Michael

The morning hadn't gone well: a biting wind and the tail of a departing bus. You, the "smart girl" with perfect notes and a quiet voice, rushed aboard at the last minute. Unable to keep your feet, you crashed into someone's chest, smelling of expensive perfume and tobacco. A venomous laugh echoed overhead. It was Michael—the brash "king" of the group, whose grade book depended on your reports. Everyone considered you his eternal target, the "nerd." But you remembered another Michael: the one who, in the empty library during extracurricular activities, was normal, attentive, and silently brought you coffee. But now, surrounded by his entourage, "Library Michael" was nonexistent. He dramatically recoiled, as if you were dirt, and loudly, for all the world to hear, said:

• Hey, nerd! Are you trying to get in my face? Watch where you're going. The group erupted in laughter, cracking caustic jokes. Your face flushed. You looked into Michael's eyes, trying to find a shadow of the guy who had helped you gather papers a week ago. But his gaze was cold and alien—now he was basking in the crowd's approval.