"Annie Matthews. Meet me in the staff room after this lesson."
The words hit Annie like a slap.
Her pen froze mid-sentence. A few heads turned. Someone whispered her name. Annie felt the heat crawl up her neck as she slowly lifted her eyes to the front of the classroom.
Teacher Stella stood rigid by the board, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind her glasses. No smile. No explanation. Just that tone final, unyielding.
Everyone knew what it meant when Teacher Stella called your name.
You were in trouble.
Annie swallowed hard. Her heart began to pound, fast and unforgiving, each beat heavier than the last. She tried to focus on the rest of the lesson, but the words blurred together. Numbers swam. Time dragged. By the time the bell rang, her stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.
What did I do?
She replayed the past few weeks in her head. She hadn't talked back. Hadn't skipped class. Hadn't handed in work late. The only thing the only thing was the art folder.
Her hands trembled as she gathered her books.
The walk to the staff room felt longer than usual. The hallway was too quiet, every step echoing like an accusation. Annie stopped outside the door and hesitated, fingers hovering over the handle.
Breathe, she told herself.
She knocked.
"Come in."
Annie pushed the door open slowly.
And froze.
Teacher Stella was smiling.
Not a polite smile. Not a forced one. A real smile.
Annie blinked, convinced she was hallucinating. Teacher Stella did not smile at students. Ever.
"Annie," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. "Sit."
Annie obeyed, her legs weak beneath her.
"I've been meaning to speak to you," Teacher Stella continued, pulling a folder toward her. Annie recognized it instantly. Her art folder.
Her chest tightened.
"I went through your submissions," the teacher said. "And I'll be honest I was impressed. Very impressed."
Annie stared at her.
"I mean it," Teacher Stella added. "Your use of color, perspective, emotion… this isn't hobby-level work. This is someone who understands art."
Annie's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Do you have any intention of becoming an artist in the future?" the teacher asked.
The question stunned her.
This wasn't what she had prepared for. This wasn't punishment. This was… belief.
"Y–yes," Annie finally whispered, her voice shaky. "I would… I would love to."
Teacher Stella nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. She reached into her drawer and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk.
"There's an upcoming Westside City Art Competition," she said. "It's competitive. Selective. And I think you'd be a strong contender."
Annie's breath caught.
"I'd like you to participate."
For a moment, the world stopped.
Her secret paintings. The hidden room. The nights spent sketching by dim light. The hours coding games on her old computer, inventing worlds no one knew existed all of it rushed through her at once.
This was real.
This was a door opening.
"I—" Annie's hands trembled as she picked up the envelope. "Thank you, Teacher. I… I won't disappoint you."
"I know you won't," Teacher Stella said simply.
Annie left the staff room feeling like she was floating and drowning at the same time.
As she walked down the hallway, excitement collided with fear.
How would she attend without her father knowing? What excuse could possibly work? He would never allow it. Never.
Her thoughts were spinning when a familiar voice stopped her cold.
"Annie."
Her heart skipped.
She turned slowly.
George stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
"H–hi, George," she said, forcing a smile.
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to fake it. I know you don't like seeing me."
She stiffened.
"Well, prepare yourself," he continued. "We're going to the competition."
Annie stared at him. "What?"
"Don't worry about the excuse," George added casually. "I'll handle that."
Her mouth fell open.
George was the last person she expected to help her.
"Th–thank you," she muttered, barely audible.
"You don't have to thank me," he said. "I'm doing it for Mum. And besides, Jane is performing too. I just thought I'd extend the hand."
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Annie's smile froze.
Of course, she thought. This help wasn't really for her.
Jane.
The name alone tightened her chest.
Jane with her perfect smile and sharp tongue. Jane, who never missed a chance to belittle her. Jane, who wrapped cruelty in jokes and called it honesty. Jane, who George always defended.
Annie clenched her fists as memories resurfaced the comments, the laughter, the way Jane made her feel small without ever raising her voice.
I must avoid her at all costs.
Still… a win was a win.
She looked down at the invitation clutched in her hand.
I will attend this competition.
And I will win.
Not just for herself but for every girl who had been told her dreams were too loud, too many, too much. For every girl forced to shrink while boys were encouraged to expand.
"They will see," Annie whispered to herself.
Through her art. Through her mind. Through everything she was becoming.
This was no longer just a dream.
This was a challenge.
And Annie Matthews was ready.