The Bullied Prodigy

I was used to being the joke.

At Crestwood High, I was the kid no one noticed—except when they needed someone to laugh at. My name was Elijah Turner, but most just called me "Ratboy" or "E.T." or some other variation of insult.

I stopped correcting them years ago.

It didn’t matter.

Crestwood wasn’t a place for people like me.

It was a breeding ground for legacy students—kids with last names that opened doors, drove imported cars to school, and never worried about student loans.

I, on the other hand, biked here every day, wore the same three hoodies on rotation, and lived in a tiny apartment above a laundromat with my grandmother.

She did her best. God, she really did. But no amount of love or encouragement could shield me from the social slaughterhouse that was Crestwood High.

And today? Today was slaughter day.

It was a Friday, which meant school spirit day. Which also meant I had made the fatal mistake of wearing my regular faded jeans instead of the approved Crestwood green-and-gold gear. Just another excuse for them to single me out.

I was at my locker, stuffing my books into my bag, when I heard the thudding footsteps behind me—too loud, too deliberate. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Yo, Ratboy!” The voice was unmistakable. Jordan Easton. Star quarterback. Resident prince of Crestwood. And my daily tormentor.

I turned slowly, trying not to show the dread knotting in my stomach.

Jordan stood there with that smug grin he always wore—like he was the center of the universe and we were all just extras in his movie.

Behind him was his entourage: Chris, Troy, and of course, Amelia Rhodes. The queen of the school. Long blonde hair, perfect teeth, laugh like a dagger.

“Didn’t get the memo, freak?” Jordan said, tapping the gold ‘C’ on his varsity jacket. “Today’s spirit day.”

I adjusted my backpack straps and looked past him. “I didn’t have anything in those colors.”

Chris let out a dramatic gasp. “You hear that? Poor Eli doesn’t own anything in gold and green! Tragic.”

Jordan clucked his tongue. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

Before I could move, he grabbed my water bottle from the side of my bag and upended it over my head. Cold water soaked my hair, my neck, and the back of my hoodie. Laughter exploded around me.

I heard phones clicking, recording.

I froze.

Amelia’s voice was syrupy and fake. “Jordan, stop. You’re going to make him cry again.”

“I’m not crying,” I muttered, teeth clenched.

Jordan stepped closer, towering over me. “You should be thanking us, E.T. Now you look like you actually took a shower.”

More laughter.

I should’ve fought back. Thrown a punch. Screamed. Anything.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I wiped my face with my sleeve, slammed my locker shut, and walked away—dripping, humiliated, and absolutely hating myself.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of whispers, sideways glances, and snickers. I didn’t bother going to lunch. I hid out in the library, like always, taking refuge between rows of forgotten books.

This was my sanctuary. My cage.

I tried to focus on the scholarship application I was filling out—yet another desperate attempt to escape this hellhole and make something of myself. I was top of the class, after all. That had to count for something, right?

But my fingers trembled, and the words blurred on the screen.

Why did I keep believing it would get better?

Why did I keep hoping?

Because of her.

Amelia Rhodes.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. The same girl who stood by while they laughed at me—mocked me—was the same girl I used to dream about.

Before she changed.

Before popularity devoured her.

Back in sophomore year, we were lab partners in Chemistry. She used to smile at me. Used to ask questions about space and stars and what I wanted to be when I got older. Back then, I thought maybe, just maybe, she saw me.

Now? She barely saw me as human.

I hated that I still thought about her smile. I hated that my heart still fluttered when I heard her laugh—even when it wasn’t meant for me.

I was pathetic.

After school, I lingered at my locker until the halls were empty. I didn't want to risk another run-in. But as I turned the corner toward the side exit, I stopped dead in my tracks.

There they were.

Jordan, Chris, Troy—and Amelia.

Huddled around Jordan’s car in the parking lot, laughing, sharing drinks, tossing a football back and forth. They hadn’t noticed me yet.

I should’ve turned around.

But I didn’t.

I kept walking, head down, determined to slip past.

No such luck.

“Yo, E.T.!” Jordan called out. “Got any weekend plans? Maybe polish some shoes? Clean a few toilets?”

I didn’t answer.

Chris lobbed the football. It smacked the back of my head.

I stumbled, but stayed on my feet.

Jordan whistled. “Nice reflexes, nerd.”

I turned slowly. My jaw clenched. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh, he speaks,” Amelia said, pretending to be shocked. “Quick, someone write it down.”

I glared at her. For a moment, the mask slipped. I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes—shame, maybe. Regret?

But it vanished as fast as it came.

Jordan moved closer, slinging an arm around my shoulders mockingly. “You know, Eli, maybe if you weren’t so weird, people would actually like you.”

I shrugged him off. “I don’t want people like you to like me.”

His smile dropped.

That was a mistake.

Next thing I knew, my backpack was ripped off me. Chris dumped the contents onto the pavement—textbooks, notes, the calculator I’d saved for months to buy. It clattered to the ground, breaking apart.

I stared at it.

And then they all laughed again.

But this time, I didn’t walk away.

This time, I looked Jordan dead in the eye and said, “One day, you’re going to regret this.”

He laughed, tossing my notebook into a puddle. “Sure I will, E.T. Sure I will.”

I stood there, soaked in humiliation, surrounded by my things like broken pieces of a life no one cared about.

"Oh yeah! Keep dreaming nerd." Jordan said and launched a blow at my face.

I fell down fast and went unconscious