Page 100 of What Goes Around

Apple straightened. Her friends leaned closer.

“The highest score,” the teacher continued, “went to a piece that demonstrated exceptional restraint and emotional clarity.”

A pause.

“The top composition… belongs to Ashley Richards.”

The room went silent.

Surprise rippled across a few faces, then the clapping began, hesitant at first, then louder.

I rose slightly from my seat, nodded once in acknowledgment, and sat back down.

The teacher kept talking about structure, balance, emotional control, but her words blurred into background noise.

Apple didn’t move.

I could feel it, the heat of her anger, sharp and humiliated. The way her jaw locked. The way her fingers curled against the edge of her desk. She didn’t look at me. She stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge that someone she considered broken had outperformed her.

She didn’t clap.

She didn’t even pretend.

That night, as I was heading upstairs, I nearly collided with Apple coming down.

She stopped short. Her fist clenched at her side, knuckles whitening, eyes flashing with something raw and ugly.

I lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed, and moved to step past her.

But she grabbed my wrist.

Her nails dug in, sharp crescents of pain biting into skin.

“Ashley,” she hissed. “You’re so annoying.”

Here we go again.

I looked down at her hand on my skin. Then back at her face.

“Let go,” I said calmly.

She didn’t. Her lips curled instead.

“Mom only loves me,” she said softly, savoring every word. “She only cares about me. That must drive you insane, doesn’t it?”

I almost smiled.

She still thought I was the same girl, still waiting, still desperate to be loved.

But this, confronting me like this, was new.

In my past life, she had never dropped the mask. Not once. She had played the sweet sister perfectly, smiling, gracious.

Now she wasn’t even pretending. Over the months, I had won too many small battles.

Her mask was slipping. Badly.

I stared at her, utterly unimpressed.