Chapter 3: When Even Home Hurts

The next day at school, my sister showed off her new pen on her Instagram story. She filmed it gliding across the page, her nails perfect.

"Thanks to the best mommy in the world and my sister for buying me a pen."

She posted a few photos, including the meme of my ugly photo. My stomach twisted.

The boys in my class edited the meme: "Tank incoming."

It went viral in the grade group chat. The notifications wouldn’t stop.

Someone commented: "Is she really your sister? Why does she look like that?"

I clicked her profile and messaged her.

"Don't post my ugly photos. Delete them."

"?"

"Delete them now."

"Why are you so sensitive? It's just a joke."

She wouldn't delete it. "It's already got a ton of likes—why should I?"

"Besides, who even cares about you?" she messaged me. "I can post whatever I want."

She's always been like that—confident, spoiled by her looks. The world handed her everything, and she never questioned it.

People loved her for it—teachers called it "spunky," friends called it "real."

Like my mom, who always says to me, "Why can't you be more like your sister? See how great she is—bold and straightforward."

But she never wondered why I was so timid and afraid of trouble. Why I flinched at loud voices or sudden movements.

The ones who get favored always act like they can do no wrong.

And me? I always assumed I'd be rejected or hurt before anyone even opened their mouth.

Because that's the world I grew up in. It pressed me down until I shrank from everything.

I was even scared to meet people's eyes, afraid to see their reaction to my face. I kept my gaze on the floor, counting tiles.

"Ellie Thompson, the math teacher wants to see you."

I stood up and walked to the office, head down. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum.

As I left, the boys at the back door started heckling.

"Tank incoming! Tank incoming!"

The whole class burst out laughing. Their voices followed me down the hall.

In the office, the math teacher looked at me with regret. "Ellie, your mom says you don't want to attend the math competition class anymore?"

It's not that I don't want to go. She just won't let me.

I stared at the floor, twisting my fingers together.

"Don't get cocky just because you won one award. Now you don't even want to go to class?"

"I didn't," I said, clenching my fists.

But I couldn't explain. The words tangled in my throat.

How was I supposed to explain that my mom only wanted to spend money on my sister?

I wished so badly I could earn money, support myself, and not have to live in that house anymore. I dreamed of escape, of a room of my own.

"You have so much talent—it'd be a shame to waste it. Go talk to your parents again."

Back in class, the homeroom teacher was at the front.

I hurried to my seat and accidentally bumped Madison's pencil case. It clattered to the floor, pens rolling everywhere.

"Sorry."

"What the hell! Can't you stop?" She snatched up her pencil case. "Now it's dirty—because you touched it."

"My hands aren't dirty."

Just then, the homeroom teacher called both our names from the podium.

"What are you saying? Stand up!"

I stood. Madison looked annoyed.

"Teacher, I don't want to sit with Ellie."

"Why not?"

"She smells so bad, it distracts me from studying."

I didn't smell. I showered every day, wore clean clothes, but none of that mattered.

It started with ugly, then smelly, then anything I touched was dirty.

That's why Madison always hated me. She never missed a chance to make me feel small.

When she said that, the class snickered. Even kids who barely knew me joined in.

"What's so funny? Quiet!" The homeroom teacher scolded them, then turned to my deskmate. "Don't make things up."

"She's not making it up—Ellie really does smell."

A boy backed her up.

Others chimed in: "Yeah, the tank—why can't we say it?"

"Who's talking?" The teacher frowned. "How can you give classmates nicknames like that?"

"It's not us—her mom's the one who said she's ugly."

"Exactly!"

Anger and shame burned my face. I wished I could disappear.

All that was left was humiliation. I sat down, staring at my hands.

"Did you take my pen?"

The moment I got home, my sister glared at me.

"I didn't take it."

She didn't believe me. "Then where'd it go?"

Whenever she lost something, I was the first to blame. Guilty until proven innocent.

My mom heard the argument and shouted before even coming over:

"Ellie, what are you doing stealing your sister's things?"

"I didn't—you can't just accuse me. And you haven't even apologized for posting that ugly photo of me!"

"Hmph!" She ignored me, going straight to my mom. "See, I told you she was holding a grudge."

Savannah had already twisted the story to my mom before I even got home. She always got there first.

"Ellie, this is your fault. Savannah told me all about the meme—it's normal for classmates to joke around, you're just too sensitive."

"People fixate on what they don't have—you need to work on that."

Savannah ate strawberries and smiled sweetly. "Yeah, so what if you're ugly? Why care so much?"

"Then why do you always edit your selfies?" I shot back.

Her face darkened. She shot a look at my mom.

"Is that how you talk to your sister?" My mom glared at me. "She's just trying to comfort you—no wonder you have no friends!"

"Why don't I have friends? Why do people make fun of me?" I was so upset my nose started to sting. "Isn't it because you post stuff like that about me online? Can't you think about how I feel?"

"What right do you have to get mad at me?" My mom put down the plate, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "No wonder people call you a tank—look at yourself, they're not wrong."

So she knew.

She always knew how I was mocked at school.

But if she knew, how could she turn around and use it to laugh at me? I stared at her, searching for an answer that never came.

I didn't care what others said, but why did my own mom have to join in?

I ran into my room and slammed the door. The sound echoed, sharp and final.

She banged on the door. "Who do you think you are, slamming doors at me? Get out here!"

"Leave me alone!"

"Oh, now you don't want me involved? But when it's time to eat or ask for money, you're all about it, huh?"

What did I ever take?

All my expenses didn't even add up to one of Savannah's art classes. I wanted to scream it, but the words stuck.

"If you resent me spending money on you, why'd you bother giving birth to me?"

"I do regret it!" she shouted through the door. "I feed you, clothe you, and you give me attitude?"

"Get out here! This isn't your house—you don't deserve to be here!"

"Mom, I have the spare key."

My sister pulled out the spare, unlocked my door.

My mom stormed in and slapped me. The sting burned, hot and sharp.

"Getting bold, huh? If you're so great, then don't live here! Ugly troublemaker."

"Are you trying to drive me to my death?"

"Always threatening to die—who are you trying to scare? Go ahead, then!"

She locked me outside.

It was ten below that night. The cold bit through my thin school uniform.

I was in my school uniform, hungry. My breath came out in white puffs.

Her curses came through the door.

"I'm so sick of her. I'll just put up with her until she gets married and leaves. The sooner she disappears, the better."

"A useless waste—her whole life is ruined, she'll never amount to anything."

"Raising her isn't even as good as raising a dog!"

Her screeching, her twisted retelling of the facts—

It was as if I was the reason for all her misery. I hugged myself, trying to stay warm.

No matter what I did, it was always wrong. I pressed my forehead to the cold door, wishing it would open.