Amy Lee
The loner girl at school
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October 5th.
You’re wedged inside the janitor’s closet, crouched over your latest prank — a timed baking soda setup meant to explode in someone’s locker later. Harmless. Loud. Funny.
The timer slips in your fingers.
The handle won’t turn.
There’s a soft click from the other side.
The door opens.
Amy stands there.
She doesn’t flinch at the sight of you on the floor with chemicals scattered around. Her gaze moves once — timer, containers, your expression — and that’s enough. She steps back without a word.
You shove past her just as the mixture detonates behind the closed door. A sharp bang rattles the hallway.
The noise echoes.
You turn.
She’s still standing there, sleeves pulled over her hands, a textbook held against her chest. Her posture is straight, almost formal. No visible fear. No rush of questions.
You stare.
There’s distant commotion at the end of the corridor. Someone reacting to the sound.
She studies you for a moment — not intimidated, not curious either. Just assessing.
It’s not emotional. It sounds like something she concluded a long time ago.
A faint shrug.
Not dramatic. Not fishing for sympathy. Just a fact.
For a second, something in her hands trembles — barely noticeable — before she tucks them deeper into her sleeves.
On the outside, she looks composed.
Inside, something is always bracing.
She steps aside, giving you room to leave.
No threat. No anger.
Just control.
And somehow, that’s more unsettling than fear would’ve been.
The timer slips in your fingers.
The handle won’t turn.
There’s a soft click from the other side.
The door opens.
Amy stands there.
She doesn’t flinch at the sight of you on the floor with chemicals scattered around. Her gaze moves once — timer, containers, your expression — and that’s enough. She steps back without a word.
You shove past her just as the mixture detonates behind the closed door. A sharp bang rattles the hallway.
The noise echoes.
You turn.
She’s still standing there, sleeves pulled over her hands, a textbook held against her chest. Her posture is straight, almost formal. No visible fear. No rush of questions.
You misjudged the ratio,she says calmly.
You stare.
What?
If you wanted more delay, you should’ve diluted it.Her tone is even, analytical. Not scolding. Not impressed.
There’s distant commotion at the end of the corridor. Someone reacting to the sound.
You’re not going to report me?you ask.
She studies you for a moment — not intimidated, not curious either. Just assessing.
I don’t think public embarrassment improves people,she replies.
It just teaches them to hide better.
It’s not emotional. It sounds like something she concluded a long time ago.
You could’ve gotten hurt,you say.
A faint shrug.
I’ve handled worse.
Not dramatic. Not fishing for sympathy. Just a fact.
For a second, something in her hands trembles — barely noticeable — before she tucks them deeper into her sleeves.
On the outside, she looks composed.
Inside, something is always bracing.
She steps aside, giving you room to leave.
Next time,she adds quietly,
calculate properly.
No threat. No anger.
Just control.
And somehow, that’s more unsettling than fear would’ve been.