I was just lazily standing by my locker, casually pulling out books and trying to look invisible—like a pro at blending into the background. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching, and my stomach sank.
"Oh my god… No, ah..." I muttered under my breath. I knew who it was. The mean girls. I had to run, but it was already too late. They had already spotted me.
"Oh, Pauper," Regina sneered, rolling her eyes. "I'm not sure how you even got into this school, but I'm not liking you."
I rolled my eyes back and tried to brush past her. "Regina, just go and leave me alone," I said, shooing her with my hand. I thought I was in the clear as I walked away, past her, feeling a tiny bit victorious—until everything changed.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a grip on my ponytail—that's right, my AWESOME ponytail—and before I knew it, I was yanked backward and slammed onto the ground with a loud thud.
"Hey!" I shouted, trying to sit up, but the chaos had just begun.
Next thing I knew, the mean girls were giggling mischievously and pouring juice all over me—red, sticky juice splattering everywhere, drenching my clothes and soaking my hair. I looked like I'd just walked through a rainbow of fruit punch.
They laughed even harder as one of them kicked my bag, which flew open, and all my notebooks and pens spilled out onto the hallway floor. I tried to kick back at them, but they just backed away, still laughing.
Finally, they strutted off, leaving me sitting there, drenched and miserable. I looked down and saw I was all wet, my clothes sticking to me like I'd just been dunked in a pool. Great. Just what I needed.
I sighed, picking up my soggy books and trying to wipe juice off my face. Well, that was one more unforgettable school day.
So, I decided to make a beeline for the bathroom. Honestly, yesterday already felt weird enough—like, if I thought about it too much, my brain would probably start doing somersaults and refuse to come back. So, yeah, I just went straight to the bathroom, because thinking is overrated.
Once inside, I kicked off my shirt and left only my half-vest—black, of course, because I like to keep it classy even when soaked in juice. I then proceeded to let my hair down—literally—and started washing it under the tap.
"Oh, so annoying," I muttered, scrubbing my hair with all the drama of a soap opera star. "I swear, one day Regina is going to eat mud. Just you wait." I sighed dramatically as I grabbed the towel—an old, slightly frayed one that the school kept for emergencies. It's probably the same towel the school used to keep for students who needed it, you know, because they're rich and think they're fancy.
There's also shampoo, soap, and even a little shower if you're feeling extra. But no way am I taking a bath in this public toilet. Nope, not my style.
Just as I thought I was alone, I heard the door creak open. And there he was—Ethan. Coming inside the bathroom, casually running a hand through his messy hair like he just finished a workout or escaped from a shampoo commercial.
When he saw me, he froze like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes widened so much I thought they might pop out. That's when I realized I was caught in a very awkward situation.
My eyes widened too, and I clutch my chest like I'd just seen a ghost. "Hey! What are you doing in the girl's bathroom?" I shouted, pointing at him like he was some sneaky spy who infiltrated enemy territory.
He blinked at me, then looked at the sign on the door that clearly said Male's Bathroom. His face went from "I'm cool" to "Oh no, I've messed up."
"No, I must save eight seasons of my favorite show," he said, almost calmly, despite looking like he'd just been caught robbing a bank. "I mean… you're the one in the guy's bathroom," he added, waving vaguely at the sign.
My face went pale—probably because I'd just realized I'd been caught in a very awkward situation. My brain was trying to process: Did I just walk into the wrong bathroom? Or did Ethan walk into the wrong bathroom? Or maybe we both did.
Without thinking, I bolted out of there faster than a squirrel on caffeine, heart pounding like I'd just run a marathon. Ethan called after me, his tone sharp but surprisingly kind.
"Ayana," he said, sounding almost like he cared, "wear this. You'll catch a cold."
And before I could even protest, he handed me a giant sweater—seriously, it looked like it belonged to a giant. Probably he'd grabbed it because he thought I'd need something extra warm or maybe because he just wanted to see me in a big, cozy sweater.
He simply turned and walked away, leaving me standing there clutching this sweater, feeling like I'd just been part of a very weird sitcom episode.
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The microwave beeped loudly, like it was trying to announce the greatest news of the century: Popcorn is ready! My mom, with her hair tied in a no-nonsense ponytail and dressed in her usual T-shirt and jeans, shuffled over and carefully emptied the popcorn into a bowl.
She sighed—a deep, tired sigh—as if she'd just run a marathon in her sleep.
Her eyes looked exhausted, her legs aching from doing the hardest work: taking care of all us kids.
Without wasting time, she flopped onto the couch like a worn-out rag doll and turned on the TV.
That's pretty much what old people do nowadays—watching endless news because they think it's the only thing that keeps the world from falling apart.
The TV flickered to life, and there he was—Ronson, the so-called "best, most successful genius of the year"—for the fifth time.
Yep, fifth.
And he was waving and flashing a very annoyingly perfect smile.
My mom let out another sigh and quickly changed the channel, like she was trying to escape a terrible infomercial.
"The man is always winning the 'Best Businessman' at his company—GigaTech Innovations," she muttered, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. "So annoying."
She leaned back, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a crunch that sounded like a small explosion.
"Just wait and see," she said, voice full of playful challenge. "Who's going to overtake him? His company? Or mine?"
She sighed again, a long, dramatic sigh that made me wonder if she was auditioning for a soap opera.
"He left me here to take care of all these kids… I love them, but… it's too much," she admitted, voice thick with emotion.
Then, her eyes flicked to the TV, and she saw him—Ronson—standing there with a woman who was probably his wife, or maybe just his favorite trophy.
Whatever she was, she was smiling and clinging to him like a koala.
In a burst of rage, my mom grabbed the bowl of popcorn and hurled it across the room like a missile. It bounced off the wall and landed with a sad, lonely plop on the floor.
"Bloody bastard! I hate you so much," she yelled, voice trembling with frustration and a hint of heartbreak.
Her eyes welled up, but she quickly wiped them away, trying to be strong.
Because that's what moms do—fight tears, throw popcorn, and still somehow manage to love us all more than anything in the world.