He grins. “Just figured if you’re such a badass, maybe you should show everybody.”
The students around you murmur.
You could refuse.
You probably should.
Then again, refusing means feeding the exact machine he built, weeks of jokes and bait and public poking. Fighting means risking suspension, headlines, your mother’s heartbreak, and becoming exactly the circus act she feared. Either way, Brad is hoping to turn your existence into his entertainment.
You cross your arms.
“No.”
The grin on Brad’s face widens. “Aw, come on. Thought you weren’t scared.”
Tasha, somewhere behind you, says, “Originality just died of shame.”
A few laughs. Brad ignores them.
You take a slow breath.
“Brad,” you say, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “if you need this many witnesses to feel brave, that’s your issue.”
Now the laughs come faster.
His face changes.
There it is again. That slippage. He was counting on one of two outcomes: you refusing and looking weak, or you agreeing and letting him manufacture chaos. He was not counting on becoming the joke in his own ambush.
“Shut up,” he snaps.
You tilt your head. “Make me.”
It is not the most mature thing you have ever said.
It is, however, efficient.
Brad lunges.
Not a full tackle. More like a shove, the kind boys use when they want plausible deniability afterward. You sidestep him with insulting ease, and he stumbles forward. The crowd gasps, then laughs. Humiliation, now visible. Irreversible.
He spins and comes again, angrier, sloppier.
