The Bully’s Blind Spot

Chapter 1

SOPHIE

The alarm on my phone screams at me like it's personally offended I'm still in bed. I slap at it three times before my hand actually connects, and then I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, doing the mental math.

Eight more weeks. Fifty-six days. That's it. Then I graduate and get the hell out of this school.

I can survive fifty-six more days.

I roll out of bed and immediately catch my reflection in the mirror across the room. My hair is a disaster—thick, dark brown waves that have somehow managed to tangle themselves into what looks like a bird's nest overnight. My face is puffy from sleep, and I'm wearing an old t-shirt that says "Book Nerd" across the chest in faded letters.

The shirt used to fit me when I was fourteen. Now, at seventeen, it stretches across my chest and stomach in a way that makes me want to throw a blanket over the mirror.

I'm plus-size. Curvy. Fat. Whatever word you want to use, I've heard them all whispered in hallways or shouted at my back. Size sixteen on a good day, eighteen on a realistic one. I've got boobs that arrived way too early and decided to stay, hips that make finding jeans a nightmare, and a stomach that I've spent years trying to hide.

My mom says I'm "built like her side of the family." She says it like it's a diagnosis.

I shuffle to my closet and stare at the options. This is the worst part of every morning—picking something that will let me disappear. I've learned that the key to invisibility isn't actually being small. It's about taking up space in a way that doesn't draw attention.

I pull out a pair of jeans that are probably a size too big and a long-sleeved button-up shirt in a muddy green color that does absolutely nothing for my complexion. Underneath, I'll wear a black tank top. The button-up will hang open, creating layers that hide the actual shape of my body.

My mom taught me this trick when I was thirteen and started "developing," as she called it. "Girls like us need to be strategic," she'd said, holding up two different cardigans like she was a general planning a war. "Layers hide problem areas. Flow disguises bulk. And for God's sake, Sophie, nothing tight."

I've been following her advice ever since, and I've been miserable ever since.

The jeans are loose enough that they kind of just sit on my hips. The tank top clings a little, but no one will see it under the button-up. The green shirt is big enough that it doesn't pull across my chest or stomach. When I look in the mirror, I see exactly what I'm going for: a shapeless blob that could be any size, really.

Mission accomplished. I'm invisible.

I grab my backpack and my phone, then carefully open my bedroom door and peek into the hallway. Chloe's door is still closed, which means she's either still asleep or already in the bathroom doing her makeup. Either way, I need to avoid her.

Chloe is my sister. Technically, she's only thirteen months younger than me, but you'd think it was thirteen years based on how different we are. She's a junior, I'm a senior. She's popular, I'm invisible. She's confident, I'm... not.

We used to be closer when we were kids, but somewhere around middle school, Chloe figured out that being associated with me wasn't doing her any favors. So she stopped. Just like that. Now we live in the same house like polite strangers. She doesn't bully me, but she doesn't defend me either. I'm just... not her problem.

I make it down the stairs without running into her, which feels like a small victory. Mom's already gone to work—she leaves at six-thirty every morning for her job at the hospital. There's a note on the counter: "Leftovers in fridge. Have a good day. Love you."

I grab a granola bar instead and head out the door.

The walk to school takes fifteen minutes, and I spend every second of it trying to mentally prepare for what's coming. It's the same thing every day, but somehow it never gets easier.

I see the school building ahead—red brick, two stories, with a parking lot full of cars that are nicer than anything my family could afford. Students are already clustering in groups outside the main entrance. I recognize most of them. The soccer players. The cheerleaders. The drama kids. The band geeks.

And then there's me. The invisible girl.

I keep my head down and aim for the side entrance, hoping I can slip in unnoticed. I'm about ten feet from the door when I hear it.

"Yo, Sophie!"

My stomach drops. I know that voice.

Nathan.

I don't turn around. I've learned that engaging only makes it worse. I keep walking, faster now, my hand reaching for the door handle.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" His voice is closer now. He's following me.

I finally make it inside, but the hallway is crowded, and Nathan's right behind me. I can hear his friends laughing.

"Damn, Sophie, did you get dressed in the dark?" Nathan's voice carries over the noise of the hallway. "That shirt looks like something my dad wears to mow the lawn."

More laughter. I keep walking, weaving between students, trying to get to my locker.

"Nah, man, I think that's her style," another voice chimes in. I think it's Tyler, one of Nathan's soccer buddies. "Thrift store chic. Very... drab.”

My face burns, but I don't react. Don't give them anything.

"Hey, Sophie, where's your sister?" Nathan again. He's keeping pace with me now, walking alongside me like we're friends. "How come Chloe got all the good genes and you got... whatever this is?"

That one stings more than the others. It always does when they compare me to Chloe.

"Leave her alone, Nathan." A girl's voice, but it's half-hearted. Someone who doesn't actually care but feels like they should say something.

"I'm just asking a question," Nathan says, all fake innocence. "I mean, they're sisters, right? You'd think there'd be some family resemblance."

"Maybe she's adopted," Tyler suggests, and they both crack up like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard.

I finally reach my locker and start working the combination. My hands are shaking, which makes it harder. I mess up the first try and have to start over.

"Aw, look, she's nervous," Nathan says. He's leaning against the locker next to mine now, watching me struggle. "What's wrong, Sophie? You scared of me?"

Yes, I want to say. Yes, I'm terrified of you. I'm terrified of coming to school every day and facing this. I'm terrified that this is what my life is going to be like forever.

But I don't say any of that. I get my locker open, shove my backpack inside, and grab my English notebook.

"Your dad still MIA?" Nathan asks, and my whole body goes rigid. "That's rough. I mean, I get it. If I had a daughter like you, I'd probably disappear too."

The hallway goes quiet for a second. Even for Nathan, that's a low blow.

My dad left when I was twelve. Just packed a bag one day and never came back. I don't talk about it. Ever. The fact that Nathan even knows about it means he's been asking around, digging for ammunition.

I slam my locker shut and turn to face him for the first time. Nathan's tall—over six feet—with dark hair and the kind of face that makes girls stupid. He's wearing a letterman jacket and jeans that probably cost more than my entire outfit. He's smirking at me, waiting for a reaction.

I don't give him one. I just stare at him for a beat, then turn and walk away.

"Run away, little Sophie!" he calls after me. "That's what you're good at, right? Running away?"

His friends laugh, and I hear someone say something else, but I'm not listening anymore. I'm focused on getting to the bathroom at the end of the hall, the one that's usually empty in the mornings.

I push through the door and finally, finally, I'm alone.

I lean against the sink and take a deep breath. My reflection stares back at me—flushed face, messy hair, ugly green shirt that does nothing but make me look washed out and shapeless.

Eight more weeks, I remind myself. Fifty-six more days.

I can do this.

I have to.