Chapter 3

That symbol had been haunting me for two days.

Could it be him? That 4.0 GPA, MIT early-admission genius actually sneaking around spray-painting graffiti at night?

But I had no chance to confirm. Tuesday came and he was "sick" again, missing art class while I finished that critique assignment alone.

By Wednesday morning, I still hadn't figured out how to face him—

Then my locker answered with a brutal punch to the gut.

The metal door swung open and garbage cascaded out like a waterfall, all over me. Rotted food scraps, used tissues, and—my sketches, all torn to shreds.

Most jarring was the message scrawled on the inside of my locker in red marker: Trash belongs in the trash can.

"Oh my God!"

"Get it! Get it!"

The hallway fell silent, then erupted, everyone freezing mid-step, phones shooting up everywhere to capture me. I crouched down to gather the pieces, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

Those were my drawings—three weeks of work for my portfolio, all destroyed. Every single sketch torn into thumbnail-sized fragments, like someone had fed them through a shredder deliberately.

"Oh my God, Olivia, what happened?"

Mia's voice cut through the crowd, that fake concern making my stomach turn. She stood at the center of her clique, hand over her mouth, eyes wide, as if genuinely shocked.

I stood up, scraps of paper falling from my hair, and met her gaze head-on. "You know exactly what happened."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Mia blinked innocently, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Maybe you should be more careful with your things. This school has a pretty bad theft problem, you know."

Her friends erupted in laughter.

My fingers dug into my palms so hard my nails nearly broke skin. But I couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

"Still recording? Make sure you post it on TikTok!" someone called from behind me.

I clutched the shredded remains of my portfolio and speed-walked to the bathroom, locking myself in a stall for the entire first period.

By lunch, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

At first I thought it was Mom texting, but when I opened Instagram, I froze.

That anonymous account had posted again—this time, a "highlight reel" of my most unflattering moments. A dozen candid shots catching me at my worst: mid-yawn with my eyes rolled back, wolfing down cafeteria food, nodding off in class with half-closed eyes.

The caption read: "How to Look Poor at a Rich Kid School—An Olivia Martinez Tutorial"

My hands started trembling, but I clicked on the comments anyway.

[I bet she steals from the cafeteria]

[Scholarship trash shouldn't be allowed here]

[I heard her mom's a janitor lmao]

[Why does she even try? She'll never fit in]

[That nose ring is so trashy]

Over two hundred comments, each one a knife twisting deeper. I wanted to delete Instagram, my finger hovering over the delete button, but instead I hit refresh.

More comments flooded in.

I retreated to the farthest bathroom stall, sliding down the cold tile wall until I was sitting on the floor. Tears finally came, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound.

My phone kept buzzing, notification after notification, like someone repeatedly stomping on my dignity.

I turned it off, buried my face in my knees.

I don't know how long I sat there.

The bell rang.

I stood up, my legs numb. In the sink mirror, my eyes were puffy and red, tears still clinging to my lashes. I splashed cold water on my face, took a deep breath.

I still had a portfolio to finish. The deadline was getting closer.

I couldn't fall apart.

That afternoon in AP Studio Art, I walked in on pure willpower.

My canvas was still on the easel—that piece I'd been working on for three months, almost finished. It was the centerpiece of my portfolio, an abstract expressionist oil painting with layers of texture and color, depicting the interplay of struggle and hope.

Mr. Harrison had said it was one of the most promising student works he'd ever seen.

I sat down, picked up my brush, tried to focus. But my hands were still shaking, and I squeezed the paint tubes at the wrong angle.

"Hey."

Willard's voice came from beside me. He was late again, sauntering into class, taking the stool next to mine.

Today he wore a limited-edition Supreme hoodie—trying for street style, but those pristine Air Jordans gave it all away. At least a thousand dollars.

I remembered Ms. Peterson's words from that day: "Are you sure your family can afford this?" A wave of bitterness and anger rose in my chest.

Willard opened his sketchbook and started doodling. I glanced over—he was drawing an abstract spiral pattern, the lines fluid and confident.

"You okay?" he asked suddenly, voice low. "You look like hell."

"Thanks," I said coldly. "Just what I needed to hear."

He shrugged, said nothing more.

Then everything happened too fast.

Mia walked past my desk, carrying a bottle of paint thinner. As she passed my easel, she "accidentally" tripped over something, and the entire bottle splashed onto my canvas.

"Oops!"

I screamed, jumping up: "What did you do?!"

But it was already too late. The thinner ate through the paint like acid, three months of work melting, running, being destroyed before my eyes. All those layers bleeding together into a muddy smear.

"I'm so sorry! It was an accident! I tripped!" Mia gasped, hand over mouth, voice perfectly horrified, but her eyes were laughing.

The classroom erupted in chaos.

Mr. Harrison rushed over, trying to salvage the canvas, but the thinner had already soaked through. He looked at me, his expression full of helplessness and fury.

I collapsed back into my chair, tears bursting like a broken dam.

Three months. Three months of every night, every weekend, I'd spent on this painting. Now it was nothing.

"You didn't trip." Willard's voice cut through the noise, terrifyingly calm.

The entire class went silent.

He stood up, walked over to Mia. He was a head taller than her, looking down with eyes like ice.

"What did you say?" Mia's eyes widened, trying to maintain that innocent expression.

"I saw it." Willard's voice was steady, but each word cut like a blade. "You walked straight to her desk. No stumble. No trip. You poured it on purpose."

Mia's face flushed crimson. "That's not true! Why would I—"

"Destroying someone's work isn't just mean," Willard cut her off, pulling out his phone. "It's criminal. Should I call the police, or should we go see the dean?"

He actually started dialing. Gasps rippled through the classroom.