My Bully Next Door

Ella

"Hey, James. Did your closet finally lose a fight with a dumpster?"

Laughter broke out behind me.

I didn't turn around.

That was rule number one.

Actually, it was the only rule that really mattered.

Don't react.

Don't engage.

And whatever you do, don't let them see it hurts.

The hallway buzzed with the usual chaos of Monday morning. Lockers slammed. Someone shouted across the hall. A group of cheerleaders crowded around a phone, squealing about something. Normally all the noise blended together into one giant blur I could disappear into.

Today, all I could hear was them.

"Come on," the voice called again. "I know you heard me."

Of course I heard him.

Everyone heard Beckett Carter when he wanted to be heard.

The thing about Beckett was that he never had to raise his voice. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that made people pay attention automatically. Teachers smiled when he walked into class. Coaches practically worshipped him. Girls stared when he passed by.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, he had decided that making fun of me was one of his favorite hobbies.

I adjusted the strap of my backpack and kept walking.

The oversized cardigan hanging off my shoulders felt heavier than usual. It was already too warm outside for sweaters, but I wore them anyway. Long sleeves. Loose clothes. Layers.

Layers hid things.

Layers made me feel safer.

Or at least they used to.

"Maybe she can't hear you," another voice said. "That sweater probably covers her ears too."

More laughter.

Sean.

Of course it was Sean.

Sean laughed at everything Beckett said, whether it was funny or not.

Heat crawled up my neck, but I focused on my locker twenty feet ahead.

Just get there.

Open the locker.

Grab your books.

Go to class.

Easy.

Three more steps.

Two.

One.

Something hit the back of my head.

I frowned.

A second impact followed almost immediately.

Then a third.

I froze.

My stomach dropped before my hand even reached my hair.

Please don't.

Slowly, I pulled my fingers through the dark strands and felt something wet.

A spitball.

Seriously?

For one second, I closed my eyes.

Not because of the spitball.

Because I was tired.

So unbelievably tired.

Tired of pretending it didn't bother me.

Tired of wondering what I had done to deserve being everybody's favorite target.

Tired of waking up every morning already counting down the hours until I could come home.

I pulled the soggy paper free and stared at it resting in my palm.

Behind me, the laughter grew louder.

Several students glanced over.

Most looked away.

Nobody said anything.

Nobody ever did.

That was the thing about bullying.

People always talked about standing up for others.

In reality?

Most people just thanked God it wasn't happening to them.

"Aw, look," Sean called. "She found it."

Another round of laughter followed.

I swallowed hard.

The familiar sting burned behind my eyes.

Not here.

Please not here.

The last thing I needed was to cry in front of half the student body.

I shoved the spitball into the side pocket of my backpack and turned around.

There they were.

Beckett stood in the middle of the hallway surrounded by his friends like he owned the place.

Maybe he did.

At least it felt that way.

People naturally moved around him. Made room for him. Looked at him.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and annoyingly good-looking. Dark blond hair fell across his forehead in a way that somehow looked effortless instead of messy. Everything about him seemed effortless.

Football.

Popularity.

Girls.

Life.

His expression was relaxed.

Almost bored.

But his eyes were fixed on me.

Not Sean.

Not anybody else.

Me.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like my reaction was the part he cared about.

He lifted one eyebrow.

"What?" he asked.

The word made something hot twist in my chest.

Because he acted like he hadn't seen it happen.

Like he hadn't stood there and watched.

Like he wasn't enjoying every second of it.

I stared at him.

And for one stupid moment, a memory surfaced.

A younger version of Beckett.

A younger version of me.

Two kids riding bikes down our street during summer break.

Back when being neighbors meant something.

Back before high school turned him into someone I barely recognized.

The memory vanished as quickly as it came.

"What do you want?" I asked.

The words came out quieter than I intended.

His grin tilted slightly.

"Nothing. Just trying to figure out if that sweater gets bigger every year..."

His gaze flicked over me.

"...or if you do."

The laughter that followed felt like a punch to the stomach.

Heat flooded my face.

There it was.

The joke everybody expected.

The joke everybody laughed at.

The joke I pretended didn't matter.

Walk away.

That's what I always did.

Walk away and survive another day.

But something felt different.

Maybe because I'd barely slept.

Maybe because Mom had left before sunrise again and forgotten to say goodbye.

Maybe because I was exhausted from carrying around the weight of everybody else's opinions.

Or maybe I was simply done.

For once.

Just once.

I couldn't make myself walk away.

I looked directly at him.

"At least my personality doesn't need a team of idiots to survive."

The hallway went silent.

Completely silent.

The words escaped before I could stop them.

For one horrifying second, I forgot how to breathe.

Every single person around Beckett looked stunned.

Sean's mouth literally fell open.

Someone farther down the hall let out a quiet, "Damn."

My heart immediately started trying to escape through my throat.

What did I just do?

What was wrong with me?

Beckett slowly pushed away from the locker he had been leaning against.

The amusement disappeared from his face.

The hallway seemed to hold its breath.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

People moved aside automatically as he approached.

By the time he stopped, I had to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes.

He was close.

Too close.

"You want to try that again?" he asked quietly.

The softness of his voice somehow made it worse.

Everything inside me screamed to back down.

I knew how this worked.

I knew how this ended.

He would say something worse.

Everybody would laugh.

And tomorrow would be even harder than today.

That's how things always went.

But the stubborn part of me-the tiny part that was apparently having a death wish this morning-refused to back down.

"No."

The word came out surprisingly steady.

"I think you heard me the first time."

Another silence settled between us.

His jaw flexed.

For a second, something flashed across his face.

Surprise.

Maybe.

I wasn't sure.

Then it disappeared.

"Careful, James."

"Why?"

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Because the second people think you're interesting enough to argue with..."

His gaze swept briefly over me.

"...they start paying attention."

The words sent a chill through me.

Because he wasn't entirely wrong.

Attention wasn't usually a good thing for me.

Still, I lifted my chin.

"Maybe that's your problem."

His eyebrow rose.

"You need people looking at you all the time."

Another shocked sound came from somewhere behind him.

At this point I was pretty sure the entire school had stopped functioning to watch this train wreck unfold.

And then something strange happened.

The corner of Beckett's mouth twitched.

Like he was fighting a smile.

It vanished so quickly I thought I'd imagined it.

"Get to class, James."

I blinked.

"What?"

"You heard me."

The dismissal caught me completely off guard.

I expected another insult.

A comeback.

Something.

Instead he simply stepped aside.

The moment broke.

Confused and shaken, I turned toward my locker.

My hands trembled as I spun the combination.

The hallway noise gradually returned around me.

Conversations resumed.

People moved again.

But I could still feel it.

That uncomfortable sensation of being watched.

Of being noticed.

Of being exposed.

The locker finally clicked open.

I grabbed my books and tried to focus on breathing.

"Ella."

I froze.

His voice came from right beside me.

Slowly, I turned.

Beckett was standing closer than before.

His friends were gone.

The crowd had moved on.

But he hadn't.

Why?

"What?" I asked.

His eyes shifted upward toward my hair.

A strange expression crossed his face.

Something unreadable.

Then he reached toward me.

Instinct took over.

I flinched backward.

His hand stopped immediately.

For a brief second, irritation flashed across his features.

Not directed at me.

At himself.

"You missed one."

I frowned.

"What?"

He pointed.

My hair.

Another spitball.

Apparently there had been more than one.

A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Not because anything was funny.

Because honestly?

What else was I supposed to do?

"Did I?"

His mouth tightened.

For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something else.

Instead, he dropped his hand.

"Never mind."

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving me standing there confused.

Humiliated.

Angry.

And somehow more unsettled than I had been before.

Slowly, I reached into my hair and found the last spitball.

I stared after him long after he'd disappeared around the corner.

Because none of that had made sense.

Not one second of it.

By the time school ended, I had convinced myself it didn't matter.

It was just another bad day.

Another entry in a very long list of bad days.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as I walked home.

Our neighborhood sat only a few blocks from school, which normally felt convenient.

Today it felt unfortunate.

Because no matter how bad school got, home wasn't exactly much of an escape.

Mom worked constantly.

Dad was long gone.

Most days it was just me.

The closer I got to my house, the more I found myself thinking about this morning.

About Beckett.

About the way he had looked at me.

About the weird almost-smile.

About the fact that he stayed after everyone else left.

None of it made sense.

I hated that I kept thinking about it.

I hated that he occupied any space in my head at all.

Turning onto my street, I immediately spotted him.

Beckett.

Standing in his driveway.

Right next door.

Exactly where he had been for most of my life.

The realization hit me with unexpected force.

No matter how much I wanted to avoid him, I couldn't.

Not really.

He wasn't just the guy who made my life miserable at school.

He was my neighbor.

He lived twenty feet away.

Always had.

Maybe always would.

As if sensing me, he looked up.

Our eyes met.

For a moment neither of us moved.

The teasing wasn't there.

Neither was the cruelty.

There was only that same strange look from earlier.

Like he was trying to figure something out.

I looked away first.

Of course I did.

I always did.

But as I climbed the front steps to my house, I could still feel it.

That weight.

That attention.

That awareness.

Following me all the way to the front door.

And for the first time in years, a thought slipped into my head that made my stomach tighten.

Maybe Beckett Carter wasn't paying attention to me because he hated me.

Maybe something else was going on.

And somehow, that possibility felt even more dangerous.

Ella

By lunch, everybody knows.

Of course they do.

News travels through our school faster than wildfire, especially when it involves someone people actually care about.

Or in this case, someone people definitely care about and someone they usually pretend doesn't exist.

I know before anyone says a word to me.

I can feel it.

The second I step into the cafeteria, conversations seem to hitch for a fraction of a second. Heads turn. Not all of them. Just enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to make my stomach tighten.

The cafeteria is loud as usual. Hundreds of students crammed into one space, voices overlapping, chairs scraping across the floor, lunch trays clattering together. Normally I like the noise. It gives me somewhere to hide.

Today it feels like all of it is aimed directly at me.

I pass one table and hear my name.

Another table and hear Beckett's.

A group of sophomore girls glance in my direction before immediately looking away.

Great.

Fantastic.

Exactly what I wanted.

I tighten my grip on my tray and keep moving.

Maybe if I sit down quickly enough, everyone will find something else to talk about.

Maybe pigs will also learn to fly.

"ELLA!"

Relief washes over me so fast I almost laugh.

Lila.

She's waving both arms over her head like she's directing air traffic.

I make my way toward our usual table and slide into the seat across from her.

For exactly three seconds, everything feels normal.

Then she gives me a look.

Uh oh.

I've known Lila since middle school.

That look never means anything good.

She narrows her eyes.

"What did you do?"

I nearly choke on my drink.

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?"

"Because," she says slowly, "the entire school is acting like you punched a teacher."

"I didn't punch anybody."

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing happened."

Lila stares at me.

I stare back.

Neither of us blinks.

Finally she leans back in her chair.

"You're a terrible liar."

I sigh.

Unfortunately, she's right.

"I may have said something."

Her eyes light up immediately.

"Oh, this is good."

"It's not good."

"It's definitely good."

"No."

"Tell me."

I groan.

Lila practically vibrates with excitement.

If curiosity were an Olympic sport, she'd have at least three gold medals.

"He started bothering me in the hallway."

"Shocking."

"I know."

"And then?"

I hesitate.

Because saying it out loud somehow feels worse.

The whole thing had happened so fast this morning. One second I was standing there trying not to cry, and the next I was talking back to Beckett Carter in front of half the school.

Part of me still couldn't believe I'd actually done it.

"I didn't walk away."

Lila blinks.

Then blinks again.

"You what?"

"I didn't walk away."

Her mouth falls open.

"Oh my God."

"It wasn't a big deal."

"It absolutely was a big deal."

"It really wasn't."

"Ella."

I wince.

She uses that tone when she's trying very hard not to yell.

"You mean to tell me that Beckett Carter started his usual nonsense and instead of escaping like a sensible person, you stayed there and argued with him?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"Because it is bad."

I groan and drop my head into my hands.

This is exactly why I hadn't wanted to tell her.

Lila lets out a dramatic gasp.

"You've finally snapped."

"I have not snapped."

"You absolutely have."

"I said one thing."

"To Beckett Carter."

"Yes."

"The Beckett Carter?"

"Unfortunately."

She points at me.

"You're lucky you're my best friend because otherwise I'd ask for an autograph."

A reluctant laugh escapes before I can stop it.

The corner of her mouth lifts immediately.

There it is.

The reason Lila always knows when I'm struggling.

She can find cracks in even my worst days.

The laughter fades quickly.

Reality settles back in.

I glance around the cafeteria.

People are still looking.

Not everybody.

Not constantly.

But enough.

Always enough.

My appetite disappears.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

Lila's smile fades.

"Why?"

I gesture around the room.

"This."

She follows my gaze.

The whispers.

The glances.

The attention.

When she looks back at me, her expression softens.

"You really hate this, don't you?"

The question catches me off guard.

Because most people don't ask.

Most people assume.

Most people think being noticed is a good thing.

I stare down at my tray.

"Yeah."

The word comes out quieter than I intended.

"I really do."

Lila doesn't interrupt.

Doesn't rush to fill the silence.

So I keep talking.

"I know it sounds stupid."

"It doesn't."

"I just..." I exhale slowly. "Every time people notice me, it's because they're laughing."

The words feel heavier once they're spoken aloud.

More real.

"When people pay attention to someone like Beckett, it's because they like him."

I pick at the corner of my napkin.

"When people pay attention to me, it's usually because I did something wrong. Or because somebody found something new to make fun of."

The table falls silent.

For a moment, all I hear is the cafeteria around us.

Then Lila reaches across the table and flicks my forehead.

I stare at her.

"What was that for?"

"Because you're being mean."

My eyebrows pull together.

"To who?"

"Yourself."

I roll my eyes.

"Here we go."

"No, seriously."

She points at me again.

"You talk about yourself like you're some kind of walking disaster."

"I'm realistic."

"No."

She shakes her head.

"You're scared."

The words hit harder than they should.

Because she's right.

I hate that she's right.

I've spent years convincing myself that staying invisible is a choice.

That it makes me smart.

That it protects me.

But underneath all of that?

Maybe I've just been scared.

Scared of becoming an even bigger target.

Scared of giving people another reason to laugh.

Scared of hoping things could be different.

Lila studies me for a moment.

Then she smiles.

And immediately I know I'm in trouble.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"That's your planning face."

She grins wider.

"Funny you should mention that."

I groan.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The terrible idea."

"It's not terrible."

"It's always terrible."

She ignores me completely.

"Step one."

"No."

"I haven't even started."

"I know."

"How?"

"Because you've been trying to give me makeovers since eighth grade."

She gasps dramatically.

"First of all, rude."

"Lila."

"Second of all, I was right."

"You once convinced me bangs were a good idea."

Her face immediately scrunches.

"Okay, we don't talk about the bangs."

"The entire school called me Mushroom Head."

"That was one time."

"It was two months."

She waves a dismissive hand.

"Ancient history."

I stare at her.

She stares back.

Neither of us says anything.

Finally she cracks first.

"Fine. The bangs were a mistake."

"Thank you."

"But this is different."

"That's exactly what you said about the bangs."

A laugh bursts out of her.

"I walked right into that one."

I can't help smiling.

Just a little.

Unfortunately, she notices.

And that's all the encouragement she needs.

"My cousin Mateo owns a salon."

Here we go.

"He's amazing."

"Mhm."

"He does pageants."

"That somehow makes me more nervous."

"He does wedding hair."

"Worse."

"He made a woman cry once."

I stare at her.

"That's not helping your case."

"Happy tears!"

She points dramatically.

"Happy tears."

I laugh despite myself.

The sound surprises me.

It feels strange after the kind of day I've had.

Lila softens.

"Just think about it."

I hesitate.

That was always the problem.

Not that she pushed.

Not that she pressured.

She made things sound possible.

And possibility was dangerous.

Because it came with hope.

Hope that maybe things could change.

Hope that maybe she was right.

Hope that maybe there was more to me than the version everybody else saw.

"I'll think about it."

Lila immediately beams.

"Excellent."

"I didn't say yes."

"You didn't say no."

"That's not the same thing."

"It is in Lila language."

I shake my head.

Somehow she's already planning my future.

And somehow...

I don't hate the idea as much as I used to.

⸻

After school, I walk home alone.

The afternoon sun hangs low over the neighborhood, painting everything gold.

Usually I like this part of the day.

The walk home gives me time to breathe.

Today my thoughts won't leave me alone.

They circle endlessly around the same things.

The hallway.

The confrontation.

The whispers.

The way Beckett looked at me afterward.

Most of all, the moment beside my locker.

The weird expression on his face when he pointed out the spitball still stuck in my hair.

None of it makes sense.

Beckett Carter has spent years making my life miserable.

People like him don't suddenly become thoughtful.

They don't suddenly notice things.

They definitely don't stay behind after their friends leave.

Turning onto my street, I immediately spot him.

My stomach drops.

Because there he is.

Standing in his driveway.

Just like yesterday.

Just like every day.

The house next door.

The boy next door.

The problem next door.

For a second, I wonder if he sees me.

Then he looks up.

And I know he does.

Our eyes meet across the distance.

Neither of us waves.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches between us.

Strange.

Uncomfortable.

Different.

I break eye contact first.

Of course I do.

I always do.

But as I walk toward my front door, I can still feel his gaze.

Following me.

Watching.

And for the first time in a very long time, a thought settles into the back of my mind.

Maybe Lila was wrong.

Maybe I wasn't invisible.

Maybe I never had been.

Maybe I was just invisible to everyone except the one person I wished would stop looking.

Beckett

She wasn't supposed to talk back.

That was the problem.

That was the thought that had been stuck in my head all damn day, circling around and around no matter how many times I told myself to drop it.

Not practice.

Not class.

Not Coach ripping into me twice because I missed a route I could've run in my sleep.

Ella James.

Standing in the hallway with her chin lifted, looking at me like I wasn't Beckett Carter. Like I wasn't the guy everyone moved out of the way for. Like she didn't know how this whole thing worked.

People like Ella didn't talk back.

They kept their heads down. They disappeared into the background. They let the world pass over them without making waves.

That was what she had always done.

Until this morning.

I jogged off the field and grabbed my water bottle from the bench, taking a long drink even though I wasn't thirsty. Sweat slid down the back of my neck, my shoulder pads felt too tight, and everything about me was irritated in a way I couldn't explain without sounding insane.

Because what was I supposed to say?

Sorry, Coach. I'm off today because the girl I've been an asshole to for years finally snapped at me, and now I can't stop thinking about it.

Yeah.

Not happening.

"You're distracted."

I glanced over.

Sean leaned against the bench, helmet tucked under one arm, watching me with that stupid smirk he got whenever he thought he knew something.

"I'm fine," I said.

"No, you're not." He nodded toward the field. "You missed two passes, almost let Rivers burn you, and Coach looked about three seconds away from making you run until graduation."

"I said I'm fine."

Sean lifted both hands. "Alright. Don't kill me because you forgot how to play football."

I shot him a look.

He grinned wider because Sean had no survival instincts.

I looked away, jaw tight, trying to focus on anything except the image that kept flashing through my head. Ella in that oversized sweater. Ella with her cheeks red and eyes bright, but not crying. Not backing down. Ella looking straight at me and saying something sharp enough that half the hallway forgot how to breathe.

At least my personality doesn't need a team of idiots to survive.

I should've been pissed.

I was pissed.

Mostly.

But there had been this one second-one stupid second-where I'd almost smiled.

That bothered me more than the insult.

Because I didn't smile at Ella James.

I didn't think about Ella James.

I definitely didn't spend my entire day replaying the way she sounded when she stopped being quiet.

"You going over later?" Sean asked.

I frowned. "Where?"

He gave me a look like I was an idiot. "Next door."

My hand tightened around the water bottle.

Of course he noticed.

Sean noticed everything he wasn't supposed to and missed everything that actually mattered.

"Maybe," I said.

His smirk turned into something sharper. "Her mom home?"

"Probably not."

"Is she ever?"

I didn't answer.

Because it wasn't my business.

Because he wasn't wrong.

Because I hated that I knew the answer.

Ella's mom worked long hours. Sometimes double shifts. Sometimes she disappeared before sunrise and came home after dark. Their house was quiet most of the time. Too quiet. I knew that because my bedroom window faced part of their driveway, and because I'd lived beside them long enough to notice things I pretended not to notice.

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

"I'm heading out."

Sean laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Try not to get distracted on the way."

I flipped him off without looking back.

The drive home was too quiet.

Usually I liked quiet. It meant control. No one asking questions. No one expecting answers. No one looking too closely.

Today, quiet just gave my thoughts room to get louder.

By the time I pulled into my driveway and cut the engine, I was in an even worse mood than when I left practice.

For a second, I just sat there with both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead like that might make my brain shut up.

Then movement caught my eye.

Next door.

Ella.

She was walking up her driveway with her head down, backpack hanging off one shoulder, her sweater swallowing half of her like she was trying to fold herself into the fabric and disappear.

Back to normal.

Or trying to be.

Something about that annoyed me.

Which was ridiculous.

Everything about this was ridiculous.

This morning, she had looked at me like she'd finally remembered she had a spine. Now she was back to staring at the ground like the sidewalk had all the answers.

I didn't like it.

I also didn't like that I cared.

Girls like Ella didn't fit in my world. That wasn't cruel. It was just fact.

My life was built a certain way. Football. Grades good enough to stay eligible. Friends who knew their place. Girls who understood what things were and what they weren't. Everything clean. Controlled. Easy to explain.

Ella was none of that.

Ella was messy in a way I didn't understand.

She was oversized clothes and quiet eyes and a house that was too empty. She was old memories I didn't like thinking about. Bike tires on hot pavement. Sidewalk chalk. Her laughing when we were kids, before everything got complicated.

Before I got complicated.

I got out of the car and slammed the door harder than necessary.

Inside, the house was quiet.

Dad wasn't home yet.

No surprise there.

I dropped my bag by the stairs and went straight to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water even though I'd already had one. I stood there with the door open longer than I needed to, letting the cold air hit my face.

Get it together.

That was all I needed to do.

Get it together and move on.

Except ten minutes later, I was still thinking about her.

About the way she flinched when I'd reached toward her hair this morning.

That part came back the most.

Not the insult.

Not the hallway going quiet.

That.

Her jerking away like she expected my hand to hurt.

I stared down at the water bottle in my hand.

My grip tightened.

I didn't like the feeling that came with that memory.

I didn't have a name for it.

Guilt, maybe.

I hated that even more.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I shoved off the counter and headed back outside.

It was just next door.

No big deal.

I'd crossed that stretch of grass a thousand times over the years. More times when we were kids. Less now. Almost never, really, unless our parents needed something or I had a reason.

Apparently now I had a reason.

A stupid one.

But still.

The side gate to Ella's yard was already cracked open. It usually was. Their back door was unlocked too. That annoyed me, even though I had no right to be annoyed by it.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Hello?" I called.

No answer.

For a second, I considered turning around.

Then I heard movement in the kitchen.

I followed the sound and found her standing at the counter with her back to me, a glass of water in one hand. Her shoulders went tense before she even turned around, like her body recognized trouble before her brain did.

"Hey," I said.

She spun so fast the water sloshed over the rim of the glass.

"God-Beckett!"

I almost smiled.

Almost.

"Door was unlocked."

She stared at me like she was deciding whether throwing the glass at my head would be worth the mess.

"You could knock."

"I didn't think it mattered."

Her jaw tightened.

There it was again.

That little flash of irritation she usually buried before anyone could notice.

Except now I noticed.

I noticed the way her fingers tightened around the glass. The way her eyes moved briefly toward the door like she was calculating how fast she could escape. The way she stood straighter even though she clearly wanted to shrink away.

"What do you want?" she asked.

No stammer.

No hesitation.

Just the question.

That was new too.

I leaned one shoulder against the doorway, trying to look more relaxed than I felt.

"I need a favor."

"No."

The answer came so fast I blinked.

"You don't even know what it is."

"I don't need to."

I looked at her for a second longer than I should have.

She meant it.

She wasn't trying to be cute. She wasn't flirting. She wasn't doing that thing girls sometimes did where no really meant convince me.

Ella James wanted me gone.

And honestly, I'd earned that.

"I'm serious," I said. "This isn't about school this morning."

Her expression didn't change. "Everything with you is about school."

"That's not true."

She gave me a look.

Fine.

Maybe it was true.

I dragged a hand through my hair and exhaled. I hated asking. Hated needing anything from anyone. Hated needing something from her most of all.

But Coach had made it clear.

If my English grade dropped any lower, I was benched.

Benched meant scouts asking questions.

Questions meant problems.

Problems meant everything I'd worked for starting to crack.

"I need help with English," I said.

Ella blinked.

For one second, all the anger drained from her face and left behind pure confusion.

Then suspicion replaced it.

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

"You need help with English."

"Yeah."

"And you came to me?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes narrowed. "Secretly."

I didn't answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

She let out a short laugh, but there was nothing amused about it.

"Of course."

"It's not like that."

"It is exactly like that."

"No, it isn't."

"You want my help," she said, setting the glass down carefully, "but you don't want anyone to know you need it from me."

The words landed harder than I expected.

Mostly because they were true.

I looked away.

Just for a second.

But she saw it.

Of course she did.

Something shifted in her expression. Not surprise. Not even hurt. More like confirmation.

Like I had proven something she already knew.

"That's what I thought."

My jaw tightened. "I'll make it worth your time."

Her eyes sharpened.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The deal." She crossed her arms, and the movement made the sleeves of her sweater fall over her hands. "You'll stop making my life miserable if I help you."

"That's not what I said."

"But that's what you mean."

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because maybe that was what I'd meant. Not in those exact words. Not intentionally.

But close enough.

And the look on her face told me she knew it.

"I'm not interested in being your secret charity project," she said.

The words hit something uncomfortable in me.

"That's not what you are."

"No?" she asked quietly. "Then what am I?"

The kitchen went silent.

I didn't have an answer.

Or I had too many.

The girl next door.

The girl I used to know.

The girl everyone laughed at.

The girl I let them laugh at.

The girl who looked at me this morning like she was finally tired of carrying all of it.

None of those were answers I could say out loud.

So I said the only thing I could.

"You're good at English."

She laughed softly.

A bitter sound.

"Right."

"I'm serious."

"Why?" Her voice sharpened. "Because I'm quiet? Because I read? Because people like me are supposed to be good at school since we're not good at anything else?"

I frowned. "That's not what I meant."

"But it's what people think."

"I'm not people."

Her eyes flashed.

"No. You're worse."

That shut me up.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't know what to say.

Because the worst part was, she wasn't wrong.

I had been worse.

People like Sean were cruel because it entertained them.

Me?

I knew better.

I had known Ella before any of this.

Before the oversized sweaters.

Before the lowered eyes.

Before the hallway laughter.

I had still gone along with it.

Maybe that made me worse than all of them.

I looked at her then. Really looked.

Not the way everyone else did. Not searching for something to pick apart. Not waiting for a reaction.

Just looked.

Her hair was still a little messy from the day, dark strands loose around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, but this time I didn't think it was embarrassment.

It was anger.

And weirdly, it suited her.

"You're not average," I said.

She stared at me.

Then laughed like I'd said something ridiculous.

That bothered me.

A lot.

Because she believed it.

She actually believed she was nothing special.

And maybe part of that was my fault.

"I don't have time for this," she said, turning away.

Panic moved through me before I could stop it.

Not obvious panic.

Nothing dramatic.

Just enough that I pushed off the doorway.

"Ella."

She froze at the sound of her name.

Not James.

Ella.

I didn't know why I said it like that.

Neither did she, judging by the way she slowly turned back around.

"I need the help," I said, quieter this time. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

For a second, she only watched me.

I hated that look.

Like she was trying to decide if there was any part of me worth trusting.

I also hated that I wanted her to find one.

Finally she said, "I'll think about it."

It wasn't a yes.

It wasn't even close.

But it wasn't a no.

And for some reason, that felt like a win.

I nodded once and stepped back, giving her space because suddenly the kitchen felt too small.

"Okay."

She didn't say anything else.

I turned and headed for the door, but I could feel her watching me this time.

Not scared.

Not exactly.

Wary.

Curious.

Maybe even confused.

Good.

At least I wasn't the only one.

By the time I crossed the yard back to my house, one thought was louder than all the rest.

Ella James didn't fit in my world.

She didn't belong in the life I'd built.

She didn't match anything I was supposed to want.

So why the hell couldn't I stop noticing her?