“You’re going to be late,” my mother chirped, thrusting my backpack into my arms like it was a life preserver.

I forced a smile—the kind that said, Thanks for caring, but if you knew how catastrophic yesterday was, you’d probably padlock me to the bed. But she didn’t need more stress. Between juggling double shifts and keeping the house cleaner than a hospital ward, she deserved at least one day without worrying her kid might get expelled.

Because guess what? Apparently, defending yourself doesn’t count as self-defense when your attacker is Lewis—the school’s golden boy, son of the family that practically owns half the campus. The kind of guy who probably thinks charity work means letting people breathe the same air as him.

And me? The scholarship kid. The pity admission. Basically a stray dog someone decided to let in from the rain. Totally a fair fight.

“I have a headache,” I tried, because apparently, I was feeling extra self-destructive today. “Can I stay home? Just for one day?”

She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead like a human thermometer powered by maternal instinct.

“You were bouncing off the walls last night about your new art project. Now you’re dying? Come on.”

Translation: Nice try. Now grab your pride and get in the car.

Still, her expression shifted—brows furrowed, voice dipping into Serious Mum Mode.

“Were you bullied?”

Cue my Oscar-worthy performance: scoff, eye-roll, dismissive laugh.

“Me? Bullied? Seriously, Mum? Please.”

Because telling her the truth would unleash a tidal wave of tears, a furious call to the school, and—worst-case scenario—her storming in with a broom to “handle things.” Hard pass.

So I hoisted my bag, threw on my best armor of sarcasm, and marched out the door like a soldier heading into battle. If my dreams were going up in flames, I might as well roast a few rich kids on the way down.

---

Naturally, I arrived early. Because when you're avoiding drama, fate ensures you get VIP seating for your own disaster.

I barely stepped into the classroom before destiny—and a suspiciously placed bucket of water—struck.

SPLASH.

My uniform clung to me like shrink wrap. My pride sank to somewhere around ankle level. And the room? Erupting in laughter like I’d just done a stand-up routine in soaking wet clothes.

Center stage, phone in hand, stood Lewis. Smirk set to maximum. His moment had arrived.

“Oh no,” he said, faux-concern oozing from every pore. “Looks like someone got a bath.”

I swiped dripping hair out of my eyes and shot him a look that could’ve landed him in the ER.

But he wasn’t finished.

He slid off his designer jacket—probably worth more than my entire closet—and dangled it toward me like a biohazard bag.

“Here, humanitarian. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t help the less fortunate?”

I reached for it.

He yanked it back, nose wrinkling like I’d sneezed on him. “Actually… I can’t let filth touch my things.”

I met his gaze, deadpan. “Hate to break it to you, genius, but the ‘filthy thing’ already touched it.”

Gasps. Whispers. The peanut gallery was living for it.

Then, like a ray of salvation, Sophie walked in with Olivia and Ariel. Sophie—the queen of being absurdly prepared—probably had an emergency uniform folded into her sock.

I dropped Lewis’s cursed jacket like it burned and marched over, wet hair sticking to my face.

“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Lewis?” Sophie teased, pulling out a clean uniform like the actual angel she is.

“Oh yeah,” I said sweetly. “Nothing says true love like public humiliation and attempted waterboarding.”

After a quick change in the bathroom (thank you, Sophie, savior of soggy peasants), I attempted to make it to the laundry room with my drenched clothes.

Attempted being the keyword.

Because as I was speed-walking toward the laundry room, trying to save what little pride I had left, I slammed into someone.

My wet clothes hit the floor in a sad, squelching heap.

"Ew," sneered the same blonde nightmare from yesterday, stepping dramatically away like I was contagious. "I just touched the scholarship girl from the slums."

I crossed my arms and smiled sweetly. “Jealous? I bet you wouldn’t pass a first-grade spelling test without parental assistance.”

Her cheeks flamed red.

Direct hit.

In response, she stomped on my clothes like a cartoon villain, grinding her shoe into them with unnecessary flair.

"Just because you messed with Clara doesn’t mean you can mess with me," she snapped, snapping her fingers so close to my face I had to physically fight the urge to bite them.

Oh. Clara. Lewis’s sister. Of course.

Because this wasn’t just petty drama. This was a family vendetta now. Wonderful.

“Oh no," I gasped, putting a hand over my heart. "I'm so scared. Are you going to call your rich mummy next?"

She looked confused for a second, like she was trying to figure out if that was an insult. It was. A good one.

Apparently, sarcasm wasn’t in her tiny vocabulary.

She stormed off, nose high, as I picked up my ruined uniform by two fingers and ceremoniously dumped it into the nearest trash can.

---

I made it back to class looking like a drowned rat with anger management issues.

Sophie was stuffing my books into my bag, her face a mixture of sympathy and low-grade panic.

"What happened?" I asked, noticing half my stuff scattered across the floor.

Before she could answer, some clown thought it’d be hilarious to kick one of my books away from me.

Bad idea.

Without missing a beat, I grabbed the nearest thick textbook and whack—delivered justice straight to his head.

He stumbled, clutching his skull like I’d cracked it open (I hadn’t—unfortunately).

Maybe if their parents taught them basic manners, the rest of us wouldn’t have to.

I turned back to Sophie like nothing happened.

"Again. Who did this?"

She hesitated, twirling a strand of hair like a nervous anime character.

"If I tell you, you’ll get mad... and then you’ll get expelled."

"If you don’t tell me," I warned, lowering my voice dangerously, "I’ll hide your phone."

Sophie clutched her phone to her chest like I’d threatened her firstborn.

"It was Lewis," she admitted, sighing like she’d just betrayed the Jedi Order. "He knocked your stuff everywhere... then walked out."

Of course he did.

Because why wouldn’t the human equivalent of a cockroach scuttle away after making a mess?

I spotted his empty desk across the room—and a plan hatched, evil and wonderful.

I strutted over, grabbed Sophie’s bright pink nail polish (because if you’re gonna start a war, make it neon), and, with painstaking care, wrote in massive letters across his expensive imported wood desk:

"KNOW WHO YOU’RE MESSING WITH, ASSHOLE."

Sophie gasped like she was witnessing a crime scene.

"What have you done?!" she whispered, looking ready to pass out.

I handed her back her nail polish with a smile sweet enough to cause cavities.

"Started a movement."

Lewis wanted a war?

Congratulations.

He just signed up for the full experience.