y the time Ira realizes she is being talked about, it has already become ordinary.
It isn't the obvious kind of attention. No one points. No one confronts her directly.
It's quieter than that—glances that linger a second too long, conversations that pause when she enters a room, the subtle way laughter seems to happen around her rather than with her.
It starts after the assembly.
The principal praises "composure under pressure," and even though he doesn't say her name, Mrs. Reynolds turns in her seat and smiles at Ira like the compliment belongs to her alone.
"You should be proud," Mrs. Reynolds says later, as Ira hands in an assignment. "Not many students your age carry themselves so well."
Ira nods, unsure what to do with the praise. It doesn't feel like something she earned. It feels like something that's been assigned to her.
In the hallway, Lily Carter falls into step beside her.
"You handled that stage thing better than I would've," Lily says easily. "My mom would've killed me."
Ira forces a small smile. "She didn't."
Lily laughs, assuming it's a joke.
Behind them, Chloe Bennett slows just enough to hear.
"Well, some people are just born… controlled," Chloe says to no one in particular.
The word follows Ira all day.
Controlled.
In math class, the teacher calls on her twice. In history, her answer earns nods from the front row. In literature, Mrs. Reynolds pairs her with students who are known to be "difficult" and says, "You'll balance them out."
Balance. Another word added to the list.
At lunch, Ira finds her usual seat occupied.
Not taken aggressively. Just… filled.
Chloe and her friends spread their bags across the bench like an accident that no one corrects. When Ira pauses, tray in hand, Chloe looks up.
"Oh. Sorry. We're kind of full."
There is space. Everyone can see it.
Ira nods and walks away.
She eats near the vending machines, where the hum drowns out conversation. Across the cafeteria, Ethan glances at her, whispers something to a boy beside him. They laugh, then look away.
Ira doesn't react.
She never does.
After school, she walks to Aunt Mara's.
She doesn't tell her mother. She doesn't ask permission. She just goes, backpack heavy against her spine, thoughts pressing harder than the weight.
Mara opens the door and immediately frowns. "You look exhausted."
"I'm fine," Ira says automatically.
Mara steps aside. "You always are."
Inside, Noah is sitting at the dining table, hands clenched, staring at a worksheet like it might attack him.
"They gave him a surprise quiz," Mara explains quietly. "He shut down."
Ira pulls out a chair and sits beside Noah. She doesn't speak. Just places her hand near his, close enough to feel reassuring without forcing touch.
After a moment, Noah slides his fingers against hers.
"They laughed when I took too long," he says softly.
Ira's jaw tightens. "Who?"
"Everyone."
Later, when Daniel comes home, his shoulders are slumped with a tiredness that doesn't lift when he sees Ira.
"We had another call today," he says, rubbing his temples.
Mara exhales slowly. "The move?"
Daniel nods.
Ira freezes.
"Not yet," Mara says quickly. "Nothing's final."
But the word has already settled.
Move.
Change.
Loss.
At home that evening, Eleanor notices Ira's shoes by the door.
"You weren't here after school," she says calmly.
"I went to Aunt Mara's."
Eleanor's lips press together. "You're spending too much time there."
"She needed help," Ira replies.
"With what?" Eleanor asks. "Avoiding reality?"
The words sting because they sound rehearsed.
"You're becoming distracted," Eleanor continues. "People are starting to notice."
Ira looks up. "Who?"
"Everyone," Eleanor says. "Teachers.
Parents. Friends."
Friends.
Ira doesn't correct her.
At school the next day, group assignments are announced.
Ira is placed with Lily, Chloe, and Jason Moore.
Jason leans back in his chair, smirking.
"Guess we got the quiet genius."
"I can do the research," Ira offers.
Chloe smiles thinly. "Of course you can."
Lily shoots Chloe a look but says nothing.
During the work session, Ira writes.
Organizes. Plans.
No one interrupts her.
No one thanks her either.
After class, Jason mutters, "At least she doesn't argue."
Chloe laughs. "Yeah. Wouldn't want her getting ideas."
Ira pretends not to hear.
She always does.
That evening, at Mara's, Noah refuses dinner.
"They followed me again," he says, voice shaking. "The same boys."
Ira feels something inside her shift—tightening, sharpening.
Mara looks tired. Daniel looks helpless.
Later, when Ira walks home alone, rain begins to fall. She doesn't hurry. She lets it soak into her hair, her clothes, like punishment she didn't choose but doesn't resist.
At home, Eleanor is on the phone.
"She's becoming difficult," she says quietly.
"Yes. I've noticed too."
Ira stops in the hallway.
"She's not defiant," Eleanor continues.
"Just… stubborn in subtle ways."
Ira steps back before she's seen.
That night, sleep doesn't come easily.
Her thoughts loop.
School. Noah. Mara. Chloe's smile.
Eleanor's voice.
She feels stretched thin, like something pulled too far for too long.
The next day, in the hallway, Ethan steps into her path.
"You think you're better than everyone now?" he asks lightly.
"No," Ira says.
"Sure," he replies. "That's why teachers love you."
She doesn't respond.
He leans closer. "Careful. People don't like it when quiet girls suddenly get confident."
Something inside Ira stirs.
Not anger.
Resolve.
She steps around him.
At home that evening, Eleanor sets down her glass with deliberate care.
"I've decided something," she says.
Ira's chest tightens. "What?"
"You'll be spending less time at your aunt's," Eleanor continues. "It's unhealthy."
"She's family," Ira says.
"So am I," Eleanor replies coolly.
Ira looks at her mother.
Really looks.
And for the first time, she understands that compliance has been mistaken for agreement.
The realization feels dangerous.
The room goes quiet.
Outside, a car door slams.
Inside, Ira feels the words rising in her throat—heavy, unfamiliar, necessary.
She doesn't say them yet.
But she knows she will.
Soon