Chapter 2: Rumors and Accusations

After the latest round of bullying, I posted on an anonymous forum, desperate for advice on how to make my tormentor pay. The glow from my cheap desk lamp cast long shadows over my battered textbooks as I typed, heart pounding with each word.

My post vanished quickly, but that night, I got a reply:

"Probably by becoming the top SAT scorer in the city. If a school bully targets you, it embarrasses the whole district."

I read it twice, the words both comforting and cold. Whoever wrote it understood. For a second, I let myself imagine winning—being the one they all had to respect.

But then, with a shaky thumb, I deleted the post. No one could know I’d ever reached out. My hand trembled as I set the phone down on my open notebook.

Aubrey Langley, my deskmate, leaned over and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, "June, you might want to put your phone away. Teacher’s watching."

Her tone walked the line between helpful and smug, her pale pink nails glinting under the fluorescent lights. I shot her a look, unsure if she was trying to help or just setting me up.

Homework hour was so quiet you could hear the scratch of pens and the shuffle of notebook pages. The sun was setting behind the football field, golden light spilling over the faded trophy case. For a moment, everything felt normal—until it didn’t.

Mr. Peterson must’ve overheard Aubrey. He slammed his pen down and stalked over, the strong scent of coffee following him.

He stretched out his hand. "Hand it over."

His palm hovered inches from my face. I could feel every eye in the room burning into me, hungry for the next round of drama.

The silence broke into whispers:

"Aubrey warned her, but she’s still on her phone. Serves her right."

I clenched my fists under the desk, fighting the urge to snap. There was always someone waiting for me to mess up.

"Didn’t you hear? She transferred from Toledo because her dad got caught stealing."

Rumors spread like spilled soda—sticky, impossible to clean up. The lies rolled faster:

"My cousin saw repo guys at her house last week. Her mom works at a bar—guess being a thief runs in the family."

The venom in their voices stung. I stared at the cinderblock wall, wishing I could disappear.

"Poor Aubrey, stuck sitting next to her. I’d just quit."

Snickers and the creak of a chair. Everyone wanted a front-row seat.

A wave of mocking laughter rolled over me. I pretended to study the graffiti on my desk, trying not to care.

Meanwhile, Aubrey looked embarrassed—cheeks pink, fingers twisting her scrunchie. She shot me a quick glance, then turned to Mr. Peterson. "Mr. Peterson, June didn’t mean it. Please let her off this time. She won’t do it again."

Her voice was syrupy, hands clasped in front of her like she was begging for mercy. She glanced at me, then at the teacher. "Her mom’s already got enough to worry about. Just let it slide, okay?"

The room went quiet. I felt the pity and the condescension in every word. When did Aubrey get so familiar with my life?

Mr. Peterson’s patience snapped. He smacked his hand on my desk. “Doesn’t matter where you come from, June. Even folks scraping by know right from wrong.”

The slap rattled my pens. His meaning was clear: I was less than nothing.

He gave me one last chance. "Hand it over. Don’t make me say it again."

I forced myself to say, "I wasn’t on my phone."

He didn’t believe me. "You’re lying. If you weren’t, why’d Aubrey warn you?"

Aubrey tugged my sleeve. "Just give it up, June. He’s already mad."

Her cold fingers gripped my arm, but her eyes sparkled. She was enjoying this—pretending to worry while stoking the fire.

Mr. Peterson yanked open my desk, spilling books everywhere. "Aubrey, check her backpack."

Aubrey hesitated, voice trembling. "Sorry, June." She started digging through my bag, classmates craning for a better look.

Her hands rifled through my stuff—old receipts, crumpled notes, a balled-up hoodie. She checked every pocket, lips moving as she counted.

She found nothing, so she emptied my desk basket, books thudding onto the tile. Aubrey’s face darkened as she came up empty-handed, her confidence fading.

Mr. Peterson reminded her, "Does she have it on her?"

Aubrey searched my sleeves, my pockets—nothing. The humiliation burned, but I kept my face blank.

Just then, Mr. Peterson’s phone buzzed. He left the room, grumbling.

The mood plummeted. The class was robbed of their show, but nobody doubted my guilt.

They blamed their disappointment on my sneakiness and Aubrey’s supposed kindness.

Some even whispered that Aubrey must have hidden the phone for me.

As I knelt to gather my books, the linoleum was cold against my knees. Aubrey’s Nikes pinned my notebook like she owned the place. I had to tug it free, pretending not to notice.

I had a reputation: liar, thief—no one would believe me. But this was the first time I’d ever actually lied.

Funny how being broke finally worked in my favor. The hole in my pocket was the only thing that saved me. My school pants had a hole, so I’d slipped the phone down my pant leg to my ankle, pressing my thigh to the chair so it wouldn’t fall out.

Aubrey slid her math homework over. "Help me with this?" she asked, all sweetness.

She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know, it’s kinda annoying how you’re actually smart." She jabbed my hand with her pen, leaving tiny dents as a reminder of who was in charge.