The corridors of Ravenstone High smelled of polished floors, cheap perfume, and a hint of teenage rebellion.
Susan walked slowly, her second-hand shoes scraping against the tiled floor. Her backpack, torn at the seams, hung limply from one shoulder. She clutched a worn-out notebook to her chest like it could somehow shield her from the stares, the whispers, the cruel giggles that followed her wherever she went.
Today was no different.
"Did you see what she's wearing?"
"I think my grandma has better shoes!"
"Maybe we should start a GoFundMe for her — or just buy her a mirror!"
The words floated after her like poison arrows.
Every hallway, every classroom was a battlefield she couldn't escape.
Jessica Aldridge and her clique, known around campus as "The Untouchables," ruled the school like a twisted monarchy.
Jessica — tall, with honey-blonde hair always in perfect waves, flawless skin, and piercing blue eyes — led the pack with a confidence Susan couldn't even dream of.
Beside her, girls like Tanya Brooks (petite, with fiery red hair and cruel green eyes) and Amanda Lewis (curvy, loud, always carrying the latest designer handbag) acted as her loyal soldiers.
They hated Susan.
Not because she had anything they wanted — but because they could.
Because she was weak.
Because she was alone.
---
Later that afternoon, Susan sat at the back of Mr. Hargrove's Literature class, trying to disappear into the peeling paint on the walls.
Her uniform skirt was too short — not by choice — and she kept tugging it down nervously.
The teacher droned on about Shakespeare, about tragedy, about love that ended in ruin.
Susan wanted to laugh bitterly.
Love?
That was for people like Jessica — not orphans who were only adopted because their "parents" wanted tax breaks and social clout.
Mr. Hargrove paused mid-sentence.
"Miss Carter?" he barked, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "Answer the question."
Susan blinked.
Question?
The class stared.
Jessica smirked.
Susan swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "I—I don't know, sir."
The snickers were immediate.
Mr. Hargrove rolled his eyes. "Try paying attention instead of daydreaming about… whatever it is you do."
Another ripple of laughter.
Another bruise on her heart.
---
After school, Susan made her way to the parking lot where students were climbing into shiny luxury cars — BMWs, Audis, sleek sports models with license plates like 999, 888, 777 — symbols of wealth and power.
Susan walked past them, invisible.
Her only way home was the dusty public bus — if she was lucky and the driver didn't speed away before she could reach it.
As she shuffled past the lot, someone bumped into her hard.
She stumbled, her notebook flying from her hands.
"Watch it, loser!"
It was Chase Harrington, the football team captain — tall, tanned, muscles straining against his letterman jacket.
Susan didn't respond.
She bent down, gathering the pages of her notebook, her cheeks burning with shame.
As she stood, her eyes accidentally locked again — across the crowd — with him.
Jackim.
He was leaning against a battered old bike, his hoodie pulled low, headphones draped around his neck.
Unlike the others, he didn't laugh.
He looked away quickly, pretending he hadn't seen her.
But Susan had seen the flicker in his eyes — pity?
Or was it something else?
---
That night, at the Carson mansion, Susan scrubbed the marble floors on her knees until her hands bled.
Beatrice Carson stood over her, sipping wine in a silk robe.
"You'll never be one of us," she said casually, like stating a weather report. "No matter how hard you try."
Susan bit her lip until she tasted blood.
She said nothing.
She knew the rules.
Never speak unless spoken to.
Never cry.
Never hope.
She finished her chores and climbed up the cold, winding stairs to her tiny attic room — no heater, no comfort, just a thin mattress and a broken dresser.
Susan stared at the cracked ceiling.
Tomorrow would be another battle.
Another day of being stepped on, laughed at, ignored.
But somewhere — deep, deep down — a tiny ember of defiance sparked in her heart.
Maybe... just maybe... she wouldn't stay invisible forever.
Maybe.
---