"Hey- Noel!"

     A scrap of paper tossed at me. It bounces off my blazer and falls to the ground, curling pathetically. Honestly, I'd like to join it. I hate sitting here defencelessly, with my hands folded in my lap. The picture of a good girl.

     Snickers of laughter around me. I close my eyes and curl my hands into fists, trying to dissipate the irritation. But it rises nevertheless. I turn around and send the girl who threw the paper my most withering glare. She stops laughing behind her hand. I face the front again. I feel the blackness still festering inside, unsatisfied. I'm too used to this to feel hurt.

     It's not bullying, really. They only give me their attention when they're too bored to spend their mundane time doing anything else. Most of the time I'm just ignored, and I prefer it that way. I can at least sit on my own, pretending I don't exist. Like everyone else does.

     I feel a twinge of hurt, though, thinking about how I initially started in this place. People flocked to me because of how I looked. Maybe it's vain to call myself pretty, but I don't think that was the main factor. I conjured an aura around me, to attract people. 

     Confidence is a veil, at the end of the day. I feel like a spider in my web, drawing my prey in with promises of sweetness. I used to be the girl loved by everyone; admired for my ability to always stand out. Now I'm the girl that's universally hated, but also too boring to be noticed. It's a paradox in meaning.

     I made a mistake exactly one year ago, that sent me catapulting into the depths of social pariahcracy. I'm fine with being forgotten, because I don't want any part of this social hierarchy. Even if I'm at the bottom, crushed under the feet of thousands of people higher up than me.

     Because too late, I realised that there was too much sourness in this school. Too much poison. I couldn't deal with it, so I dropped everything I had. Lost it all, though perhaps not voluntarily then. Losing something implies that you wanted to keep it. Hold onto it. Some days I think I know whether I lost it or left it, and some I don't.

     And now here I am. Caged in this school. Locked in like an animal, but not physically. Really, I could leave any time I liked. But mentally? I know that I'm never going to leave. I'll always be forced to take a piece of my trials with me. Whether it helps or fails me, I don't know yet. The least I can hope for is that I developed some resilience because of it.

     I idly trace a line down my page, curling and coaxing the ink to wherever I please. I don't choose a uniform pattern, like we're forced to in geometry. Just an unfettered, uncalculated mess of nothing. I feel a savage pleasure at my freedom, being able to break at least one little rule.

     Suddenly, a hand comes into view right under my nose, and I gasp. It's our English teacher, whose name I still don't know, and she looks livid.

     "If you're not going to pay me an ounce of your attention today, Miss Jean, then I'm going to ask you to leave." she says. I feel humiliated because I've been caught. People are outright laughing now. They have no loyalties to me, why would they feel sorry? In fact, they revel in my downfall. Always did.

     I stuff my work in my bookbag and walk out. I turn my head up defiantly as people watch me leave, snickering. I don't look at anyone. I wish I could say something, anything to shut them up. To show who I really am, what my worth truly is.

     But that would be an unnecessary cause for consequence.

     Confidence. My last veil, until they finally see my face.

⋆

     I don't know what to believe. About getting out of here. I had tried; by god, I tried. But it's too late. No other school will accept me this far into my education. Me, on the stepping stone, the precipice of university.

     Hope is idiotic, in my opinion. A false dream brought forwards to people; to convince, to lie. What an utter joke.

     The school sends a letter to my dorm. I've been suspended for my lack of attention. And unfortunately or fortunately for me, I'm not a brat like the rest of my peers. I don't want to smooth things under the carpet, or buy my way out of every trifle. And I'll be damned before I write to my father for help.

     I lie on my bed, looking at the ceiling aimlessly. I painted it myself, checkerboard style, only a few weeks ago. I did it, thinking that if I was bored, I could amuse myself by counting the squares on my walls. Painting the walls took ages and several pots of paint, but it was worth it.

     There's also, inconveniently, a mirror opposite my bed, above my vanity. I can see myself from across the room if I tilt my head up just so. My skin is dull, any lustre in my hair is long gone. I look like the ghost of someone who was once beautiful.

     I can't bear to look at myself any more. So I sit up, pull a jumper on that I've left strewn on my bed, and pad over to my collection. It's several neatly sized bottles sitting in a perfect triangle, hidden in my drawers. I can take my pick whenever I want. Lately, I've been relying on it a lot more to get through my days. That silvery rush of fire licking my insides when I tip it down my throat.

     "Noel?"

     Damn these people. I hastily put down the bottle I'm examining and look around. It's the demon English teacher from hell, who sent me out of my class and got me suspended. She's looking at me with some ridiculous amalgamation of relentless courage and sympathy. Like she pities me. Thinks I'm pathetic.

     I wouldn't blame her.

     "Noel, is it alright if I come in?" she asks from her place in the doorway. I shake my head and turn back to my bottles, hoping she'll leave. I have no respect for her. If she feels that it's still okay to maintain some form of relationship after breaking my last pieces of trust, she can think again.

     "Fine. This is your personal time. But I came to apologise for my abruptness and its consequences. I know that you're having a... difficult time, and I feel that suspension is not the right choice for you."

     Choice? What sort of choice did I ever have in the first place? I want to tell her that she's being naïve, but I stay silent and still. I won't look at her. Eye contact gives encouragement.

     "That is all. I'll speak to the people responsible so you can get back on track, okay? You were one of our star students, Noel. You were so capable. I'm going to make sure you get to where you belong academically; in the top ranks of the country." 

     She pauses after telling me this, like she's waiting for gratitude. I hope she knows that I'm not giving her a drop of it. And I'm saving all this alcohol for myself. Thanks for nothing, I want to tell her. I'm going to need it after this.

⋆

     He's looking at me.

     The shiny, new toy these people have swarmed over. I don't remember when he ever showed up, just know that he was there last week, sitting behind me.

     The school finally let me return to classes, after realising that suspension was really just me lying in my bed and doing nothing the whole day. It's the dream, when I would otherwise be at school twenty four-seven. I was happy to just sit in my seat and pretend to focus, like I normally do, but the new book keeps looking at me. I would call it staring, but I feel his eyes on the back of my head. His eyes brush over me, his gaze lingers a few seconds. Then he looks away, and the same fucking cycle repeats.

     I mean, really? Does he think I'm dumb enough to not notice, because I don't care about anything else? Feigned ignorance doesn't mean that I'm unobservant.

     I chew my gum at the back of the classroom silently, having mastered this technique years ago. Of doing whatever the hell I wanted and remaining unnoticed. Or I thought I had, until that evil teacher caught me. As for her half-arsed apology, well, she can go suck it. 

    And this fucking boy. I really can't stand people like him; too timid, too tepid to get what they want. I would if I could keep my anger hidden away, but that's just another line of ridiculousness in the oceans of things that I want from the world.

     At last, I feel the last of my restraint snap after his fiftieth glance at me. I look at the teacher sitting at the front to make sure she's not watching, then I turn in my seat. 

The one thing I've become exceptional at is evil-eyeing people.

     "What are you looking at?" I say quietly. He starts and looks at me head-on with wide eyes. Finally, he can face up to looking at me properly, rather than stealing glances like I'm going to scald him if I notice.

     I wonder if he's going to say 'nothing', which is the most utterly generic response I've ever heard. A cop out, to be honest. And I wouldn't be surprised, from someone like him.

     "You."

     I'm completely caught off guard. There's a strange honesty in him that I'm unaccustomed to, and his bold response is the opposite of what I thought he was. His eyes reflect a familiar determination I remember having, in what feels like aeons ago.

     "Excuse me?" I eventually reply, dumbfounded.

     "I said you." he says again. He doesn't look surprised any more. I grit my teeth and turn back around without replying, feeling irritated. It feels like he took my power from me. I hate it. I hate him.

     So I resolve to never speak to this boy again, compartmentalising him with the rest of this class. I attempt to focus on the theorem we're studying today, but my mind feels gone now. Too exhausted to put up with the strain of work. The more I push myself, the further away my consciousness pulls from me. Floating along in an ocean of dreams.

     I feel the touch of light fingers ghosting my shoulder; careful, almost weightless. I ignore it. I know who it is, and I refuse to give in.

     Even if for some warped reason, he makes me want to believe in him.

⋆