I WISH I could say things at school got better. That the rumors died down and that people started talking to me again, but they didn't. In fact, a week later I walk into school, prepared to sit down for my final English test before exams, only to drop my bag to the floor in shock the second my locker comes into view.

It's covered in slurs and insults, each painstakingly written in permanent marker. Words like skank, slut, and bitch are the mildest of the names. There's others I wouldn't even utter in the worst of company. But it's not the slurs directed at my sexual activity or my past that make my eyes burn with angry tears.

No, it's the words in the middle, a single sentence hidden amongst all the black marker. Written in a bright, bloody red, it's also the only words that aren't in English.

Someone's been brushing up on their Greek, apparently.

Katá mána, katá kóri. Poutána.

It's a simple Google translation, at best. But the meaning is clear: Like mother, like daughter. Whore.

My blood boils in my veins and I swear my vision turns red. Calling me names is one thing; I can handle that. I can put on my best face and tune out the depreciation. But using my family to get a rise out of me? That's a whole other level of infuriating.

My locker is in a hall off of the main hallway, so only a few people have seen it. Those who do point and whisper to their friends, or even stop and take a picture of it. I fix each onlooker the most convincing glare I can manage.

A handful of freshman scurry in the other direction.

I all but stomp over to my locker, spinning the combination with more force than necessary. Thankfully, nothing pops out at me or dumps over my head when I open the door and quickly go about exchanging books and binders in my bag.

My gaze intentionally fixates on anything that is not the locker beside me. I haven't seen Hunter using it since we left for New York. Which means he's either not using it, or better yet, doing everything in his power to avoid being here whenever I'm in the general vicinity.

The thoughts in my head turn to more depressing topics, like what he'll think when, or if, he sees the writing on mine. Will he agree? Will he be mad? Will he even care? I don't let myself wonder if he had anything to do with it. Because I know damn well who did this.

The metal shutters when I slam the door shut, making the locks on the neighbouring lockers bounce. Heads turn at the slam, but I hitch my bag back over my shoulder and make a beeline for homeroom.

I don't make it past the end of the hall before a voice calls out to me from behind.

"I've heard toothpaste or nail polish remover work wonders on permanent marker," Clarissa advices with a satisfied laugh. "Too bad neither of them will help you clean up the mess you call your life."

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. I will not let her provoke me.

One more step away from her and she says, a little louder, "Or your mother's, for that matter."

I whirl around before I can remind myself that this is exactly what she wants me to do— react.

A few long strides down the hall and I'm standing in front of Clary's cruel, smiling face. I put as much rage and severity into my voice as I can muster. "Don't you ever talk about my mother. You don't know anything about my family."

Her smile turns saccharine as she cocks her head to the side, arms crossing over her chest. "Oh, Peyton. I think you'll find I know far more than you think I do. Your darling friend Mia just wouldn't shut up when I told her you'd come in here and made yourself right at home in my school."

Any part of me that might've thought Mia might've actually been a friend to me at some point is dead.

"So what?" I seethe. "Mia told you my life story, and now you think you're an expert on my life? News flash, Clarissa— she doesn't know shit. That girl breathes and rumors fly out. If you think I ever actually told her anything relevant, you're crazy."

Clarissa shrugs her slim shoulders like she doesn't have a care in the world. "Lie to yourself all you want, Peyton. But I see you for what you are."

"And what is that, Clarissa?" I challenge, arms crossed over my chest defensively. "Please, do share whatever it is you think you know, since you think you know me so damn well."

To no one's surprise, a small crowd has gathered, likely drawn by the sound of two girls going at it before the first bell has even rung. They hang around in clumps throughout the hallway, trying not to show that they're hanging on every word from their perspective stakeout locations. To hell with getting to homeroom on time, right? Not when this confrontation has been brewing for months.

With Clarissa's next words, everyone within earshot falls silent, whatever half-assed conversations they'd been faking stopping dead.

"You are just like me, Peyton, no matter how hard you try to hide behind your pretty smiles and feigned sincerity." She sounds proud of herself, the venom in her voice sinking as deep as her words. "In fact, you're even worse. Because you act like you care about people and their precious feelings, but you don't, do you? They're just little pieces on your board game. At least when I call someone my friend, I mean it. Hypocrisy is unattractive, you know."

A dozen retorts spring to my lips, but each one fizzles out before I can form the words. I should tell her that she's the hypocrite, the one who doesn't bother practicing what she's preaching. Only there's one little detail I can't overlook— Clarissa is admitting she's a bitch, admitting she doesn't care about people's feelings. She knows what she is, acknowledges it, and she doesn't pretend to be otherwise.

My silence brings a smug grin to her face. It's like she can see that her words have hit their mark and stuck, like needles digging in deep beneath the surface.

Her voice is quieter, these words meant just for the two of us. "Looks like the truth hurts more than any rumor I could've come up with."

Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them brim over. This has nothing to do with my pride or my reputation. Both of those things are tarnished beyond salvation. In the eyes of my classmates, I will never be redeemed. I'll be the girl nobody will want to remember when they reminisce about high school, the girl who shattered another human being with her words and her schemes, all because she got a rise out of it.

But I realize now that I don't care how these people remember me, whether or not they hate me or wish they'd never met me. What I care about is being able to look back at my high school experience and know that I tried; tried to be a better person, tried to atone for the endless mistakes I'd made and pain I'd inflicted. And while I would probably never be able to apologize to the people I'd actually hurt, I could damn well show a little compassion for other people like them.

Because at some point in time, every person standing around us has likely been hurt by another's word or actions. I could pick out a handful, at least, would been hurt by the girl in front of me, be it through snide comments, or indirect insults, or point-blank humiliation.

I'd seen what she was like on my first day here, and I'll admit, I'd seen myself in her. And maybe that's the reason I'd gone about trying to show everyone that they didn't need to put up with her bullshit. Because, maybe in another universe, I wished somebody would've stopped me. But I'd gone about it in the worst way possible, by fighting fire with fire. In order to show people they didn't have to accept being tormented by a girl who thought she was better than them... I'd tormented a girl I thought I was better than.

God, I am a hypocrite.

"You're right," I say in a small voice, more to myself than her. But then I meet her eyes, see the pride and the power she's feeling at the expense of my pain, and I say it a little louder. "You're right, Clarissa. You're absolutely right."

Her expression goes blank. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'you're right'," I repeat, once more for good measure. "I'm not going to make excuses for being an atrocious human being, because I absolutely was. I was hateful, and cruel, and I enjoyed the feeling of notoriety that came at the expense of other people's happiness. I liked being popular just because I was pretty, and rich, and people were afraid of me. And there is nothing you can say to me that will make me hate myself more than I already do."

Her blank expression morphs into skepticism, but I keep going. "You have no idea how hard it is to go through every day with this little voice in the back of your head telling you that its your fault someone almost died. That, because of you, a promising young girl thought her life wasn't worth living anymore. Have you ever taken a moment to consider what your words have done to the people you grew up with?" I spread my arms wide, bringing the people in the gathering crowd to her attention. "Have you thought about how you would feel if someone took the the time to remind you every day how worthless they think you are, or told everyone how ugly they thought you were?"

"I don't care—"

"That people have feelings?" I finish for her. "It's easy to ignore the fact that words can hurt just as badly as a punch in the gut. God, do I know that." I let out a bitter laugh, and my arms drop to my sides. "But so does realizing that your words have consequences. That the same words that made you feel powerful in the moment can make you feel like absolute shit when they're turned around on you or someone you care about."

The warning bell sounds overhead, but nobody moves towards their classrooms. It's then that I notice a pair of familiar heads over Clary's shoulder, watching me vomit every word and thought I've had since coming to my senses. Where angry tears had been brewing, fresh tears of admiration and gratitude spill over.

My focus returns to Clary. "Just because people don't dress like you, or act like you, does not mean they aren't worth the world. Addison is one of the kindest, smartest girls I've ever met, and she deserves everything she dreams of. She doesn't deserve to be called crazy just because she's different and doesn't follow the latest trends. I happen to know dozens of people who would kill for a wardrobe like her's." I manage to meet Addy's eyes for the briefest second before I have to look away. "And Eliza certainly doesn't deserve those awful names you call her when you think people aren't listening. Nobody should be judged for who they love. Her and Lauren have something any one of us would be lucky to find in our lives."

I keep going, listing a handful of other people I'd Clary say hateful things to or about. The words just fall out on their own, and a tiny part of me is surprised how many people I actually do know here, whether I realized it or not.

I know the final bell is going to ring any minute now, and there's a small chance my ass will land in detention for the scene unfolding. Clarissa is just staring, not getting a word in edgewise. Everyone is silent, and not a teacher is in sight. When I stop, taking a pause to gather some air in my breathless lungs, Clarissa finally speaks up.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as if I've wasted her precious time standing my ground and saying something what I should have said months ago. "You done?" she asks in a clipped tone, and I can tell that all of my ranting and raving has fallen on deaf ears.

"No," I answer, shaking my head and taking one last deep breath. There's only one thing left for me to say, and I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to bring myself to say it until the two little words come out of my mouth. "I'm sorry."

If I thought her face was blank when I told her she was right, then the only way to describe the look on her face when I apologize to her is that her brain completely short-circuits. It was clearly the absolute last thing she thought I would ever say to her. She visibly sputters, searching for something to say and coming up blank.

The words roll off my tongue easier the second time. "I'm sorry, Clarissa, that I used your feelings for Hunter to hurt you. I saw that it hurt you to see him with me, so I used that against you. I wanted you to feel as shitty as you make everyone else feel, and that was twisted and wrong, and I cannot apologize enough to make that right."

After a beat of silent, Clarissa practically bares her teeth at me. "Do you expect me to forgive you? To smile and hug and be the best of friends?" she asks incredulously. "Will that make you feel better about yourself?"

"No," I tell her truthfully. "I hurt people I cared about too, Clarissa. Even if you did forgive me, which I know you won't, that won't change any of the things I did.  Nothing will. The only thing I can do is learn from my mistakes and hope that I can change for the better. I only hope you can do the same."

I mean every word. My brother was right when he told me it's never too late to realize you're wrong. And now that I've admitted my mistakes out loud... it's like a million tons of weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I know this is only the beginning of a long road to becoming the kind of person that the people I love could be proud of.

The kind of person I could be proud to be.

The final bell sounds and people scatter, shattering the moment. But I said what I needed to say, and now I can only hope it makes even the smallest difference.

When Clarissa shrugs and marches off with a hair flip and a, "Nice speech," that hope dwindles.

Was changing one person ever the point though? I mean, if you refuse to let somebody's words hurt you, are you not taking away the control they thrive on? A bully without the power to hurt you is just a person saying cruel things to bring you down so they can raise themselves up. 

It wasn't until I had lost my status, and the power that came with it, that I realized I don't need to tear people apart to build myself up. It took moving here, and finding friends who cared about who I was inside, to see the million ways it's wrong to judge people I don't even know. It took my brother yelling at me, telling me how much he hated me, for me to understand how selfish I am. And it took falling in love, and breaking my heart, to comprehend that I can't expect to live happily ever after if I can't even love myself.

I wonder if I would have learned any of this if my parents had never split up, if I'd never been uprooted and moved across the country to a little town where my name meant nothing? Would someone have helped me see the consequences my actions had? Or would I still be an antagonistic bitch?

As I head to class, and the test I'm sure has already started, I have to admit that there's no point in wondering. Because I'm glad things happened the way they did when we moved. 

Even if it could take away the ache I felt in my chest every time I thought of Addy, or Liza, or Hunter— I wouldn't change a minute of it.

This chapter was 100% fuelled by "folklore" and I am not ashamed to admit it, because this album is a masterpiece, and you cannot change my mind.
(lowkey haven't stopped listening to it since it came out last friday, and neither has Peyton.)

I can't believe there are only TWO MORE CHAPTERS LEFT OF THIS STORY. It's been literal years since I first started writing this story, and it's bittersweet to see it finally coming to a close. Thank you to everyone whose been around since the start, through hiatuses, or just took a chance and started reading. I love all of y'all.

Until next time, here's the last GIF I have saved on my phone... don't ask questions.

Lots of love,