Blazer snug on his shoulders, smile lazy and lethal.
The kind of guy who turned a hallway into a movie set just by standing there.
I groaned. "Kiki, stop. Devonte and me? Not even in the same universe."
She smirked, curls bouncing as she leaned on the locker beside mine. "You sure? Looked like you were watching a season finale."
I rolled my eyes. "Devonte's life is penthouses and private trainers. Mine is bus cards and instant noodles. Case closed."
But even as I said it, my chest betrayed me. Because maybe, just maybe, I had been staring.
Kiki nudged me. "Even if he did notice you, your mom would bury you alive."
I snorted. "Facts."
We started toward class. I caught a flash of silver at her neck.
"Hold up—is that a diamond chain?"
She tilted her chin proudly, hair swaying like a music video. "Limited edition. Dad picked it up in Dubai."
Of course he did.
I looked down at my own cheap necklace, the chain already fading. "Must be nice."
Her heels clicked. My flats whispered.
She didn't care about fitting in. I didn't dare to.
But somehow, we made it work.