My Stepbrothers Forced Me to Call Them Daddies

JESSICA'S POV The first breath of school air hit me—that mix of cheap floor cleaner and too many bodies. My bag felt heavy on my shoulder, a weight I couldn’t shake since I’d gotten out of mom’s car. I just had to make it to homeroom. Just keep my head down. My bladder had other plans, demanding a pitstop. The girls’ bathroom was empty, thank god. I pushed into a stall, did my business, and went to wash my hands. That’s when I saw it. Scrawled in sharp, red lipstick across the mirror, so I couldn’t avoid my own reflection staring back through the words. Jessica Writes Love Letters to Boys Who’d Rather Eat Garbage. The air vanished from my lungs. My hand, wet from the tap, dripped onto the counter. No. No, no, no. My secret. My stupid, private, hopeful secret. A month ago, I’d spent an hour crafting the perfect note for Liam. His smile, the way he laughed… I’d poured it all onto that lined paper. I thought the empty band room was safe. I was wrong. Miranda, head of the varsity cheer squad, had been stretching in the corner, hidden by the risers. She’d seen everything. “Aw, that’s so sweet,” her voice echoed in my memory, sugary and sharp as broken glass. She’d plucked the letter from my frozen fingers. “Let’s go see what Liam thinks.” I’d followed her, a lamb to the slaughter, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. We found him by his locker, surrounded by his friends. Miranda waved my note like a flag. “Look what the little mouse wrote for you, Liam,” she’d sung out. He took it, his brows raised. He read it. Then he snorted. A laugh burst out of him, loud and cruel. “She did not. Get out.” He looked at me, his gorgeous face twisted in amusement. “You’re kidding, right?” Miranda had looped her arm through his. “I told you she was funny. A real class clown.” And just like that, I wasn’t Jessica anymore. I was the punchline. A toilet flushed behind me. The stall door opened and Tiffany, one of Miranda’s clones, stepped out. She didn’t look surprised to see me. She looked thrilled. “See something you like?” she asked, a nasty smile playing on her lips as she came to stand beside me, examining her own reflection, ignoring the words between us. I couldn’t speak. My throat was sealed shut. “Miranda’s got a real way with words, doesn’t she?” Tiffany continued, applying a coat of gloss. “Almost as good as yours. ‘I think about your smile every night.’” she quoted in a high, mocking whine. “Classic.” I finally found my voice, a weak, shaky thing. “Why are you doing this?” She snapped the gloss shut. “Because it’s fun, Jessica. You’re fun. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go post the morning pic. Later, loser.” She breezed out, leaving me alone with the accusation on the glass. I scrubbed at the words with a wet paper towel until they were a pink, smeared nightmare, blurring my tear-streaked face underneath. The walk to English was a gauntlet. Whispers followed me. A few snickers. My phone buzzed in my back pocket, a constant, angry vibration. I waited until I slid into my desk to look. Three new notifications from an account called @Jessica_Observations. My stomach dropped. The profile pic was a cropped, unflattering photo of me from the school carnival, my mouth full of cotton candy. The bio read: Documenting the cringe. The newest post was a photo. Of me. Just now, in the bathroom, my face pale and horrified, reflected in the mirror with the graffiti clear behind me. The caption: Caught the author admiring her work! #delusional #getalife The comments were a flood of laughing emojis and insults. OMG her face! She really thought she had a shot with Liam? Lololol. “Jessica?” Mr. Davies’s voice cut through the roaring in my ears. “You’re up. Page forty-two. The soliloquy.” A fresh wave of giggles swept the room. My palms were slick. I fumbled for my book, my heart hammering. Every word I read aloud felt like it was being ripped from me, my voice a trembling, humiliating whisper. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, could hear the silent laughter. I kept reading, staring at the page until the words blurred, just wanting it to be over. Dinner was a special kind of torture. Mom had made my favorite, meatloaf, but it tasted like ash. “How was school, honey?” she asked, passing the mashed potatoes. I shoved a bite into my mouth to buy time. Fine. The lie was right there. Easy. Simple. It was fine. “It was okay,” I mumbled, forcing a smile that felt like it would crack my face. “Just… classes. You know.” Under the table, my phone lit up in my lap. Another notification from another fake account. @TruthAboutJess. This one had a picture of me from gym class last week, mid-dodgeball, my face a mask of panic. The caption was worse. So much worse. Speculating about things that weren’t true. Vile things. My eyes burned. I shoved the phone deeper under the tablecloth. “You sure?” Mom asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “You seem quiet.” “I’m just tired,” I said, the lie coming easier now. “Big test tomorrow.” Up in my room, the silence was deafening. The dark felt safer. I locked my door and finally let the tears come, hot and silent. I clicked through the profiles, the comments, the cruel memes they’d made. Each one was a little cut, bleeding something out of me. I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t walk those hallways. I grabbed a notebook and a pen, my hand shaking. I started mapping it out. A route to history that avoided the main senior corridor. A detour to bio that skipped the cafeteria entrance entirely. I could skip lunch, hide in the library… if I timed it right, I could avoid almost everyone. I stood in front of my own clean mirror, practicing. I tried a small, confident smile. It looked like a grimace. I tried to hold my head high, but my shoulders just slumped forward. The girl in the reflection was a scared mouse. A plaything. Fun. The clock glowed 3:07 AM. The ceiling offered no answers. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lipstick, I saw Liam’s laughing face, I saw the phone screen glowing with my own humiliation. Tomorrow was coming. I could map all the routes I wanted, but I couldn’t map my way out of this. The dread was a physical thing, a cold weight on my chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe.