I heard Kelsey laugh.
Madison held my glasses above her head.
"Oh," she said. "So this is what makes you special?"
"Give them back."
My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
Madison turned toward the class. "Everybody look. Nora can't even see without these."
Kelsey lifted her phone.
I stood halfway, but Madison stepped behind my chair and held the glasses out of reach.
"Sit down," she said.
I froze.
The teacher was still in the hallway. The other students were watching now. Some looked uncomfortable. Some looked entertained. One boy had already turned his phone toward us.
Madison waved the glasses near my face.
"Ask nicely."
"Give them back."
"Try harder."
"They're mine."
"That's not how this works."
Kelsey moved beside her. "Maybe she should say please."
I could hear my own breathing. I could hear the air conditioner. I could hear the tiny metal hinge in my glasses creak between Madison's fingers.
Those glasses had belonged to my father.
He had worn them while fixing radios at our kitchen table. He had worn them when he helped me with math. He had worn them the last morning before he left for work and never came home.
After the accident, my mother gave them to me.
The frames had been repaired twice, but I kept wearing them because they were one of the few things that still felt like him.
Madison knew that.
She had seen me take them off during a school picture. She had asked where they came from, and I had answered because I thought she was genuinely curious.