It was the middle of October when the weather finally started turning properly cold in upstate New York.
West High had that particular damp, radiator-smelling warmth in the hallways that made everyone feel a little sluggish by third period.
I had managed to secure the corner desk near the emergency exit in the library because the Wi-Fi actually worked over there without dropping every five minutes.
For the first two months of the semester, things had been relatively quiet for me.
I wasn't popular, but I wasn't completely invisible either, which felt like a safe middle ground to maintain.
Marcus had been in my homeroom since freshman year, and we usually just ignored each other in the corridors.
He played varsity lacrosse and always traveled in that loud pack of guys who took up the entire center aisle by the lockers.
Lately, though, he had started making these little passing comments whenever I crossed his path near the cafeteria.
Nothing major enough to report to the vice principal, just enough to make my stomach tighten whenever I saw his red letterman jacket coming down the hall.
My friend group had kind of dissolved over the summer when Sarah switched to the private school across town.
That left me mostly eating lunch alone in the bleachers or sitting quietly in the corner of the media center.
Chloe and I were paired up for AP History back in September, which mostly meant we shared notes over Google Docs and rarely spoke in person.
I thought things were at least stable enough that I could get through the school day without any major incidents.
The history essay was due by midnight, and I was desperately trying to finish the paragraph about the New Deal before the bell rang.
The library was unusually quiet except for the low hum of the vending machine near the water fountain.
That was when I heard those heavy sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor right behind my chair.
Marcus appeared in my peripheral vision holding a clear plastic cup filled with brown liquid and lots of crushed ice.
Before I could even register that he was standing in my personal space, he tilted his wrist.
The cold, heavy stream hit the back of my hood with a dull, wet thud.
The liquid instantly saturated the thick fleece, soaking through to my undershirt in a matter of seconds.
The shock of the freezing temperature made me gasp out loud before I could stop myself.
"Oops, my hand slipped," Marcus said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet study area.
He didn't sound panicked or apologetic; he sounded like he was reading lines from a script everyone else had already memorized.
I turned around in the chair, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought the people next to me could hear it.
Marcus was already walking away toward the exit doors, flanked by two of his lacrosse teammates who were trying hard not to smile.
The sticky brown puddle was slowly dripping off the hem of my hoodie onto the gray carpet of the library floor.
I looked over at Chloe to see if she had seen what happened, but her eyes were glued firmly to her screen.
Her jaw was tight, and she kept typing away on her laptop as if the noise didn't exist at all.
Across the room, Mr. Henderson, the librarian, was busy stamping books at the front desk with his back completely turned to us.
The kids by the magazine rack definitely noticed, because I could hear the distinct sound of muffled giggling and whispered commentary.
I sat there in the damp, freezing chair with my hands resting limply on the edge of the desk.
