Clara used to think the worst part of high school would be the homework.
She was wrong.
It was the stares — the way people's eyes slid over her like she was part of the wall, or worse, the way they lingered when Amber Collins walked by. Amber didn't even have to say anything; her glossy hair, perfect nails, and army of followers did it for her. Brooke, Sabrina, Vanessa, and Riley trailed behind her like a pack of wolves wrapped in lip gloss.
Clara sat in the back of class, doodling in the corner of her notebook, pretending not to hear.
"Hey, Clara the Careless," Brooke whispered once, when Clara dropped her books.
Amber laughed, sharp and bright. "Don't bother, Brooke. She's too busy writing love letters to her textbooks."
Every word hit, even when Clara tried to ignore it. Her best friend Amelia would glare from across the room — all eyeliner, leather jacket, and fire.
"They're not worth it," Amelia would whisper later.
"I know," Clara would answer. But it didn't stop the ache.
Lunchtime was worse. The cafeteria was a map of social borders, and Clara's table was the only one with empty seats. Meanwhile, Amber's group was a storm of laughter and selfies, with Arthur — the golden-boy captain of the basketball team — sitting at the center like a trophy. Clara didn't hate them, not exactly. She just wished she could be invisible again.
That day, as she walked past their table with her tray, Riley stuck out her foot.
The crash was loud — too loud — and spaghetti sauce splattered across Clara's shirt.
"Oh my God, she's bleeding tomato!" Sabrina shrieked, while phones flashed and laughter echoed off the walls.
Clara froze, heart hammering. Amelia rushed over, pulling her up, but Clara could barely hear anything over the pounding in her ears.
Amber stood, brushing her perfect hair off her shoulder, smiling with false sweetness.
"Careful, Clara," she said softly. "Some of us just aren't meant for the spotlight."
Everyone laughed again.
Clara went home that day and stared at herself in the mirror — her hair messy, eyes red, shirt stained orange.
She whispered, "They'll forget by tomorrow."
But she was wrong again.
Tomorrow, everything would start to change.