In the crowded main hallway, my old backpack snagged on someone's locker.
It happened every Tuesday and Thursday, on my way to art class.
My bag was always too full, always brushing against something.
I usually just ignored it, tugging harder.
The hallways at Northwood High always felt too narrow anyway.
I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with most people.
It was easier that way, less chance of being noticed.
Being noticed often meant being scrutinized.
Or worse, being laughed at.
I had learned that lesson early on.
Sarah and her friends usually hung out by the vending machines.
They were the kind of girls who made you feel invisible and hyper-visible all at once.
They weren't overtly mean to me, not usually.
Just a cold shoulder here, a dismissive glance there.
Small, almost imperceptible cuts.
I knew they thought my art was weird.
I heard Sarah once say my drawings were "dark" and "obsessive."
She said it loud enough for me to hear from two tables away in the cafeteria.
I just pretended not to.
I tried not to let it get to me, but it did.
My sketchbook was my only real refuge.
It was where I put all the feelings I couldn't say out loud.
The crushes, the anxieties, the anger.
All of it was in there, scrawled and shaded in graphite.
It was my secret world, carefully hidden beneath textbooks.
That morning, I had been extra careful.
I even checked the zipper on the art pocket twice.
I wanted to protect the messy doodle of Mark, the one with his messy hair and kind eyes.
It was a silly, quick sketch I had done during history class.
I knew it was bad, but it made me smile.
I never wanted anyone else to see it.
As I hurried past the lockers, I felt a slight jerk.
I kept walking, thinking nothing of it.
Then, a soft thud behind me.
It was distinct, unlike any other sound in the noisy hall.
My stomach dropped like a stone.
I knew that sound.
It was the sound of my worn-out sketchbook hitting the grimy linoleum floor.
It lay face down, its faded cover mocking me.
My heart hammered against my ribs, making my ears ring.
Sarah, from my art class, was right there.
She was laughing with her friends, Megan and Chloe.
They had their backs to me at first.
Then Sarah turned, her eyes landing on the book.
Her laughter stopped abruptly.
She wasn't looking at me, but at the book, lying vulnerable on the floor.
"Oh, look what we have here," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.
Megan and Chloe turned to look, their expressions changing from bored to curious.
She bent down slowly, a deliberate, predatory movement.
My blood ran cold.
"Hey, don't touch that!" I blurted out, my voice cracking.
It was maybe too loud, too desperate.
But it was too late.
Her fingers were already on the cover, thin and perfectly manicured.
A couple of her friends stopped talking, watching, sensing a moment of entertainment.
She picked it up, flipping it open with an exaggerated flourish.
The pages were full of my secret world.
Ugly, raw sketches of my feelings, my insecurities, my private observations.
And that stupid doodle of Mark, the one I had a crush on.
It was right there, on the page she opened first.
Her eyes scanned the page, her smile widening into a triumphant sneer.
"Oh, my," she whispered, loud enough for her friends to hear clearly.
Her gaze lifted, meeting mine across the bustling hallway.
"Is this... Mark?" she asked, her voice laced with feigned innocence.
Her expression was a cruel mix of fake surprise and pure malice.
The hallway, moments ago a blur of chatter and movement, felt like it had suddenly gone silent.
Everyone was looking at me, then at the open book.
My face felt like it was on fire, a blistering heat spreading across my cheeks.
I wanted the floor to swallow me whole right then, disappear into the cracks.
Megan and Chloe started to giggle, a low, cruel sound that pierced through the sudden quiet.
"You draw him like that?" Chloe snickered, nudging Megan.
