Start keeping track. Times, dates, witnesses, everything they say, everything they do. Build the case. They don't think we're smart enough to make. Sierra opened the notebook.
Its blank pages promising something like hope. She wrote the date at the top of the first page, then began listing what she'd observed. Troy's whispered comments in math class. Chase's deliberate shoulder check in the hallway. Riders snickering when she raised her hand in history.
"We're not just fighting them," Dante said, watching her right. "We're fighting a system that wants us to stay quiet and take the high road." Sierra looked up from her notes. "Then we'll fight both." Sierra stepped through Ridge View Middle School's front doors the next morning, her father's words echoing in her mind. The tiny microphone clipped inside her collar felt like armor, invisible but powerful. Dante had shown her how to use it that morning, his hands steady as he detached it.
Remember, he'd said, "Evidence is stronger than anger. The hallway seemed longer today. Students parted around her like water, some averting their eyes, others staring too long. Sierra kept her pace steady, her breathing controlled like she did during Kada practice. The microphone picked up every footstep, every whisper.
Troy Hadley leaned against his locker as she approached, his smirk wide and cruel. "Hey, rope girl," he called, just loud enough for nearby students to hear. Sierra's hand tightened on her backpack strap, but she kept walking. "What's wrong?" Chase taunted from across the hall. "Cat, got your tongue?" He made a pulling gesture with his hand, mimicking a noose tightening.
Several students gasped, but no one said anything. Sierra felt her heart pound, but kept her face neutral. Inside her mind, she cataloged every detail. Time, place, witnesses. The microphone captured it all.
In first period math, Ryder sat behind her, occasionally making quiet choking sounds. Sierra focused on her equations, her pencil moving steadily across the paper. When she raised her hand to answer a question, he whispered, "Careful. Might need a rope ladder to get that high." The teacher, Mrs. Peterson, frowned slightly, but said nothing.
Sierra answered the question correctly, her voice clear and unwavering. She noted Mrs. Peterson's inaction in her mental log. Between classes, Madison, the girl who'd set her up at lunch days before, approached with fake concern. "I just want you to know," she said, her voice syrupy sweet.
"I think what they did was like totally wrong. Even if you don't really fit in here," Sierra met her eyes. Thank you for your concern," she said, each word measured and precise. The microphone caught Madison's uncomfortable laugh as she retreated. At lunch, Sierra sat alone again, but this time she positioned herself where she could observe the entire cafeteria.
She watched Troy and his friends holding court at their table. Noticed how teachers walked past without commenting on their loud jokes about hanging around and swinging by later. In her notebook, Sierra documented each incident with military precision, just as her father had taught her. Time, location, witnesses, direct quotes. The growing list felt like building a case, gathering ammunition for a battle they didn't know was coming.
During gym class, the whispers grew bolder. "Wonder if her dad taught her how to climb ropes," Chase said loudly as they lined up for volleyball. "Bet it runs in the family." Sierra served the ball with perfect form, the satisfying smack echoing through the gym. She remembered her father's words about power, not in showing it, but in knowing you have it. After school, Troy and his friends followed her to her locker, maintaining just enough distance to claim innocence.