The first thing I noticed when I walked into Northview High was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—more like the sound gets sucked out of the air right before something breaks. Lockers slammed softer than usual. Laughter cut off when I passed. Phones dipped, then lifted again, like they couldn't decide whether to hide or record me.
I kept my chin up. That's what Mom always said—Don't let them see you fold.
But inside, my stomach was doing backflips.
By second period, I knew why.
My phone buzzed nonstop in my hoodie pocket, even though I'd put it on silent. I didn't need to check to know it was bad. When your name starts trending before 9 a.m. on a Tuesday, it's never because people suddenly discovered your kindness.
I slid into my seat in English, eyes forward, pretending I didn't feel the weight of a hundred opinions pressing into my back.
Then Malik leaned over from the row behind me.
"You okay, star?" he whispered, voice low but sharp.
I didn't turn around. "I'm fine."
He snorted softly. "You seen the video?"
My pen paused mid-sentence.
"What video?"
He hesitated. That hesitation said everything. I finally turned, and Malik's face wasn't joking today—no grin, no sarcasm. Just concern.
"They clipped your interview from last night," he said. "Twisted it."
Of course they did.
Last night I'd been on CityWave Live, my first real interview since my single blew up. I remembered sitting under hot studio lights, palms sweating, trying to sound confident while not saying anything stupid. They'd asked me about the neighborhood, about making it out, about people who "never get a chance."
I'd said, "Some folks stay mad instead of trying. I just chose different."
I meant it about myself. About fear. About choosing not to quit.
But the internet didn't care what I meant.
At lunch, I finally checked my phone.
The headline screamed in bold letters:
LOCAL TEEN STAR CALLS HER COMMUNITY 'MAD AND LAZY'
Below it, comments stacked like bricks:
She think she better than us now.
Sellout.
Fake humble.
We made you. Don't forget that.
My chest tightened.
I scrolled further—mistake.
Someone had stitched the clip with old photos of our block. Another added laughing emojis. One girl from middle school wrote, "Remember when she needed our notes to pass math?"
The hatred wasn't loud. It was casual. Comfortable. Like people had been waiting for permission.
I pushed my phone away and stood up, appetite gone.
"Where you going?" Aisha asked, frowning.
"Air," I said. "Before I choke."
I ended up in the girls' bathroom, leaning over the sink, staring at my reflection. Same braids. Same chipped nail polish. Same girl who used to rap quietly into a hairbrush because she was scared of being heard.
Now they heard me.
And they hated it.
The bell rang, but I didn't move.
Instead, my phone lit up again—this time with a call.
UNKNOWN CALLER
I almost ignored it. Almost.
"Hello?" My voice cracked.
"You think you special now?"
The line hissed with static. A distorted voice—maybe a voice changer, maybe just bad service.
"Who is this?" I demanded.
A laugh. Cold. "Don't worry. You'll remember us."
The call dropped.
I stood there shaking, phone pressed to my ear long after the screen went dark.
By the end of the day, the school felt smaller. Tighter. Whispers followed me down the hall like ghosts. Even teachers looked at me differently—half impressed, half suspicious, like success was something contagious.
After school, a black SUV waited by the curb. My manager, Reese, leaned out the window.
"Rough day?" he asked.
I got in without answering.
He sighed once we pulled off. "Look, I know it feels personal. But controversy boosts numbers. Engagement is up thirty percent since this morning."
I stared out the window as our neighborhood blurred past. The mural on 8th Street. Ms. Calderon's bodega. The basketball court where my brother used to play before everything went wrong.
"They hate me," I said quietly.
Reese glanced at me. "They don't hate you. They hate what you represent."
"And what's that?"
"Change," he said. "And change scares people who feel left behind."
That sounded smart. Professional. Safe.
It didn't make my chest hurt any less.
That night, I sat on my bed, laptop open, beats playing low through my headphones. Music was the only place the noise faded.
I started writing.
Not the polished stuff. Not the radio-friendly hooks.
The truth.
About being loved only when you're small.
About how success turns friends into judges.
About how the same streets that raised you can turn on you when you rise too fast.
Tears dropped onto the keyboard, blurring the screen.
I didn't wipe them away.
By midnight, I had a verse that felt like a heartbeat. Raw. Angry. Honest.
I saved the file as "Static."
Outside my window, sirens wailed in the distance. The city never slept, and neither did its grudges.
I lay back on my pillow, staring at the ceiling, wondering when chasing a dream turned into something people wanted to punish me for.
Tomorrow, I'd face the whispers again. The comments. The looks.
But tonight, I let myself feel it.
The hatred.
The fear.
The fire.
Because if they were going to hate a young star—
I'd give them something real to look at.