Roanoke High's parking lot was full of vehicles. Nice convertibles, sensible sedans, beaten hand-me-downs, handy trucks, sporty SUVs . . . and then there was Mildred's moped. Mildred glided past all the vehicles and took up a whole car space at the back of the lot. The one time she'd parked closer to the school, she'd come out to find her moped buried in a litter of paper scraps, candy wrappers, and other garbage. To top it off, there were even a couple of soda cans mixed in, the contents of which had been used to coat the moped beforehand. Sticky residue had lingered on the handlebars and seat for weeks before finally wearing away—she hadn't bothered to clean it, assuming they'd just do it again. She discovered that if she parked far in the back, her moped would be left alone. Most people wouldn't bother walking past their own vehicles in order to litter hers before they left the lot.

Mildred stuffed her helmet and keys into her backpack, careful not to drop her remaining doughnut. She scarfed down the rest of her unhealthy breakfast without feeling any guilt at all; in fact, consuming the sweet treat somehow made her day a little brighter. Once she was finished, she slowly made her way up the steps and into the school, breathing heavily. A pair of girls walked by her, giggling to themselves as if she wasn't there. Most students had already rushed off to their first class, leaving behind an echoing silence that made Mildred painfully aware of how late she was.

Rows of lockers lined the hallways of Roanoke High, but Mildred's was the easiest to find. It was the one covered in words like dumb bitch, fat ass, and loser. Permanent marker, ink, scrapes made with keys, lipstick—anything her peers could find for their spiteful scrawls—all joined to form a collaboration of broken words that spoke one clear message: Nobody likes you, Mildred.

Her hand shook slightly as she dialed the combination on her lock. She messed up on the second number, passing it just a little too far, and had to start over. Staring at the locker made her even more depressed than she felt when she woke up this morning, so she tried hard to concentrate on opening the lock. The words were hidden from her as she retrieved her books and deposited her bag but met her again head-on after she closed the door. They stung her anew, those unkind slurs. Twisting black ink or harsh grooves in the paint, they all packed the same punch. At some point in the day she knew the janitor would scrub her locker and repaint it. She rarely saw it in its freshened state, however. By the time she returned, it would already bear at least one or two new graffitied insults. She expected it, so it was never a surprise, but it always hurt.

***

The door to the biology classroom was open when Mildred got there. It always remained wide open until Mrs. Kline entered and shut it. Class hadn't started yet. Mildred let out a sigh at her good fortune. Promptly, one of her books slipped out of her arms, reminding her that any luck wouldn't stick around long for anyone named Mildred Waco. She retrieved the tenth edition of Biological Science for the Classroom with sticky doughnut fingers, hating having to bend over because her tummy got in the way and pressure squeezed at her lungs.

As soon as she stepped inside biology class, she was met with collective groans. It was as though she'd ruined everyone's fun simply by being present. Suddenly, Mrs. Kline's absence made Mildred nervous. The last time she'd been in a teacherless class, some jerk had thrown his textbook square into her back. With nobody in charge to see, he had claimed it was an accident and nothing was done about it. The memory gave her half a mind to turn back and wait in the hall for the teacher, but then she'd look very silly having to come back in when Mrs. Kline returned. It would only give them more ammo. They'd call her a coward and a suck-up.

She put her head down and scurried to the only empty desk in the room, which happened to be a special seat for Mildred. Since she was too wide to fit in the regular seats, where the chair was connected to the desktop, the school had arranged for an alternative in all her classes. These desks were as old as the school and reeked of aged wood and the school basement, where they'd carted them up from once they realized she wouldn't fit in the nicer, new desks like everyone else.

"Ugh," someone grumbled as she passed. "That smell!"

She passed quickly but wondered, Do I really smell?

A few others rode on the coattails of that first comment as she moved along by saying things like "Eww," and "It smells like garbage."

She tried to pick up anything unpleasant in the air around her and only detected fresh paper, and something that could've either been someone's soap or a lemon-scented cleaning product.

Mildred took the seat at her special desk, right in front of Chelle Martin—one of the very faces that lined Mildred's mirror. Chelle was too beautiful for her own good—the kind of beautiful that allowed a person to breeze through life. A girl so pretty that if she sat very still, one might mistake her for a mannequin in a high-fashion shop. Arched eyebrows, skin as smooth as silk, and a voice like wind chimes tinkling in a light breeze. That was Chelle. Perpetually having a good hair and makeup day and looking as though a group of stylists was always at her beck and call. Today she was wearing a powder-pink top that hugged her bosom and waist.

Mildred didn't know anything at all about high fashion, but sometimes she heard Chelle bragging about her clothes. Mildred had seen this shirt before. The shirt was a new design, sent to Chelle from her uncle in New York, who was a celebrated fashion designer. It wasn't even due to be released to the general public for another month. Mildred looked down at her own faded purple top. Old. Worn-out. Why hadn't she worn something better? Because it was the first thing she saw on her shelf and it was comfortable. Besides, she didn't know what was in and what was out. When she tried wearing something her mother bought, she always felt gawdy in it. It made her feel out of place, like seeing a clown without their makeup.

If I could do makeup, maybe nicer clothes wouldn't look so awkward on me, Mildred reflected.

As she stole a sheepish glimpse at Chelle, Mildred became painfully aware of how large she was in comparison. Suddenly, she regretted the doughnut, as if that one treat had instantly added twenty pounds to her.

"Gross, Moldred. Did you even brush your hair?" Chelle teased, her narrow nose scrunched up in disgust. Her own neat waves touched her shoulders in shiny shades ranging from sepia to copper, with the slightest hint of wheat.

Mildred stared at Chelle's waves and didn't reply. Even if Mildred had wanted to, the words would have refused to slip through her timid lips. Her face heated beneath the harsh scrutiny of the students in the class, who were now all staring at her. She had brushed her hair at home, but not after she had taken off her helmet. Her hair was probably tangled and sticking up everywhere now—maybe even a little sweaty from being cushioned tight to her scalp for the entire ride to school.

I really ought to bring a brush and leave it in my locker like the other girls, she thought sadly. Why can't I even remember a stupid brush?

"Of course she didn't, Chelle," Aaron Renfro said loudly from the seat beside the small-town fashion model. "Disgusting pigs don't brush their hair or take showers, they just laze around, getting fatter and dumber. Do you even know how to use a hairbrush, Piggy?"

The rest of the class howled. Laughing with Aaron was habitual for all of them. Even on the rare occasion that he said something dull, his audience would still erupt in a loud roar. Aaron was a funny, cool guy according to everyone else at Roanoke High. Mildred would also like to think he was entertaining, but most of the time, her self-esteem was battered at the expense of his jokes. For the others, laughing with him was better than becoming part of his material. Mildred had no reason to put on a facade, because she was already the star subject of his comedy routine. Once he named her Piggy, that was it. And when he suggested she was obsessed with him because of the way he made her skin flush, there was no going back. Never mind that Mildred flushed because she was embarrassed rather than flattered. Forget that. What he said was comedy gold to everyone else—no reason to let facts get in the way of a great joke.

The class chortled around Mildred while she shrank as small as she could at her desk, which only created an awkward effect in her mind. She pictured herself looking the way an elephant might look cowering away from a classroom of mice. Mortified, she kept her head down to hide her beet-red face.

"You forgot uglier," added Chelle, taking the opportunity to ride on Aaron's coattails.

Why do they do it? Mildred wondered. They'd already made her see how ugly and frumpy and fat she was, but she couldn't understand why they felt the need to laugh and poke fun at her because of it. She had tried working on those things, but their never-ceasing insults had made her feel like there was no point. Surely whatever she did wouldn't end the torment, they'd just find different things to tease her about. Her chest tightened as the laughter stung her eardrums.

"Did you see the lazy way she slouched in here?" Aaron asked. He got up and did a slumped, sloth-like impression of her.

Mrs. Kline walked in then, catching everyone in the swing of another round of laughter. She clapped the door shut with a loud snap and their voices caught.

"Enough, class," she said in a frustrated voice.

The class straightened in their seats obediently. Nothing happening here, their faces said, but Mrs. Kline knew different. She zeroed in on Mildred knowingly.

"Please see me after class, Ms. Waco," she said.

Hunched down in her chair, face pink and sweaty, Mildred nodded. She wished she could just poof out of existence, but of course she couldn't. The kids spitting soggy wads of paper in her hair kept reminding her she was visible. She was there, and she was an easy target. All through class, Mildred felt the soggy little pellets showering her but she didn't react to them. Reacting, she'd figured out early on, made the abuse worse.

***

Mildred read the long-faced look her teacher gave her once the class had cleared. Mrs. Kline was disappointed, a sad kind of angry look. The kind you give puppies when they've done something bad. Mildred suddenly started to panic. She had been so worried about seeing Mrs. Kline after class, she couldn't remember a single thing about the lesson. What if Mrs. Kline quizzed her? Mildred swallowed hard and her chin began to tremble.

"Oh, Mildred," Mrs. Kline said, then she stopped a few seconds to gather her words. "Mildred, I worry about you." She snatched a tissue from her desk and trotted over to Mildred, extending it to her. Mildred stared at it.

"Are you . . . going to make me cry?" she asked suspiciously, without taking it.

"No, I'm going to tell you that you should stand up to them. Don't sit there and let them make a joke out of you."

"But how? There are so many of them . . . and only one of me."

"It doesn't matter how many there are, don't worry about that. When you stand up, most of them will back down. They'll get bored of it when they can't get a rise out of you."

Mildred had heard it all before and knew it just wasn't true. When she'd seen that advice on television two years ago and tried it, she wound up getting beat up by a group of girls during gym class. The ghosts of the bruises still haunted her. The one on her cheek hadn't gone away for weeks. The one on her knee went so deep the doctors called it a bruised bone. She couldn't remember who dealt the blows—her eyes had been shut for most of it—but she recalled the pain vividly. She wondered if Mrs. Kline was trying to get her to make a mistake. Did she want to see Mildred get beat up? All broken and bruised?

"Also, you have chocolate right there." Mrs. Kline pointed to the side of Mildred's mouth. "You may want to take care of that before going to your next class."

Mildred snatched the tissue and first wiped, then scrubbed like she was trying her best to erase her face. The chocolate was gone, replaced with red, irritated skin. She felt embarrassment and hatred bubble up. Mrs. Kline watched them pick on Mildred every day and never punished them. Now Mrs. Kline was trying to push it further. She wanted Mildred to fight back. Put herself in more danger. Even worse, she had let Mildred sit through an entire class knowing chocolate was on her face. Mrs. Kline is no different than they are: cruel and always ready to make a joke out of me, Mildred thought.

"Did you wash your face this morning?" Mrs. Kline asked. "Are you able to? Is everything okay at home?"

Mildred wasn't listening properly. The first part of Mrs. Kline's sentence was so similar to something Chelle or Aaron might say that it was all Mildred could hear. Piggy, her mind taunted in Aaron's voice. You like chocolate, don't you, Piggy? His voice morphed into Mrs. Kline's. Mildred the piggy. Look at her fat, chocolate-covered face, everyone!

Mildred dropped the tissue and took off out of the room, almost knocking the bulky desk over with her haste.

"Mildred! Please," Mrs. Kline said, but Mildred didn't listen.

She was already down the hallway, running in a slow and awkward wobble. Students roared with laughter in the hallway at the sight of her. Her awkward run to escape them actually brought more attention to her, and of course they jumped on her, the way a hungry mountain lion attacks the helpless antelope calf that is too slow to keep up with its herd.

"Hey shitface, did you eat shit for breakfast this morning?" said Seth Montgomery, a burly jock.

His much smaller girlfriend, Patsy, stood beside him.

Mildred knew Patsy. Once upon a time, in grade school, they'd been inseparable. Patsy's mother worked for Mildred's family as a housekeeper then. Patsy used to come along while Mrs. Porter completed her twice-weekly cleaning routine, much like Naomi currently did. The girls had become fast friends.

***

"Let's play pretend," young Patsy said. "I'll be Hello Kitty, you be Mimmy."

Patsy was covered in freckles and had bushy dark-red hair.

"Hello Kitty's best friend?" said young Mildred, a chubby child whose shirt was always rolling up to show her belly.

"Yeah, silly, because you're my best friend." Patsy hugged her and Mildred felt loved. Happy.

"You're my best friend too!"

Patsy had always been willing to overlook a lot of things that held other kids at bay: Mildred's awkwardness, her slowness, her overall undesirableness. She would play dress-up with Mildred and not care about sharing the same lipstick. It was a true friendship.

Mildred's mom was so relieved that Mildred had made a friend, any friend, that she had been willing to overlook the disappearance of expensive items in their home. She had ignored the fact that it always happened when Patsy's mother was on the clock. Until she couldn't ignore it anymore.

"I'm sorry, but the loss is just too great," Mrs. Waco said.

"But, Mommy, Patsy wouldn't ever," young Mildred protested.

"I know she's your friend, Millie, but . . ." She sighed. "It was great-grandma's pearl and diamond necklace. It was the only thing she brought with her from Japan and it was very expensive."

"But maybe if we just tell them how important it is, they'll give it back."

Mrs. Waco tsked and dialed Mrs. Porter on the phone.

"They only borrowed it, I'm sure. Just ask, Mommy."

***

Mrs. Waco had not asked. She fired Patsy's mother and, for good measure, banned Patsy from the property as well, not knowing whose sticky fingers had taken the necklace.

Losing Mildred's friendship didn't seem to stifle Patsy. Before Mildred's eyes, Patsy opened like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon. By the time they reached high school, her features that were once out of style—her thick eyebrows and face scattered with freckles—became trendy and even desirable, while Mildred stayed her same old self. Patsy gained more friends while Mildred still had none. Patsy's weekend schedules were, in Mildred's assumption, no doubt full of exciting and fun high school things that Mildred would never experience. Maybe if she had stayed friends with Patsy, Mildred often thought, she would have grown popular with her by association. She would have gone to the cool parties. She would have talked to people who didn't judge her for how she looked but gave her a chance because she was Patsy's friend.

But she wasn't Patsy's friend.

***

"Mrs. Porter?" Mrs. Waco said into the phone. "Yes, I'm sorry, but we won't be needing your services anymore."

"Mommy, no!" Mildred wailed.

"We know about the necklace. And . . . I'm afraid Mildred can't be friends with Patsy anymore either."

Hearing the words left Mildred hollow. Alone. She felt the cold surface of the table as she buried her head in her arms on top of it, wanting to melt into it and become an object, incapable of feeling this new horrible feeling of loneliness.

At school, Mildred hoped that they could still be friends, but when she tried to talk to Patsy, Patsy said, "My mommy and your mommy said we can't be friends anymore."

And that was that.

***

Back in the halls of Roanoke High, freckled and popular Patsy smacked Seth's bulky arm and said, "Stop it."

Mildred wobbled along, trying to ignore her, and almost tripped over her own feet but caught herself on the wall and kept going.

"Run all the way home, loser, nobody wants you here," said a girl named Sarah. She wasn't that popular, but some people giggled anyway, because they hated Mildred.

"Ogre!" Aaron shouted excitedly when he saw Mildred dashing down the hallway. "Quick! Everybody hide! It's on a rampage. It could crush anyone it catches in its path!" Everyone nearby burst into hysterics, as though it was the most hilarious thing they'd ever heard. Aaron had hit a new high with them, but Mildred's eyes stung.

Inside the bathroom, Mildred was alone. Lockers opened and shut outside as the last of the students scampered here or there, shouted at friends, and laughed, while Mildred sat on the toilet and sobbed loudly into a generous wad of toilet paper. Her sobs were so violent she didn't hear the restroom door swing open.

"What the hell?" Yvette Darling said. "Who's blubbering in there?"

"Moldy Mildred," Chelle replied, saying her name as though it tasted bad. "She ran in here earlier—oh my God, she's so loud!"

"What a loser. Can't even make it to second period without pulling this crap. Shut up already!" Yvette shouted, then she grumbled. "How's a girl supposed to touch up her makeup with this racket going on?"

"I know, right?" Chelle agreed. "It's like she thinks she'll get sympathy or something."

"Yeah, like that'll happen," Yvette said. "Why should we care about Moldred's fat ass, she obviously doesn't care about it."