Madison slammed Ava’s head onto the desk before anyone in the classroom admitted they were watching.
The sound cracked through the room. Ava’s pencil rolled beneath a row of chairs, her notebook fell open, and every conversation near the windows stopped at once.
I was standing outside the classroom with a stack of printed worksheets when I heard it. I remember the smell of dry-erase marker and the red baseball cap hanging from the teacher’s chair. I also remember thinking that someone would help her.
No one did.
Madison grabbed the back of Ava’s cream cardigan and pulled her upright. Her bright pink hair swung over one shoulder as she smiled down at her.
“Still writing about people who don’t care?” Madison asked.
Ava tried to steady herself against the desk. Her long blonde hair covered most of her face, but I could see the red mark forming near her temple.
She did not answer.
That was what made Madison laugh.
Ava had learned that silence was safer. She had learned it after months of being mocked, shoved in crowded hallways, and blamed whenever Madison decided the room needed entertainment. She kept her head down, finished her assignments, and never gave anyone the reaction they wanted.
Madison hated that most of all.
“Answer me,” she said.
Ava’s fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. “Please leave me alone.”
The words were quiet, but they carried across the room.
Madison looked toward the other students.
“Did you hear that?” she asked. “She thinks she can give orders now.”
A girl named Tessa stood near the back counter, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up, saw Ava on her feet, and quickly looked away.
That glance told me this was not the first time.
I stepped into the room, but nobody noticed me. Or maybe they noticed and decided I was not their problem either.
Madison kicked the leg of Ava’s chair.
The chair shot backward. Ava lost her balance and landed hard on the floor. Papers scattered beneath her, sliding across the polished tiles. One page stopped near my shoe.
It was a handwritten page covered in crossed-out sentences. At the top, Ava had written a single line:
I wish people could see what happens when they look away.
I bent down and picked it up.
Ava saw me holding it. Her face changed from pain to panic.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Madison turned toward me for half a second, then took the notebook from the floor.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Give it back,” Ava said.
Madison flipped through the pages. Most were filled with small handwriting, careful notes, and drawings in the margins. There were dates beside some of the entries.
Madison’s smile faded when she saw the dates.
Then it returned.
“You’ve been keeping records?” she asked.