There she is. Samantha St. Onge. That little, terrified mouse with those big, brown eyes hidden behind those glasses. I don't even know why she bothers wearing them. She's already invisible. But she still insists on sitting in the front row of class like some kind of overachiever. Pathetic.
I'm sure she thinks she's being all quiet and good, but I see right through her. She's a doormat. Too scared to speak up, too frightened to even look me in the eye. That fear-her fear-makes me feel alive. She's always been like this, ever since second grade, when she first showed up at Bicentennial Elementary and stole all the attention with her stupid, freckled face and her long, strawberry-blonde hair. I hate her hair. It's too bright, too loud, and yet it never draws the right kind of attention.
I never asked for her to be my target, but I can't seem to help myself. It started innocently enough, you know. I teased her a little in the hallways. Nothing too mean, just enough to make her squirm, to watch that little lip quiver as her eyes darted around the room, searching for some escape that didn't exist. But the more I pushed her, the more I realized just how much I loved it. Watching her get scared, watching her shrink away from me, it gave me this thrill I couldn't describe. I didn't even understand why at first. I just knew it felt good. It was like a game, and I was winning.
And then, as time went on, I got better at it. I made sure everyone hated her. It wasn't hard. It's like she didn't even try to fight back. No one else ever questioned my cruelty. Why would they? I'm Scarlett Jones-the queen bee, the center of attention, the perfect cheerleader, the star pitcher, the one everyone either worships or fears.
But Samantha, she's different. She's not like the other girls who would cower and beg for mercy. No, she just... takes it. She takes it and cries and keeps it all bottled up inside. And that's exactly why I like her. She's weak, but it's the kind of weakness that makes me want to break her even more.
I'm the captain of everything: volleyball, cheerleading, softball... You name it, I'm the best.
And Sam? She's just the girl who sits on the bench. She's nothing. I make sure of it.
The coaches know it, the other players know it, and hell, the whole school knows it. I don't care that she's even on the team. No one believes she deserves to be there. But she gets her moment now and then, a little glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, she'll get to play. It never lasts. She never lasts.
I could tell she was hoping for something today-maybe a miracle, maybe a chance to get in the game. But deep down, I knew that would never happen. And the best part?
She knew it too.
As the softball practice started, I couldn't help but smirk as I watched her stand there, so hopeful, so completely oblivious to the reality that she was only ever going to be my punching bag.
I should have known better than to let her think she had a shot. I'm the one with the power here, not her. Not her.
But I do love to play with my toys. And Samantha St. Onge is my favorite toy. And tonight, I'm going to make sure she knows just how much I love playing with her.
