Foreigner

Chapter 13

Thursday morning, 4:30 a.m.

I start earlier than usual, dragging myself out of bed with a mission. Two hours later, the halls of Whittiker are an art gallery of my pettiness, each wall displaying a fresh masterpiece.

The star? A certain ginger jackass, now immortalized in a random Facebook photo I dug up. It's not his best angle—not that he has one—but it's perfect for what I need. Every hallway, every corner, even the dormitory section bears his face, a stick-on tattoo slapped right across his cheek like a badge of shame.

"Rub for authenticity!" reads the caption beneath his scowling face, highlighted in obnoxious blue. I stick the final poster in place and step back to admire my handiwork.

It's perfect.

I can already hear the laughter, the whispers, the ridicule circling like vultures. My chest buzzes with excitement, anticipation winding tighter with every passing second. There's nothing like the adrenaline rush of a plan falling perfectly into place, especially one designed to take down the ape who broke my nose.

Man, I should really go into marketing. I'd be a natural.

But for now, Julian is about to find out what happens when you mess with someone who has a lot of time, access to a decent printer, and absolutely no shame.

¤ ¤ ¤

The hallways are alive with chaos by the time I return from early basketball practice, my bag slung over my shoulder and my shirt sticking to my back. The sound of laughter and jeers echoes through the corridors, a symphony of destruction I orchestrated with precision.

I step into the main hallway and immediately spot the epicenter: clusters of students pointing at posters, waving stick-on tattoos, and shouting over each other. The posters have become instant legends. "Rub for authenticity!" is practically the slogan of the day, repeated with glee as students slap the tattoos onto their arms, faces, and even notebooks.

And then, like a sheep walking into the den, Julian appears. His lumbering steps carry him straight into the eye of the storm. His face twists in confusion as the first few heads turn to look at him. The whispers spread like wildfire, followed by louder jeers.

"Julian! Nice ink, man!" someone calls, holding up a tattoo stuck to his wrist.

"What is this?" Julian snaps, snatching a poster from the wall. His eyes dart across the caption, and his face flushes an impressive shade of red.

"Rub for authenticity, dude!" a boy says, laughing as he slaps Julian's shoulder.

Julian stiffens, his hand flying to the spot instinctively. But it's too late. A chorus of gasps and laughter erupts as the tattoo on his shoulder—his supposed "real tattoo"—begins to peel at the edge.

"So it's true?" Another boy holds up a stick-on tattoo, comparing it to Julian's shoulder. "Oh my God, it's the same thing!"

Julian stumbles back, swiping at his shoulder as if he can stop the inevitable. "It's not fake!" he yells, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief and mockery.

"Really?" Another student smirks, stepping closer with his finger poised. "Mind if I check?" He reaches out, and Julian bats his hand away, but not before he gets a good rub on the already curling edge.

"Look! It's coming off!" someone shouts, and the hall erupts into deafening laughter.

Julian's denials grow louder, but so do the jeers. Students crowd around him, some pretending to inspect his shoulder, others gleefully pointing at the posters still stuck to the walls.