I can still remember the smell, even after 20 years.
Industrial wood glue mixed with something sharp and burnt beneath the constant buzz of fluorescent lights.
It was sophomore chemistry. I was 16 and painfully quiet, the kind of girl who perfected the art of invisibility. I sat in the back row, kept my head down, and measured my worth by how little attention I attracted.
Unfortunately, someone else measured his worth by how much attention he could command.
His name was Travis.
He sat behind me that semester, draped in a navy varsity football jacket. His laughter was loud enough to interrupt lectures. His confidence looked effortless, almost rehearsed. Teachers tolerated him. Students admired him. He had an easy grin that made adults call him “a good kid” and classmates orbit around him.
That day, while Mr. Halpern explained covalent bonds in a monotone that lulled half the class into boredom, I felt a tug at my braid.
I ignored it.
Another tug followed, sharper this time.
I assumed it was childish fidgeting. Travis was always restless. I told myself not to react. Reacting was fuel.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped against the linoleum floor. I gathered my notebook and tried to stand.
Pain shot through my scalp so violently that my vision blurred.
The classroom erupted in laughter before I understood why.
I reached back instinctively. My fingers trembled as they brushed against something stiff and sticky at the base of my braid. My hair did not move when I did.
It took only seconds for understanding to sink in.
