Chapter 13: The Press Attack
1960 Words
By Tuesday morning, everything had changed.
Again.
The announcement from the previous day hadn’t just spread across Ashwood Hall—
It had exploded.
Not quietly. Not gradually.
But all at once.
Like a spark dropped into dry grass.
Molly wasn’t just “the girl who performed well” anymore.
She was now—
The chosen one.
And that title?
It came with a price she hadn’t been prepared to pay.
Every hallway felt louder.
Every glance felt heavier.
Every whisper felt sharper.
“She got picked that fast?”
“There are better singers here…”
“Something doesn’t add up.”
Molly kept walking, her steps steady, controlled—
But inside?
Her confidence was beginning to fracture.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
But slowly.
Like glass under pressure.
By the time she reached her locker, her hands were already tense. Her fingers fumbled slightly with the metal handle, her breath shallow without her realizing it.
She tried to ignore it.
Focus.
Breathe.
Act normal.
“You okay?”
Chlo appeared beside her like she always did—but this time, something was different.
Even she looked concerned.
Molly forced a smile.
“I think so.”
Chlo raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t sound convincing.”
“I’m just tired.”
Chlo crossed her arms, studying her.
“That’s not tired. That’s stress.”
Molly hesitated.
Because she knew Chlo was right.
“Everyone’s watching me now, Chlo,” she admitted quietly. “Not just watching—judging.”
Chlo’s expression softened slightly.
“Let them.”
Molly shook her head.
“It’s not that simple.”
Because deep down—
Something had already begun.
That creeping thought.
That quiet, dangerous voice.
What if they’re right?
Later that afternoon, the music room wasn’t her escape anymore.
It didn’t feel safe.
It didn’t feel quiet.
It felt like a stage.
Even when it was empty.
Molly sat with her notebook open in front of her, pen hovering over the page.
Nothing came.
The lyrics that used to flow so naturally now felt stuck—trapped somewhere she couldn’t reach.
Every word she tried felt wrong.
Forced.
Heavy.
“I don’t even recognize my own sound anymore…”
“You’re overthinking it.”
She turned.
Art.
Standing by the door.
Again.
But this time—
His presence didn’t bring immediate relief.
It brought pressure.
“I have to get this right,” she said, her voice tight.
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
The words came out sharper than she intended.
Art paused.
Something shifted in the air between them.
“I’m just trying to help,” he said carefully.
“I know.”
But her voice wasn’t soft.
It was strained.
Fragile.
“I just… can’t mess this up.”
Before Art could respond—
Another voice cut through the room.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken it.”
Molly froze.
Slowly turned.
Vic.
She walked in like she owned the space.
Like she always did.
“You’re really starting to get comfortable here,” Art said, his tone firm.
Vic ignored him completely.
Her eyes locked onto Molly.
“I mean it,” she continued. “If you’re already this overwhelmed… maybe you weren’t ready.”
Molly’s chest tightened.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
Vic smiled slightly.
“No. But you need it.”
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Vic stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to feel personal.
“Do you really think they chose you because you’re the best?”
Molly’s heartbeat stuttered.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Vic tilted her head.
“Think about it.”
A pause.
“They saw a girl with a broken string… struggling…”
Another pause.
“Fighting to finish.”
Her smile sharpened.
“That’s not excellence, Molly.”
Her voice dropped further.
“That’s a story.”
Something inside Molly shifted.
Unsettled.
Off balance.
“They didn’t choose you because you’re better than everyone else,” Vic continued.
“They chose you because you look like something people can feel sorry for.”
The words didn’t just land—
They sank.
Deep.
Art stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
But Vic didn’t even glance at him.
Her focus never left Molly.
“And the truth is…”
A final pause.
“When the story fades…”
Her eyes darkened.
“…so will you.”
She turned.
And walked out.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
No consequence.
Silence followed.
But it wasn’t empty.
It was loud.
Molly stood still.
Her mind replaying every word.
Over.
And over.
“She’s wrong,” Art said firmly.
But Molly didn’t respond.
Because the worst part?
It didn’t feel completely wrong.
“What if that’s why they picked me?” she whispered.
Art frowned.
“No.”
“They didn’t even know me before that night…”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“What if I’m just a moment?” she said, her voice cracking.
“A mistake they’ll regret later?”
Art stepped closer.
“You’re not a mistake.”
But Molly stepped back.
“I need to be alone.”
That evening—
Vic’s words didn’t grow louder.
They grew deeper.
Molly sat on her bed, staring at her reflection.
Her own face looked unfamiliar.
“I was just a story…”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Not talent.”
Her phone buzzed.
Notifications.
Again.
And again.
Reluctantly, she picked it up.
Comments.
Opinions.
Judgments.
And then—
She saw it.
A post.
Anonymous.
But spreading fast.
“Unpopular opinion: Molly Hayes isn’t that talented. People just feel bad for her.”
Her stomach dropped.
More comments followed:
“Exactly. It’s sympathy, not skill.”
“Take away the ‘broken string moment’—what’s left?”
“She got lucky.”
Her fingers trembled.
“Is this… what people really think?”
She locked her phone.
But the words didn’t disappear.
They stayed.
Echoing.
Across campus—
Vic sat comfortably, scrolling through the same post.
Lucy smirked beside her.
“It’s working.”
Vic nodded slightly.
“Of course it is.”
Lucy leaned closer.
“You didn’t even lie.”
Vic’s lips curved faintly.
“No.”
A pause.
“I just helped them say it out loud.”
Back in her room—
Molly reached for her notebook again.
But this time—
She couldn’t write.
Her mind was too loud.
Too crowded.
Too uncertain.
“I don’t know who I am anymore…”
Tears burned behind her eyes.
But she blinked them back.
“I can’t fall apart now.”
Slowly—
She stood.
Walked to the mirror.
Looked at herself.
Really looked.
“You made it this far,” she whispered.
Her voice trembled.
“What if this is where it ends?”
Silence answered.
Then—
A memory.
The stage.
The broken string.
The moment she almost stopped.
And the moment she didn’t.
Molly closed her eyes.
Breathing slowly.
“I didn’t stop then…”
Her voice steadied slightly.
“So why do I feel like stopping now?”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“God…”
A whisper.
Soft.
Honest.
“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
A pause.
“The applause… or the doubt.”
Her hands clenched.
“I need to know…”
Silence.
Then—
That same quiet peace.
Gentle.
Steady.
Present.
And in that moment—
A thought came.
Clear.
Simple.
You didn’t sing for them.
Molly opened her eyes slowly.
Her breathing steadied.
“I didn’t…”
Another breath.
“I sang because it was inside me.”
Her grip tightened around her notebook.
“And that hasn’t changed.”
The doubt didn’t disappear.
But it shifted.
It wasn’t in control anymore.
The next day—
The first sign that something was wrong came quietly.
Too quietly.
Molly didn’t notice it at breakfast.
Didn’t notice it during assembly.
Didn’t notice it in Music Room 3.
It wasn’t until lunch—
That everything broke.
Chlo froze mid-bite.
Her phone hovered in her hand.
Her expression tightening.
“What?” Molly asked.
Chlo didn’t answer.
“Chlo?”
Slowly, she turned the phone.
“Just… don’t panic.”
Molly frowned.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Just look.”
Molly took the phone.
And everything changed.
The headline hit her instantly.
“BBC Young Folk Hopeful Accused of Playing the ‘Pity Card’”
Her name.
Right there.
Molly Hayes.
Her chest tightened.
“No…”
She scrolled.
“Sources claim… emotional manipulation…”
“Sympathy over skill…”
Her hands trembled.
“This isn’t real…”
Chlo leaned in.
“There’s more.”
More articles.
More headlines.
Same message.
Different voices.
Her world tilted.
“I didn’t… I never…”
“I know,” Chlo said.
But it didn’t matter.
Because now—
Everyone else was reading it too.
Whispers spread.
Eyes turned.
Phones lifted.
And just like that—
She wasn’t invisible anymore.
She was exposed.
“I need to go,” Molly said suddenly.
“Molly—”
“I need to go!”
She stood too fast.
The chair scraped loudly.
Heads turned.
She grabbed her bag and left.
Faster than usual.
Ignoring the pain.
Ignoring everything.
Until she reached the music room.
She slammed the door shut.
Silence.
But not peace.
Her breathing quickened.
“They think I’m faking…”
Her voice broke.
“They think I’m pretending.”
Her eyes fell to her leg.
The brace.
The thing she had fought so hard not to be defined by.
And now—
It was all they saw.
A knock.
Soft.
“Molly… it’s me.”
Art.
She hesitated.
Then opened the door.
“They’re lies,” he said.
“But people believe them.”
“They don’t matter.”
“They do!”
Her voice cracked.
“They do, Art! This is everything—and now they think I’m just… a charity case.”
“You’re not.”
“But how do I prove that?”
She gestured to herself.
“To this?”
Art’s voice softened.
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“My whole life…” she whispered, “people have decided what I’m worth before I even speak.”
A pause.
“And now it’s happening again.”
Art didn’t argue.
Because he couldn’t.
Molly sat down slowly.
Her mandolin in her lap.
Her fingers hovered.
“What if they’re right?” she whispered.
“They’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
Art met her eyes.
“Because I heard you before anyone else did.”
She stilled.
“You weren’t performing. You weren’t trying to impress anyone.”
He stepped closer.
“You were just singing.”
Her throat tightened.
“And it was real.”
Silence.
Then—
Slowly—
She placed her fingers on the strings.
The first note trembled.
The second steadied.
The third—
Became something else.
The noise didn’t disappear.
But it faded.
And in its place—
There was truth.
Across campus—
Vic stood in front of a mirror.
Calm.
Composed.
Watching everything unfold exactly as planned.
A slow smile curved her lips.
“Let’s see how strong you really are, Molly Hayes.”
Back in the music room—
Molly stopped playing.
She looked at Art.
Fear still there.
Doubt still there.
But something new beneath it.
Something stronger.
“I’m not quitting,” she said quietly.
Art smiled.
“I didn’t think you would.”
Molly exhaled.
Tightened her grip.
“Then I guess…”
She lifted her chin slightly.
“I’ll just have to prove them wrong.”
- Writer
