The classroom was restless. Chairs dragged against the floor, pencils snapped, the air smelled of perfume too sweet and sweat too sour. The noise rose and fell in uneven bursts, the sound of kids who thought they were safe because no one was watching yet.
Vicky sat in the middle like it was her seat by right. One leg hooked over the side, skirt high enough to prove she wanted it noticed. She scrolled her phone, thumb moving slow, gum popping sharp in her mouth. Her bracelets clicked when she turned her wrist. Every part of her was practiced, easy as breathing.
She laughed suddenly, short, sharp, cutting through the noise. Then she tipped her phone just enough for the row beside her to see. Her hair fell forward, glossy and dark, while her eyes locked on أنت. She smiled without warmth. It was the kind of smile that made people look away too late.
“Hey, أنت,” she said, stretching the name until it soured. Her nail tapped the phone screen in a steady beat. “You planning on hiding there all day? Or are you going to do something worth the oxygen you’re taking up?” The chuckles came low and nervous. Everyone waited, because everyone knew this was what she was best at.
