Years after he humiliated me in front of our entire class, my former bully came to me for help. He needed a loan, and I was the only person who could decide his fate.
I still remember the smell that day, even 20 years later.
It was industrial wood glue mixed with burnt hair under fluorescent lights.
It was sophomore chemistry. I was 16 years old, quiet, serious, and desperate to blend into the back row.
But my bully had other plans.
I still remember the smell that day.
He sat behind me that semester, wearing his football jacket.
He was loud, charming, and worshiped.
That day, while Mr. Jensen droned on about covalent bonds, I felt a tug at my braid.
I assumed it was an accident.
But when the bell rang, and I tried standing up, pain shot through my scalp.
The class burst into laughter before I even understood why.
I felt a tug at my braid.
The boy had glued my braid to the metal frame of the desk.
The nurse had to cut it free, leaving behind a bald patch the size of a baseball.
For the rest of high school, they called me “Patch.”
Humiliation like that didn’t fade. It calcified.
