"But Ivy, we're just trying to be your friend." Steve's obnoxious voice interrupts my thoughts. He reaches for another fry, popping it into his mouth. "You know, you should smile more—you'd be prettier if you did."

I snap. My fork slams into the back of his hand, the tines piercing skin, force smashing his hand into my plate and scattering food. Steve screams. Despite myself, I smile—a dark, satisfying curl of my lips. I release the fork, letting him yank his hand back. "You should learn to keep your hands to yourself, Steve," I mock-shame him as I stand, ignoring the shocked faces of his friends, grab my bag, and leave the cafeteria.

In my next class, I get called down to the office. And the principal lectures me on my "unacceptable display of violence."

"Unacceptable?" My voice is flat, detached. My mind isn’t in this office that smells of stale coffee and old carpet. It’s still in the cafeteria, replaying Steve’s scream, the way his hand jerked under the fork, blood welling between the tines. The memory is sharp, electric, more satisfying than anything the man in front of me can say, more present than the clock on the wall that ticks too loudly.

"Steven Hill’s been touching me and the other girls in this school inappropriately for forever. And nothing's ever been done. I got tired of it," I say evenly.