Years after he humiliated me in front of our entire class, my former bully came to me asking for help. He needed a loan, and I was the one person who could determine his future.
Even now, twenty years later, I can still remember the smell from that day.
Industrial wood glue mixed with burnt hair under harsh fluorescent lights.
It was sophomore chemistry. I was sixteen—quiet, serious, and determined to disappear into the back row.
But my bully had other ideas.
He sat behind me that semester, wearing his football jacket.
He was loud, charismatic, and adored by everyone.
That day, while Mr. Jensen lectured about covalent bonds, I felt a sudden tug on my braid.
At first, I assumed it was accidental.
