Unseen Scars

Past is a trick door - she was through it before she knew. Locker row C smelled like floor wax and anxiety. Posters for Spirit Week curled at the corners. Jessica, flanked by her pastel entourage, had held up Chloe’s lunch bag like a trophy. “Who packed sardines?” she’d laughed, wrinkling her perfect nose, and the boys from varsity had howled. Another day, a note taped to Chloe’s locker: a whale doodle with the caption SPLASH. Once, in algebra, Jessica had whispered loud enough for three rows to hear, “You’d be pretty if you didn’t try so hard,” and the class had dissolved into that mean, crackling laughter that leaves more bruises than fists. On the gym bleachers during pep rally, Jessica had “accidentally” bumped Chloe’s binder. Algebra notes, doodles of rain clouds, a meticulous to-do list - papers the color of Chloe’s actual hope - had drifted down like confetti. Chloe had spent study hall on hands and knees gathering what could be salvaged while a janitor’s cart squeaked by.