He doesn’t grab you this time.
He is learning, if not wisdom, then caution.
That weekend, Tasha comes over for the first time. Your mother likes her instantly, which is rare enough to deserve a plaque. They talk in the kitchen while you do homework at the dining table, and for a weird, precious hour, your new life feels almost normal. Tasha helps you turn cardboard boxes into actual shelves. You help her with algebra. She finds the standing bag in the garage and just whistles low.
“So the rumors undersold it.”
You lean against the washing machine. “Please don’t get weird.”
She looks offended. “Emily, I’m already weird. But I’m not about to start asking you to armbar teachers for fun.”
“Good.”
She nods toward the bag. “Still training?”
“Mostly not enough.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
You frown. “What is?”
“You’re trying to act like the strongest thing about you is supposed to be hidden. That’s got to mess with your head.”
It does.
You know it does.
But saying that aloud feels dangerous, like telling the truth might knock over some fragile structure your mother spent months building.
Monday morning proves Brad has indeed been planning something.
A fake flyer appears on half the lockers in school before first period. Pink paper. Glitter font. A cartoon tiara clip-art in the corner. WELCOME TO LINCOLN HIGH, FIGHTER PRINCESS! OPEN SPARRING IN THE GYM AT LUNCH. COME SEE DETROIT’S TOUGHEST TRASH TALKER.
Tasha rips one down and crumples it so violently it deserves points.
You stand there holding another copy, your face hot. Not scared. Not even exactly angry. More exhausted than anything. Public humiliation is such lazy theater. It needs no originality, only enough cruelty and enough spectators.
Tasha turns to you. “Say the word and I commit several tasteful felonies.”
You almost smile. “Tempting.”
By third period, teachers have removed most of the flyers, but the damage is done. The school is buzzing again. This time not with awe. With amusement. Curiosity. Anticipation. Brad is trying to convert your strength into a gimmick, something to point at and laugh at until he regains control of the narrative.
He forgot one thing.
