Friday arrived like it always did—too fast and not fast enough.
Simone had spent every night practicing. Not drum major moves—she didn't know those yet. But basics. Posture. Counts. She'd watched videos on her phone, old competition footage, tried to copy the way the girls held themselves. Straight backs. Sharp turns. Smiles that never wavered.
In her room, alone, she practiced.
Now it was morning. The day.
She sat at her desk, staring at nothing. Aliyah beside her, doing something on her phone. The usual classroom sounds—bags unpacking, whispers about weekend plans, the shuffle of notes being copied at the last second.
"You're weird today."
Simone turned. Aliyah was looking at her. Not taking. Just looking.
"What?"
"You're weird. Quiet. Well, quieter than usual." Aliyah shrugged. "Something wrong?"
Simone almost laughed. Aliyah had taken her notes for weeks without a single question about how she was, how she felt, if she existed outside of what she could provide. Now, suddenly, she noticed quietness?
"Nothing's wrong."
"You sure?"
The question hung there. Genuine? Curiosity? Performance? Simone couldn't tell.
"I have something after school," she said. Testing. Seeing if Aliyah would ask more.
Aliyah waited. Then: "Oh. Okay."
Back to her phone.
Simone turned away. Of course. The moment required nothing from Aliyah, so the moment ended.
The bunny stopped hoping for love from that direction a long time ago.
---
The auditorium was bigger than Simone remembered.
Empty seats stretching back into darkness. Stage lights glaring down on a small group of girls clustered near the front. Twenty of them. Maybe more. All in school uniforms. All holding numbers. All waiting.
Simone stood at the edge, holding her own number. 19. Near the end.
She scanned the group. Looked for faces she knew. Saw none. But she saw something else—something she'd expected but still felt like a fist in her chest.
She was the only one.
The only girl with tan skin. The only one with curly hair that didn't lie flat. The only one with features that didn't match the others—the sharp noses, the pale cheeks, the eyes shaped like everyone else's.
Twenty girls. And Simone was the only one who looked like she'd stepped out of a different country. Except she hadn't. She was Thai. Just not the right kind of Thai.
A voice cut through.
"Numbers 1 through 5, on stage. Everyone else, wait in the seating area. Silence during auditions."
The girl speaking was tall. Perfect posture. Long straight hair that fell like water. Skin so pale it almost glowed under the lights—the kind of pale people called "milk skin," like it was something to drink in, something to want.
Simone recognized her. Pim. The drum major president. The face on all the posters. Thai-Chinese. Rich. Beautiful. The kind of girl whose family name opened doors before she even knocked.
Pim moved through the group, handing out instructions, smiling at everyone. Her smile was wide and warm and professional.
Then she reached Simone.
The smile froze. Just slightly. A micro-second of something—surprise? Confusion? Assessment?—before it reengaged.
"Name?" Pim's voice was pleasant. Controlled.
"Simone."
Pim wrote it down. Then: "International student?"
The question hung in the air. Innocent. Professional. And absolutely loaded.
Simone had heard it before. At markets. At the doctor's office. At school registration. People saw her face and assumed she must be from somewhere else. Cambodia. Laos. Myanmar. Anywhere but here.
"No." Simone kept her voice steady. "I'm Thai."
Pim's smile didn't change. But something behind her eyes did. A recalibration. A filing away of information.
"Okay. Just wait." She moved to the next girl.
Simone stood there. Holding her number. Watching Pim's perfect back disappear into the crowd.
Just wait.
She'd been waiting her whole life.
---
The auditions continued.
Numbers 1 through 5 walked on stage. Performed. Walked off. Numbers 6 through 10. Numbers 11 through 15.
Simone watched from her seat in the third row. Watched the patterns. Watched what the judges—Pim and two older club girls—responded to.
Confidence. They liked confidence. Girls who walked on stage like they already belonged there. Girls who didn't hesitate, didn't apologize, didn't look down.
Perfection. They liked perfection. Clean turns. Sharp angles. Smiles that looked natural even when you could tell they'd been practiced a thousand times.
And something else. Something unspoken. Something that had nothing to do with talent.
The girls who did best—the ones the judges leaned forward for, the ones Pim actually smiled at—they all looked a certain way. Pale skin. Straight hair. Features that fit. Features that matched the photos on the flyer, the posters on the wall, the faces in the front row of every school event for as long as Simone could remember.
Number 7 was excellent. Really excellent. Better than most. But she had darker skin, curlier hair, a nose that wasn't quite right. The judges didn't lean forward. Pim didn't smile.
Number 12 was mediocre. Forgettable. But she was pale and pretty and her hair fell like water. The judges nodded. Pim wrote something down.
Simone watched. Learned. Felt something cold settle in her stomach.
The system was showing itself. Not in words. Not in rules posted on a board. But in glances, in silences, in who got smiles and who got blank faces.
She was Number 19. Near the end.
She'd have to be better than excellent. She'd have to be undeniable.
---
"Number 19."
Simone stood. Walked down the aisle. Climbed the stairs to the stage.
The lights were hot. Brighter than they'd looked from the audience. She could feel sweat already forming at her hairline, could feel her curls starting to rebel against the pins she'd used to tame them.
Pim sat in the front row, clipboard in hand. The other two judges flanked her. All pale. All perfect. All watching.
"Name?" Pim's voice was flat again. Professional.
"Simone."
Pim wrote it down. Didn't ask if she was international this time. Didn't need to. She'd already filed that information away.
"Whenever you're ready."
Simone took her position. Center stage. Faced the empty seats. Pretended they were full. Pretended this was the festival, the crowd, the moment she'd dreamed about.
The music started in her head. She'd chosen something simple—a basic routine from the videos she'd watched. Nothing flashy. Nothing risky. Just clean counts, sharp movements, the smile she'd practiced in the mirror.
She moved.
One. Two. Three. Turn.
Four. Five. Six. Hold.
Seven. Eight. Step.
Her body knew the counts. Her arms knew the angles. Her face knew the smile.
She finished. Held the final pose. Breathed.
Silence.
Pim's pen hovered over the clipboard. She wrote something. Her face gave nothing away.
Then: "Thank you. We'll email everyone by Monday."
Simone nodded. Walked off stage. Down the stairs. Through the auditorium doors. Into the hallway.
Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She didn't know if that meant she'd done well or badly.
Marion was waiting by the gate. Saw her face. Didn't ask. Just fell into step beside them.
They walked in silence. All the way to the corner where their paths split.
Then Marion said: "You did it."
Simone nodded.
"Whatever happens—" Marion started.
"I know."
They stood there. Two girls. One who tried. One who waited.
"Monday," Simone said.
"Monday," Marion agreed.
They parted.
---
The waiting was the worst part.
Saturday stretched like old gum. Too long. Too sticky. Impossible to escape.
Simone cleaned her room. Did homework. Watched videos. Checked her phone every five minutes.
No email.
Sunday was worse.
She tried to read. Couldn't focus. Tried to practice. Couldn't move. Ended up lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling cracks, replaying every moment of the audition.
The turn—was it sharp enough? The smile—did it look fake? The final pose—did she hold it too long? Not long enough?
And Pim's face. That frozen smile. The question: International student?
As if being Thai and looking like her was impossible. As if her face didn't belong in her own country.
Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it.
Marion: Stop checking
Simone: Can't
Marion: It'll come when it comes
Simone: What if I messed up
Marion: Then you try something else
Simone: That's not comforting
Marion: It's honest. You said you wanted honest
Simone almost smiled. She had said that. First week of school, when Marion asked what kind of friend she wanted. Honest, Simone had said. I'm tired of pretending.
Marion had nodded. Had been honest ever since.
Simone: What if I don't make it
Marion: Then they're stupid
Simone: Not helpful
Marion: But true
Simone put the phone down. Looked at the ceiling.
The river. The lightning. The crack.
She thought about the bunny. About Marion's face when she talked about it. About the question that still echoed: Would it be better to never be loved at all? Or to get a taste, and then have it taken away?
She hadn't gotten a taste yet. She'd only tried. The trying was its own thing. Separate from outcome.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe the trying was the point.
Maybe.
---
The email came at 7:43am.
Simone was brushing her teeth when her phone buzzed. She saw the sender: Drum Major Club. Spit out toothpaste. Grabbed the phone. Opened it with shaking hands.
Congratulations. You have been accepted into the Drum Major Club. First practice Monday 4pm. Bring water, wear comfortable clothes, arrive early.
She read it three times.
Then she screamed.
Not loud—her mother was still asleep. But a small, muffled, can't-believe-it scream into her towel.
She made it. She actually made it.
The bunny got its chance.
---
At school, Marion was waiting by the gate. Took one look at Simone's face and grinned.
"You made it."
"I made it."
They hugged. Quick. Tight. Real.
"Told you they'd be stupid not to," Marion said.
"You said they were stupid. Not that they'd be stupid not to."
"Same thing."
Simone laughed. Actually laughed. It felt strange. Good. Strange and good.
They walked to class together. Past the notice board. Past the front-row girls. Past everyone who didn't know and wouldn't care.
Aliyah was already at their desk. Looked up as Simone sat.
"You're in a good mood."
Simone considered not telling her. Considered keeping this one thing private, safe, hers.
But something—maybe the hope, maybe the wanting to share—pushed the words out.
"I made drum major club."
Aliyah's eyebrows rose. "Really? That's... hard to get into."
"I know."
"Congratulations."
Simple words. But they sounded almost real. Almost.
"Thanks."
The bell rang. Class started. The Dictator began her lesson.
But underneath the desk, Simone's hands were still shaking. Still holding the phone. Still holding the news.
She'd made it.
Now came the hard part.
---
Four o'clock. The field. Hot.
Simone arrived early, like the email said. Water bottle in hand. Comfortable clothes. Heart pounding.
Other girls arrived. Some she recognized from the audition. Some she didn't. They stood in small groups, talking quietly, glancing at each other, sizing up the competition.
Then Pim appeared. Clipboard in hand. Flanked by the same two judges from auditions.
"Welcome to the first practice of Drum Major Club." Pim's voice carried. She didn't need a microphone. "If you're here, you've passed the first round. That means you have potential. But potential isn't enough."
She walked along the line of girls. Slowly. Looking at each one.
"This club is about excellence. Precision. Perfection. We represent this school at every major event. The festival. Sports days. Press conferences. People see us and they see the best of what this school offers."
She stopped. In front of Simone.
Their eyes met. Pim's face was blank. No recognition. No smile. No freeze. Just blank.
Then she moved on.
Simone breathed.
---
"Okay. Formation practice. We'll start with basic positioning. When I call your name, go to your marked spot."
An older club member—one of the judges from auditions—was placing small numbered markers on the field. Simone watched. Tried to guess where she'd be placed.
Names were called. Girls moved to their spots. Front row filled first. Pim, of course. Then the other judges. Then a few faces Simone recognized from the audition—the ones who'd been excellent. The ones who looked right.
"Simone."
She stepped forward.
The girl with the markers consulted her list. Pointed. "Row three. Far left."
Row three.
Not front. Not even second.
Row three. The back. The shadow section. The place where the light never reached.
Simone walked to her spot. Stood. Looked ahead at the rows of girls in front of her. At their straight backs. Their straight hair. Their pale skin catching the late afternoon sun.
She'd made it. She was in.
But she was already learning what "in" meant.
The bunny got its chance.
Now it would find out what the chance was worth.
---
Practice ended at six. Simone's body ached. Her arms. Her legs. Her feet. Muscles she didn't know she had.
She walked toward the gate. Slowly. Not wanting to arrive anywhere.
"Simone."
She turned.
Pim stood a few feet away. Alone. No clipboard. No judges. Just Pim.
"I saw your audition," Pim said. "You're good."
Simone waited. There was more coming. There was always more.
"Row three is where we start everyone. It doesn't mean anything permanent." Pim's voice was careful. Measured. "If you work hard, if you improve, you can move up."
"Okay."
Pim nodded. Turned to go. Then stopped.
"One thing." She looked back. "The festival. It's big. Press comes. Parents. Important people. The front row needs to... present a certain image. You understand."
It wasn't a question.
Simone understood.
"The back row is important too," Pim added. "Every position matters."
She walked away.
Simone stood there. Watching her go. Letting the words settle.
Present a certain image.
You understand.
She understood.
The bunny understood perfectly.
She walked home. Alone. The streetlights were coming on. The sky was turning orange then purple then dark.
At her door, she paused. Looked at her reflection in the window glass. Tan skin. Curly hair. Features that didn't match.
She'd made it. She was in.
But she already knew: row three was where they put the girls who would never be in the photos. Who would never stand in front. Who would never be the image the school wanted to present.
The bunny got its chance.
And the chance looked exactly like this.