Ellie's POV
I stepped into the quiet chill of the early afternoon, the silence of the nearly empty school grounds a stark contrast to the buzzing in my head. My hand went, by instinct, to the familiar weight of my skateboard, tucked away in its usual spot beside the overflowing dumpster.
Still there. Untouched.
Its rubber tires were a little dusty, a fine layer of gray, but the bearings felt perfectly fine as I spun a wheel with my finger. The deck, while still bearing the familiar scrapes and battle marks of a thousand rides, felt solid beneath my palm. No one had found it. No one had bothered to break it this time.
It felt like a tiny, fragile miracle in a churning sea of weekly disasters, a small anchor in the chaos of my life.
With a soft, satisfying clack, I dropped the board to the cracked pavement. The sound cut through the quiet, crisp and clear. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I kicked off hard, the motion a practiced, seamless flow of muscle memory. My body remembered this rhythm, this freedom.
The wind bit at my face, a cold, sharp kiss, as I carved a path down the long, deserted side path leading away from the school. Music already blasted into my ears, a loud, pulsing wave of sound, even before my wheels hit the end of the curb and I launched myself onto the street. It was a remix—something moody and fast, with far too much bass that vibrated through my bones. I didn't care. I let the sound flood in, drowning out everything else.
I didn't think about Matilda. Her perfectly styled hair, her judging eyes.
I didn't think about Devon. His cheating hands, his groaning voice.
I didn't think about Stella's bare leg sliding up a fogged window, or the exact, raw pitch of her moan that had pierced even my silence.
I didn't even think about the keychain.
Not yet.
I just rode.
Fast.
Downhill.
Free.
For once, in a long, long time, no one had called my name in the hallway just to mock me. No one had deliberately bumped into me, their laughter echoing like I didn't exist, like I was a transparent ghost. No one had looked at me today like I was just a joke that simply couldn't take one.
For once, I didn't feel invisible.
I felt—if anything at all—dangerous.
Like I had teeth, sharp and ready.
I zipped past the imposing, wrought-iron gates of the neighborhood, a blur of motion. I narrowly missed a lumbering delivery van, its driver honking twice, a sharp, irritated blare, as if that sound would fix anything, change the fact that I was already gone. With a casual flick of my wrist, I flipped him off, my gloved hand a swift, defiant blur. The bloodstained palm beneath the wool remained invisible.
My mind didn't wander, didn't drift into its usual maze of anxieties and half-formed fears.
It didn't need to.
The silence was good, a deep, resonant hum that filled the space usually occupied by frantic thoughts. My body was still buzzing, a high, exhilarating thrum of adrenaline, and a curious, unfamiliar low on guilt. The quiet, for once, wasn't empty or suffocating. It was earned, a peaceful reward for the chaos of the day.
I didn't check my pocket. Not then.
I didn't check for the keychain. Not a single thought of it crossed my mind.
It wasn't until I was already home—hours later, the day's strange events fading into a hazy memory. My shoes were kicked off, lying somewhere near the door. I was stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my hair still wind-knotted and half-frozen from the speed of my ride—that I realized something was missing.
The keychain.
My fingers had gone to the spot, almost on their own, to the pocket of my coat which i hadn't taken off since i got home, but it wasn't there. Just the cool, thin lining of my coat pocket. Cold. Empty.
I sat up slowly, a sudden jolt of unease prickling my skin.
Checked again. Fingers plunging deeper, searching every fold of the fabric.
Nothing.
My mind raced backward, a desperate rewind. Trying to retrace every step, every moment. The parking lot. The gleaming Lexus. The low, damp hedge. The sudden gust of wind. My glove. The sharp sting of the jab.
"Oh," I said aloud, the sound small in the sudden silence of my room.
I remembered now. The tiny, fleeting pain.
It must've dropped when I got pricked.
A pinprick. Barely any blood had surfaced, just a small bead that had instantly soaked into the glove. I'd forgotten it instantly, dismissed it as a minor annoyance in the face of the larger, more thrilling discovery.
I stood up from my bed, the warmth of the blankets suddenly gone. I walked to my desk drawer, pulled it open, and started flipping through the usual junk—old wristbands from concerts I'd never actually gone to, tangled charging cords for devices I no longer owned, that one hairbrush I'd bought but never used. My search was automatic, a frantic habit. I paused, my hand hovering over the mess.
My name was engraved on that keychain.
A gift from Mom.
She'd gotten it custom-made, etched with words, just last year. Something dumb and sentimental, filled with her usual clumsy attempts at connection. "E.Y. – Drive Your Own Way." She thought I'd like the clever wordplay. I hadn't, really. But now, the thought of it being lost, with my name on it…
I sat back down on my bed, the slight panic beginning to subside. A new thought emerged, a small, comforting shield.
I didn't scratch the car, though.
Not officially. My hand had been pulled away. I hadn't actually gone through with it.
So I'm safe.
I'll get another one. They could make a new one, surely.
It's fine.
Probably.
I was still sitting on my bed, a familiar weight of fatigue settling over me. My coat remained half-zipped, a temporary shield against the day's chill. It was in this quiet moment, this pause before having to move again, that the smell hit me.
Warm.
Buttery.
Sweet.
Cookies.
A second later, the familiar creak of my door echoed through the room—without the courtesy of a knock, of course. Mom leaned halfway in, a plate of what I knew were fresh-baked treats in one hand, a dish towel casually slung over her shoulder.
"You hungry?" she asked, her voice light, as if this sudden appearance, this domestic offering, was the most casual, everyday thing in the world. "I made snickerdoodles."
I just blinked at her, the words hanging in the air.
Snickerdoodles.
A small, unsettling alarm bell went off in my head. She only baked when she was truly stressed, or when she was actively trying to avoid talking about something difficult. Usually, it was a combination of both. It was her tell, her quiet confession of unease.
"You're being transferred again, right?" I asked, my voice flat, not quite making it a question. It was a statement, a grim prediction.
She nodded, her expression unreadable, as if this news was nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary for either of us. It was just another Tuesday.
"Tomorrow," she confirmed, her voice still too calm. "They confirmed the orders this morning. You'll start at the new place next week. We'll drive out on Saturday. So tonight…" She paused, raising an eyebrow, and offered a small, knowing smile, as if we were in on some private, exciting joke. "…you start packing."
"Great," I mumbled, the sarcasm barely audible, lost in the soft quiet of my room.
She walked in fully now, crossing the space to my desk. She set the plate of warm snickerdoodles down with a gentle clink. "Don't forget your books and your chargers this time," she instructed, her gaze sweeping over my room. "And maybe go through your closet. Don't pack anything with holes, please."
"Why not?" I asked, a weary defiance in my voice, as I flopped back onto the bed, letting my body sink into the mattress.
"Because you're not homeless," she said, her tone suddenly flat, cutting through the lightness.
I smirked, a tiny, bitter curve of my lips, staring up at the ceiling. "Debatable," I murmured, knowing she probably wouldn't hear me.
She was already halfway out the door again, not waiting for my small, dark joke to land, not lingering for my response. "Eat a few," she called back, her hand tapping the wooden door frame as if to emphasize the point. "The rest are for your Dad, he went to book our flight."
And then, with a soft click, she was gone.
I lay there for a long while, staring up at the ceiling, the room quiet again. The warm, buttery scent of cookies slowly began to fade, dissolving into the still, warm air.
Another move.
Another school.
New people.
Same story. The words replayed in my mind, a tired, familiar mantra.
I sat up, pushing myself off the bed. My feet carried me, almost unwillingly, to the closet. My fingers closed around the cold metal of the doorknob.
I opened the door.
The clothes inside stared back at me like they were just as tired as I was—a silent army of indifference. Slouchy sweatshirts in muted colors, soft, worn-out jeans, a few faded graphic tees from years ago, their designs cracked and peeling. Two oversized hoodies, their fabric softened by countless washes, that I'd worn nearly every day last winter, trying to disappear inside them.
I flipped through them, my fingers brushing against the familiar fabrics.
Everything here was comfortable. Designed for blending in, for going unnoticed.
Everything here screamed forgettable.
No one noticed girls like this. Not at Winter Bulls. Not at any of the schools before it. Not anywhere.
I pulled out one of the sweatshirts—a light purple, faded from countless washes, with a cracked print of a retro moon phase design across the front. I held it up to myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, my reflection a blurry, indistinct shape.
Matilda would've laughed so hard she'd choke. The thought came unbidden, sharp and clear.
I dropped the sweatshirt onto the bed, letting it fall in a heap. I turned back to the wardrobe, my gaze now sweeping over the clothes with a new, critical eye.
If I wanted to be seen…
Actually seen…
I'd have to start with this. This closet. These clothes. This invisible uniform.
No more invisible.
No more safe.
Something inside me shifted—a tight, strange, and utterly new sensation. Like the very first step toward becoming someone else entirely. Someone who didn't crawl away from hedge bushes, hidden and unseen.
Someone who made people look.
I needed to become a better version of Matilda.