I thought high school was the last place Madison could hurt me. Then she walked into my section 12 years later, took one look at me in an apron, and smiled like she’d just found her favorite toy again. I never thought I would see Madison again.
In high school, Madison was the girl. Pretty. Rich.
Loud. Untouchable. I was the girl she chose when she wanted an audience.
Madison knew it too. And she loved it. “Hey, Charity Case, are those shoes secondhand too?”
“Don’t invite her anywhere expensive.
She’ll probably ask to split the bill into installments.”
People laughed because Madison was beautiful, and when you’re 16, beauty can be a target. The worst part wasn’t what she said about me. It was what she said about my mother.
One day she looked at my lunch and said, “Your mom works all the time and this is still what she sends you?”
I still remember how hot my face got. I wanted to scream. Instead, I sat there and did what I got very good at back then.
Enduring. After graduation, I left high school behind in every way except emotionally. I went to a state school because it was what I could afford.
I got a job as an analyst at a logistics company. Nothing glamorous. Spreadsheets, deadlines, okay pay, decent insurance.
I paid my bills, helped my mom when I could, and built a life that was small but steady. Then my mom got diagnosed with cancer. And none of that steadiness meant much anymore.
Insurance covered some of it. Not enough. Never enough.
Chemo, scans, meds, copays, rides, food she could keep down when treatment wrecked her stomach. Bills stacked up fast. I picked up waitressing three nights a week at an upscale restaurant downtown because the tips were good and I stopped caring what anything looked like the second I saw what treatment actually cost.
If I had to work every day to keep my mother alive, then I was going to work every day. It happened on a Thursday. I was wiping down table twelve after a couple had left.
My feet hurt. My back hurt. The kitchen was behind.
I was doing mental math about what I could pay this week and what would have to wait. Then I heard a laugh. Sharp.
Fake. Familiar. I looked up.
And there she was. Madison. She looked expensive.
Perfect hair. Cream coat. High heels.
The kind of woman who entered a room expecting it to rearrange itself around her. For some stupid second, I was 17 again. Table 14.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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