I've never believed in turning the other cheek.
You slap me, I don't walk away—I slap back harder. Twice. With glitter.
So when I walked into the art room and found my sketchbook in pieces—pages torn, drawings defaced, and one page with "Try harder, loser" written in a bubbly, fake-cute font—I didn't scream, didn't cry. I just stared at the wreckage in eerie silence.
Bianca Monroe had declared war.
And that? That was her first mistake.
See, everyone at St. Agatha's Reform Academy plays nice because they're scared of being labeled a lost cause. But not me. I'm already the lost cause. The screw-up. The problem. I've got nothing to lose—and that makes me dangerous.
Bianca thinks being pretty and popular is enough to keep people in line. And to be fair, most of the student body acts like she's Queen Regina of the Plastics. But I've dealt with girls like her before—ones who crave control like oxygen and crush anyone who threatens their spotlight.
She thought ruining my sketchbook would scare me.
Oh, honey.
She has no idea who she's messing with.
---
That night, while everyone else was in bed praying they'd be one step closer to heaven by morning, I was crouched in front of Bianca's locker with a duffel bag of chaos.
Inside? A glitter bomb. A Bluetooth speaker. Pink feathers. And my favorite song queued up on loop: "I'm Too Pretty to Be Petty."
Because if I was going to get revenge, I was going to do it in style.
It took me about 20 minutes to rig it up. I slipped the glitter bomb into the top shelf, adjusted the trip wire just enough so that the moment the locker opened—boom—an explosion of glittery vengeance. I stuffed feathers in for good measure, zipped everything into place, and tucked the speaker just behind her textbooks.
I stood back and admired my masterpiece.
"Operation Glitter Doom," I whispered. "Initiated."
---
The next morning, I was leaning against the lockers across the hall, sipping lukewarm coffee from a contraband thermos and waiting for my moment.
Bianca strolled in, surrounded by her Gaggle of Sycophants. You'd think she was arriving at the Met Gala instead of third period history. Hair done. Gloss poppin'. Ego fully loaded.
She reached for her locker.
I held my breath.
Click.
BOOM.
Glitter shot out like a volcano erupting fabulousness. Pink feathers fluttered into the air like some demented bird had just exploded. And then came the music:
"I'm too pretty to be petty, but guess what? I'm both!"
It echoed down the hallway, perfectly synced with Bianca's shriek of horror.
She staggered backward, covered in glitter from head to toe, looking like a human piñata someone just cracked open.
I didn't mean to laugh. Truly. But I let out this weird, choked snort and then doubled over, clutching my sides as people started filming. Phones popped up like daisies in spring. Gasps. Giggles. One bold freshman even slow-clapped.
Bianca spun around, eyes wild. "WHO. DID. THIS?!"
I blinked innocently. "Yikes. That's a lot of glitter."
Her eyes locked on me. "You think you're funny?"
"I mean," I said, shrugging, "the hallway's laughing. So, yeah."
"You're dead."
"Probably," I said, tossing my thermos into my bag. "But at least I'll be sparkly in the afterlife."
---
The rest of the day, she looked like she'd lost a wrestling match with a unicorn. No matter how hard she tried to brush it off, glitter has commitment issues—it sticks to you for life.
By fourth period, the entire school had seen the video. Even Sister Joan. I passed her in the hallway and she muttered something about "heathens and TikTok."
At lunch, Bianca cornered me near the vending machine.
"You've crossed a line," she snapped.
"Oh no," I gasped. "Is that where the glitter went?"
"Laugh it up, psycho," she hissed. "This isn't over."
"Of course not," I said sweetly. "We're just getting started."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're going to wish you'd never set foot in this school."
"I already do," I replied. "But thanks for the warm welcome."
She stormed off, feathers still clinging to her hair.
And I? I finished my bag of chips with the satisfaction of a villain mid-monologue.
---
That night, I sprawled across my bed and stared at the ceiling.
People like Bianca don't go down without a fight. She's the type to retaliate hard. The kind who'll smile sweetly while plotting how to make you cry in public.
Which meant I had to stay ahead.
Her next big move? The talent show.
She'd been bragging about her solo performance for weeks, calling it her "Redemption Arc Moment," which honestly made me want to gag. The plan? I'd swap her performance track with a… tweaked version.
Same melody. Very different lyrics. Think self-roast meets public embarrassment, with a dash of musical theater flair.
I was also considering one final touch for the Sister Joan front—remember that giant crucifix she keeps in her office like it's some sacred relic? I "borrowed" it last semester for an art project. If it somehow ended up bedazzled and dangling from Bianca's neck tomorrow morning… poetic justice.
Bianca started a war.
But me?
I was born for battle.