Chapter 3

She Will Be a Friend

POV Amber

Sleep unravels with the commotion downstairs. I sit up out of habit, rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand, and go down the stairs like an automaton: the house smells of coffee, burnt toast, and that weekend mess the boys leave when they take over the living room.

"Every time your friends come over they leave this pigsty," Mom says from the kitchen; her voice is tense, and the tone makes it clear this isn't an ordinary scolding.

"Jack, we've talked about this. You're old enough and I'm not going to keep nagging you about the same thing," Dad replies with that calm he has — a calm that doesn't sound like punishment but like a long-accumulated warning: firm, yet steady.

Their exchange cuts off when Mom adds, jaw clenched, "Also, the principal called to say there was an incident at school. Tell me the truth: what happened?"

Silence becomes awkward. I peek over the stair rail and see Jackson cross his arms, his shirt still rumpled from the night. He tries to pull his "it's no big deal" face, like someone minimizing every storm.

"Mom..." I start, but she stops me with a look.

"Amber, explain yourself."

I swallow. Before Jack can offer some lame excuse, I step in: "Mom, Jack just tried to protect me. A guy was trying to steal my homework and he reacted."

The look Mom gives my brother is sharp. He answers with a curt "yeah" and excuses himself: "Mom, I'm going to shower. I'll be late for class."

I take the chance to run up the stairs before the argument escalates. I shut my bedroom door fast like someone avoiding a storm. I slip out of my pajamas and test the shower water with a toe; it's perfect — warm — and I let the steam dissolve the tension. The vanilla-scented soap clings to my skin and with each sweep of foam I feel a little of the weight melt away. I come out lighter, wrapped in a towel, and dress carefully: ripped black jeans at the knees, a loose blouse that covers me without smothering, and my worn Converse that always make me walk quieter.

Breakfast at the table is edged with silence. Dad lifts his cup, Mom arranges a plate, Jack doesn't look up from his phone. Two minutes later we're out the door; he leaves with his usual group. I get off a block early and walk the rest with my eyes on the pavement, kicking a rock that bounces and disappears between the sidewalk cracks. A car brakes beside me and I see Rebeca waving.

"Amber!" she calls. "Get in, I'll give you the rest of the ride."

Her voice is an unexpected relief. I get in feeling like maybe today won't be unbearable. As we drive, Rebeca talks non-stop about her morning, chores her mom assigned, the domestic drama waiting at home; her tone is carefree, but I hang on to every word like a lifesaver. We park in the school lot; the crowd stirs the air with laughter, shouting, and cheap perfume. In the distance I spot Jackson's group of friends: each one claimed by a girl on his arm, forced laughs, public touches. A chill runs through me. My brother's promiscuity is a loud rumor; I prefer to cover my ears with headphones and disappear into the crowd.

We enter the school and the first period is chemistry — the kind of class that drags anyone to yawning. We sit in the back; Rebeca settles beside me like a safety arm. After a few minutes I notice a short, black head of hair weaving between desks.

"I never saw you in this class," a girl says quietly as she approaches, curious.

"I'll admit something," I answer with a half smile.

The teacher walks in with that kind of passion only science nerds can fake. He announces they'll be studying organic chemistry and the room explodes in complaints. I take out a notebook and start doodling to avoid thinking about Adam, whose shadow always seems to hover when I least expect it.

The bell rings and I rush to art, the only place in school where I feel sharp and real. In front of a blank canvas, palette in hand, everything makes sense. I paint with long, deliberate strokes; the colors blend until they create the calm I can't find in the halls. The teacher comes over and, with pride, tells me my mandala could go to the art fair. That small recognition warms something inside me that's been cold for a long time.

When I leave, the cafeteria is a pressure cooker. And there he is: Adam Raymond, disdain carved into his face.

"Look who we have here," he whispers, and his presence drops over my table like a storm.

I've learned to ignore him. I return the indifference he's shown me so many times, but he won't accept it.

"Listen when I talk to you," he orders, and in an old, disgusting gesture he grabs my face with one hand.

"Let go," I say, my voice sharp with disgust. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands."

His laugh lands like a blow. He answers arrogantly, acting like he owns the room: "Here, things go the way I want." My fury swells and, before I think, I say firmly, "I'm not going to be one more of your followers. I'm not interested in your fire."

I stand up with my head high and pride blazing. Adam's eyes drip threat, but I hold back the tremor and walk away. Leaving the cafeteria feels like breathing again.

The bell takes me to the library. There I hide among the stacks until a title calls to me: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. I open to a page and a line sticks in me like a dart:

"He had the rare virtue of not existing entirely except at the right moment."

I read it over and over, and for a moment I feel that line describes me: half-invisible, present in scraps, acknowledged only when it suits others. At my school, people seem to bet on perfect bodies and rehearsed smiles; sensitivity is excess and a burden. But it comforts me to know that outside that showcase there are people who do notice me: my father, my mother, and now Rebeca, who lent a hand without asking for anything in return. Still, a cloud of unease follows me: what would my life be like if I were different? If my body changed, would the looks change? Would my worth change?

When I get home, the house is quieter than usual. Jackson has the volume up in his room; video games fill the air with digital explosions. My parents haven't returned. I sit on the edge of the bed and—for the first time in weeks—think I want something different: to stop being an easy target. Not as revenge, but to survive. To paint, read, learn self-defense—small weapons that today hint at a path.

I close my eyes and let the idea settle: tomorrow I'll call a self-defense academy. Tomorrow could be the start of another kind of existence, one where my body isn't the place others project their worst. And while that possibility trembles inside me, the house's silence feels less hostile and more like an accomplice.