Her Sweet Revenge

Growing up, I wasn’t the beauty queen. I wasn’t even the quirky-cute girl in the back of the class that people eventually warmed up to. No. I was worse. I was the nobody. The invisible girl. And not in the cool “Fantastic Four” way—at least she had a team, a purpose, friends who knew she existed. Me? I couldn’t even get a nod from the so-called “outcasts” at school. I wasn’t rejected. That would imply people noticed me enough to say no. I was ignored. Passed by. Overlooked so hard it hurt. And today? Well… today was my birthday. Yay, me. Fifteen years on this planet and I didn’t even get a “Happy Birthday” text from my parents. Not until they called from the airport, laughing about how they pulled a “Home Alone” move and left me and my annoying little brother, Johnny, behind. Again. For their “much-needed” second honeymoon. Because, of course, what better day to do that than the day I was born? Ouch. But honestly, I wasn’t surprised. My birthdays had always been like this—disappointments wrapped in cheap streamers and crushed expectations. My mom had once tried to throw me a party when I was nine. She sent out glittery invitations to every kid in the neighborhood. She even bought a unicorn piñata and baked the cake herself. I waited by the door in my favorite pink dress. I waited… and waited. No one came. Not one. Why? Because I share a birthday with Amanda Bentley. Yeah. That Amanda Bentley. The It Girl. The Regina George of our school. The girl who had the entire town wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger. She threw the biggest parties every year. DJ, catered snacks, a glitter cannon—her parents even rented a llama once, just for “vibes.” Oh, and fun fact? We used to be best friends. Yep. Me and Amanda Bentley. She used to eat Pop-Tarts at my house and cry over Sailor Moon with me on the couch. But then… the summer after sixth grade, she went to camp, came back with boobs and a whole new personality. She stopped talking to me. I became the weird, clingy relic from her pre-glow-up days. A reminder of who she used to be. A part she wanted to erase. We grew apart—more like she ditched me in the hallway—and I stopped trying to figure out why. I played video games. I read manga. I stayed out of the drama. She talked about boys and posted makeup hauls on t****k. We were from two different worlds now. But this morning hit different. I was already late—thanks to missing the bus and having to run to school with my backpack slamming against my spine every few steps. My lungs burned, my legs ached, and by the time I reached the front gates, I was a sweaty mess. At least I wasn’t late. RINGGGGG. I froze. The bell echoed like a death toll across the quad. Never mind. I was late. I bolted up the steps, nearly bowling over a freshman with braces. “Sorry!” I gasped as I burst through the front doors and power-walked to class like my life depended on it. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum floors, and just when I thought I was going to make it without another humiliation… I tripped. Because of course I did. I stumbled forward like a scene from a bad teen movie and crashed straight into someone. My elbow knocked something out of their hand—a plastic cup flew through the air in slow motion. A neon pink smoothie arced up and splashed… just a bit. On Amanda Bentley’s shirt. Kill. Me. Now. My heart stopped. My mouth dropped open. “I—I’m so sorry!” I stammered. Amanda stared at me. Her icy blue eyes scanned me up and down, lingering on my soaked, flushed face. She smiled sweetly. “Oh my God. You’re sweaty. Ew.” Then, as if remembering something, she tilted her head. “Wait… isn’t it your birthday today?” I blinked, confused. “Wait… like… you remembered?” “Of course!” Her voice dripped with syrup. “And since you spilled some of my drink… why not have the rest?” Before I could even react, she tilted the half-full cup and poured it over my head. The cold, sticky liquid clung to my scalp and dripped down my face. Strawberry banana, I think. I didn’t even like smoothies. Gasps echoed around the hallway. A few people laughed. One guy actually filmed it. Amanda tossed the empty cup into a trash bin like she’d just won a prize. “Next time, watch your step, loser,” she said, and flicked her hair as she walked off. I stood there, frozen, drenched in shame. My eyes burned. The tears came hot and fast, blurring the lockers and fluorescent lights. I couldn’t even hear the whispers around me anymore. Just the pounding of my heart and the echo of Amanda’s laughter. Something inside me snapped. I looked at her retreating back, then screamed with everything in me— “I DECLARE WAR!” Everyone turned to look. I didn’t care. I ran down the hall, pushed open the bathroom door, and locked myself in the stall. I stared at my reflection in the scratched-up mirror. Hair matted. Face blotchy. Smoothie dripping from my bangs. Happy birthday, Aaliyah. I sniffed and wiped my face, then took a deep breath. This was the moment. The turning point. No more crying in bathrooms. No more being invisible. No more being the dweeb in Amanda’s rearview mirror. This wasn’t going to be just another embarrassing birthday. This was the beginning of something new. Something dangerous. Something delicious. This was the start of my story. And it began with revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.