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The Walk to School

Chapter Three

The walk to school is the worst part of my day. Too much time to think, not enough traffic noise to drown it out. I keep my headphones in, but the music is turned down low. It makes people less likely to stop me, but I can still hear the world creeping in.

The cracked pavement, the smell of exhaust, the clatter of bikes on the narrow lane. And the whispers. Always the whispers.

I catch them sometimes, curling like smoke from groups of kids leaning against fences. My jacket, my boots, the way I walk — they all say things about me I haven’t said out loud yet. Things people think they’re allowed to laugh at.

Dyke.

Confused.

Attention seeker.

I keep walking. I keep my face blank. If I don’t react, they don’t win. That’s the rule.

At the corner store, I duck inside just to breathe for a second. The bell over the door jingles, and the old man behind the counter gives me a nod. He doesn’t care what I look like. He never has. That’s why I come here, even though I don’t need anything.

I grab a soda I don’t want and linger by the candy aisle. My reflection stares back at me from the refrigerator glass — jacket, boots, hair that can’t decide if it wants to be soft or sharp.

For a moment, I see myself clearly. Not a joke, not a whisper. Just… me.

And then the door swings open, and the spell breaks.

It’s Mariah. She’s in my grade, always laughing too loud in the back of class. She sees me, grins, and says, “Cool jacket.”

My brain short-circuits. Compliments are dangerous. Compliments mean people are looking.

“Uh,” I say brilliantly, “thanks.”

She grabs a pack of gum and heads for the counter like nothing happened. But my chest feels weird — tight and light at the same time.

I watch her go, and for the first time today, I don’t feel like running away.