MICHAEL
I can still hear her voice echoing in my head like a song stuck on repeat.
And the way her grey eyes glowed like fire was in them, she wasn't kidding when she said these hurtful words:
You are an immature brat who loves riding on his daddy’s money.
Her words hit me like a slap on the face, not because she was wrong but because that was who she believed I was, some spoiled kid who was entitled and arrogant, also an oppressor.
The basketball I was holding thudded against the court like my heart thudding against my chest, but it didn’t matter—none of this did. I didn’t want to be here either. All I wanted to do was confront Professor Betty and not walk out looking like the loser she believed I was.
This thought alone is making my blood boil even though my hands are moving,
