Chapter 3
The sweet scent of mom’s blueberry pancakes drifts into my room as I tug a sweater two sizes too big over my head. It’s soft, faded navy with sleeves that swallow my hands—just how I like it.
Hiding in plain sight—that’s my motto, and I’ve got the wardrobe to match.
No need to stand out, no need for attention.
I keep my head down and blend in. Especially at school.
Drawing attention to myself there? Disastrous.
My fingers curl into the soft, worn fabric of my oversized sweater, finding comfort in its shapelessness.
The thought of eyes turning my way, of whispers spreading through hallways like wildfire, sends a cold shiver down my back.
The Queen Bees would have a field day with any mishaps I made. I’ve spent three years carefully planning to stay invisible. Not popular, not unpopular, just . . . forgettable. Safe.
The spotlight makes my stomach twist into knots tighter than my little brother’s shoelaces. Anonymity is like armor in high school.
My belly rumbles as the saccharine aroma intensifies, and I rush downstairs into the kitchen where mom flips pancakes like she’s auditioning for Blitz Kitchen—her favorite cooking competition show.
She’s completely obsessed with it, her eyes glued to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall to her left while tossing dough in the air, completely unfazed in her blue hospital scrubs, which signals her shift at the hospital begins shortly after breakfast.
My five-year-old brother, Noah, sits at the table, face buried in a stack of pancakes. He looks up and grins, showing me what a chewed-up piece of pancake dough looks like through his missing front teeth. Gross. But he’s still the cutest little brother I could have asked for.
“Save some for me, you little pancake monster!” I say as I tousle Noah’s hair and pull up a chair next to him.
“Chrissy, honey,” mom says, turning from the stove and handing me a plate, “these are for you.”
I grin, seizing the plate like I haven’t eaten pancakes in two days (which I haven’t).
“Thanks, mom!” The stack is massive, and I drown it in Maple syrup.
The first bite melts in my mouth, and I close my eyes for a second, savoring it.
There’s nothing in this world like mom’s blueberry pancakes. “Shooo good.”
“How was the first day back?” mom asks, sitting down for a quick bite before heading to work. Her tired eyes sparkle with curiosity.
“Oh, you know . . .” I swallow the sugary dough. “Same as always. Chemistry is going to be tough. I’ve got three other science classes—two of which are AP—so I’m going to sleep with my face buried in textbooks this year.”
Mom smiles at me. She’s one of those people whose smile puts you at ease, which I imagine comes in very useful at work. “Keep it up, and you’ll be on the moon in no time.”
“I hope so.” I glance around. “Where’s dad?”
“He’s over at the Pearsons helping with some repairs,” she replies. “And probably watching Jeff Dunham. You know how big of a fan he is.”
I never got into the ventriloquist act, but Mr. Pearson and dad are hardcore into it.
The remodeling of their new home must be taking longer than expected.
Not that I’m keeping tabs or anything—it’s just that Theo mentioned it in class.
I shove the thought from my head and focus on the task at hand: devouring pancakes.
After breakfast, I help Noah brush his teeth. His mouth bubbles as he talks about his first day in pre-school. His innocence tugs at my heartstrings, even when he insists on showing me his toothpaste foam.
By the time I grab my backpack and head out the door, the butterflies are back. Another day at Meridian High awaits.
Twenty minutes later, Stephanie and I walk through the crowded hallway, dodging backpacks and sidestepping groups of kids hanging around the lockers.
She’s mid-rant about our history class being a snooze fest when we spot Ian, standing by the trophy case, handing out fliers like he’s running for student council.
“It’s that time again,” he says with a glowing disposition as he extends a flier toward us. “The Annual Meridian High Talent Show! You’re both joining, right?”
Stephanie groans. “Every year with this.” She glances at the flier but doesn’t take it.
“You know I’m invisible, Ian,” I say, taking the flier just to be polite. “It wouldn’t do me much good if everyone saw me trip over my own two feet.”
“Especially with Paige and her minions competing,” Stephanie adds, shooting Ian a look that says he should know better.
Ian, ever the optimist, shrugs it off. “C’mon! It could be fun. Chrissy, you’ve got that whole choreography thing going. You could be the dark horse of the show.”
“Choreography that no one knows about,” I correct him. “And it’s going to stay that way.”
Stephanie laughs. “Sorry, Ian. I’m with Chrissy on this one. Hard pass.”
“Why don’t you join?” I ask him.
“I’m afraid I possess no talents to show off. I’m better suited to be an organizer.” He sighs, hangs his head low and returns to handing out more fliers as the next group of students passes by. We leave him behind as we walk toward class.
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “I swear, he tries every year.”
“I think he just enjoys being part of something,” I say, glancing back at Ian. “It’s his thing.”
“Yeah, but it’s not ours,” Stephanie says. “Can you imagine us on stage?”
I shudder at the thought. “No thanks. I’m trying to survive high school without giving the Queen Bees more material for insults and criticisms for them to fire off at me.”
Chemistry is no better than yesterday. If anything, it’s worse because Paige is in a foul mood. It doesn’t take long to figure out why—Theo’s absent today. No doubt she’s annoyed that her favorite distraction isn’t here to entertain her.
As soon as I sit down, she says to Rick, “Can you believe they let people like her sit in the back with the cool kids?” Paige scoffs, giving me a look-over like I’m something nasty stuck to the bottom of her designer shoes.
I grind my teeth, pretending to be fascinated by my chemistry notes. “Just trying to blend in,” I say.
“You’ll never blend in. I mean, just the way you dress is—“ She makes a face like something bitter just smeared her tongue.
I don’t reply, opting instead to keep my eyes on my notebook. It’s easier this way, and she doesn’t need to know my choice of style has a purpose—not to draw attention to myself, which works like a charm, except with her. She always manages to weasel in a critique or two.
Rick Sanders, meanwhile, devotes his day to kicking the back leg of my chair.
Every so often, there’s a little jolt that drives me crazy.
I jerk my head around, scowling at him, but he just smirks, and I can see it in his eyes.
He takes pleasure in knowing that I know that he gets away with too much, and I can’t do anything about it. A real piece of work, that one.
After the tenth kick or so, I can’t stand it anymore. I spin around and blurt out through my teeth, “Can you please stop that?”
Rick leans back. “Relax, Lang. I’m just stretching my legs.”
The nerve of him!
“Miss Lang, pay attention, please,” Mr. Kendrick says.
Of course, he chooses this exact moment to look up from his notes
I sink in my chair. “Sorry,” I say, my face flushing. I hate how unfair it is. Rick gets away with kicking my chair like a toddler, and I get called out for it.
The rest of the class passes in a blur of frustration. Rick continues his antics, and Paige stares at me every time Mr. Kendrick turns his back to us, mumbling something I can’t quite make out.
The class finally ends, and I sprint out of there, desperate to escape. Rick catches up to me in the hallway, his hand over my shoulder in what seems like a friendly gesture.
“Hey, sorry about earlier. No hard feelings, right?” His voice sounds slick, insincere.
“No hard feelings,” I say with a half-smile, wishing he would just go away.
“Thanks, Lang.”
I couldn’t be more relieved when he finally leaves my side. But as I walk to my locker, I notice something strange—people staring, more than usual.
Making my way through the crowd, I hear snickers, muffled laughter, and whispers. Someone passes me and says, “Hey, Dorkella.”
I spin around. “What did you just call me?”
The boy just laughs and keeps walking.
Then one of Paige’s fans walks by. “Nice name, Dorkella,” she says, giggling.
I stop in my tracks, heart pounding. Why are they calling me that?
More people pass by, uttering the same word. Dorkella. Dorkella. Dorkella. It’s like a cruel game.
Panic grips me, and I feel my throat tightening, my breathing shallow and rapid.
In an instant, I’m not at Meridian High anymore. I’m eight years old again, standing on the playground at recess, surrounded by a group of kids pointing fingers and laughing at me because I tripped and knocked over a stack of cones during gym class.
The memory hits me like a physical blow. My small hands had been shaking that day as I tried to navigate the obstacle course Mr. Garcia set up. One misstep—that’s all it took—and I went tumbling forward, arms windmilling frantically.
Then laughter erupted all around me as I lay sprawled on the ground, my knees stinging where they’d scraped against the asphalt, hot tears welling at the corners of my eyes.
“Clumsy Chrissy! Clumsy Chrissy!” The chant spread like wildfire through the circle of kids that formed around me.
My throat closed up tight. I could hear the thumping of my heart so loud in my ears that it drowned Mr. Garcia’s distant calls for order.
The taunting followed me for weeks afterward. That’s when I learned it was easier to stay quiet, to stay invisible. To fade into the background where no one noticed me. Because being noticed meant being hurt. Being noticed meant becoming a target for ridicule.
My chest feels heavy as I struggle to breathe. In all directions, there are eyes on me, and the sound of my new nickname is like a chorus.
Stephanie emerges out of the crowd, her forehead creased with concern. “Chrissy, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaky. “Everyone keeps calling me that.”
Stephanie’s eyes narrow, and she steps behind me, yanking something off my back.
My lower lip trembles as she shows me a torn piece of paper stuck to my sweater. It reads, “DORKELLA” in big, bold letters.
Rick’s handiwork.
“Grow up!” Stephanie chides the crowd. She crumples the paper into a ball and throws it in the nearby garbage bin as the students break up, some rolling their eyes, others laughing, but at least they’re going away.
Stephanie turns to me and says softly, “You okay?”
I nod, but the tightness in my chest remains.
“Let me guess, it was that jerk Rick, wasn’t it?” Stephanie’s hand clenches into a fist. “You should tell him off.”
“It’s fine. I just . . . If I confront him, it’ll get worse.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t let him get away with this forever.”
“One day he’ll get bored,” I say, trying to convince myself that’ll be the case.
But I’m not so sure. From the stories I’ve heard, once he locks onto someone, he just keeps nagging them until the school year is over.
“Let’s do something about it,” Stephanie says.
“Let’s not.” I glance at her. She’s frustrated, but we’ve been here before. She knows it as well as I do that if we speak up, it could get worse.
***
That evening, I’m still feeling low, the events of the day replaying over and over in my mind like a horror movie I can’t turn off. The memory of those laughing faces is now forever seared in my brain. The word “DORKELLA” flashes behind my eyelids every time I blink.
I slide the balcony door open, wincing at its familiar squeak. The cool mountain air rushes to greet me, carrying the crisp scent of pine. Pointed up at the sky, my telescope waits for me. I trace my fingertips along its smooth surface before taking a seat on my weathered folding chair.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean air.
When I open them again, I look up. Above me, beyond the silhouette of trees and distant mountain peaks, the night sky unfolds in all its glory.
In Maplewood Springs, the stars don’t just appear—they burst from the darkness, diamond-bright and impossibly numerous against the inky backdrop.
My hands move automatically, adjusting my telescope with practiced precision.
The ritual calms my racing thoughts. As I peer through the eyepiece, the world of hallways and bullies and social hierarchies melts away.
Here, I’m not the girl with the paper sign on her back. I’m an explorer of cosmic wonders.
I scan the heavens until I find what I’m looking for—the rust-colored disk of Mars.
My breath catches as it comes into focus.
The red planet hangs suspended in infinite darkness, so distant yet crystal-clear through my lens.
My shoulders relax as I study its surface, my problems shrinking with each passing moment under the vast, eternal gaze of the cosmos.
The crickets chirp in the garden below, and somewhere an owl calls out, but these sounds only deepen the sense of peace settling over me.
It must be so tranquil up there.