I don't move. Can't.
My chest thumps like it wants out. Fingers twitch, nails digging into my palms. I know they've been watching me all morning—every smirk, every glance at my results. I should feel proud. Instead, I feel exposed, raw, like a bug trapped under glass.
Body frozen, brain buzzing like a dying lightbulb.
Silence—
Then—laughter. Sharp, bright, slicing right through me.
Avery cracks first. Of course she does. She tilts her head like she's reading a book I can't understand, grin sharp and precise.
Casey's laugh erupts behind her, wide, cruel, stretching across the hallway.
Lexxa stands there, arms crossed, gaze like ice—
a single, sharp exhale slipping out. Almost a laugh. Almost.
They don't need to touch me yet. Their presence alone makes my skin crawl.
She doubles over, wheezing, choking on her own joke.
"…Maths can't save you, Spunga—tiny brain shaking, useless.
Say it: maths is worthless. Just like your smug little self."
She breaks again, laughter ricocheting off lockers.
Something warm slides down my scalp.
Thick. Slow.
A creeping insult dragging its way toward my spine.
I taste it before it even reaches my lips. I should gag. I should run. But part of me aches, sharp and stupid, twisting inside. I hate it. I hate them. And yet… I can't stop feeling it.
It rolls across my forehead, drips into my eyebrow.
A golden tear.
Egg yolk.
Perfect...
I keep my eyes glued to Avery.
Pinned.
Locked.
If I stay still, maybe it looks less humiliating; maybe I shrink the target.
Then Lexxa steps in.
Her hand clamps down on my shoulder—steel, cold, absolute.
Thumb digs into the base of my neck like she's checking where the spine breaks.
"Say it," she growls.
Voice low enough to scrape bone.
"Spit it out. You're a smug little bastard. Say it. Now."
My nerves buzz. Muscles flicker. Breath thins to wire.
Casey's laughter spikes behind me—wheeze‑snort‑choke.
She slams her fist into her knee, cackling like she's trying to keep herself from exploding.
Then Avery.
Head tilt. Smile like a scalpel dipped in bubblegum.
"Hey… Don't touch him!"
Soft. Cruel.
"He's being good for once. Look at him—standing there like a perfect little boy. Obedient. Pathetic. Trembling like he actually thinks he matters."
The grip on my shoulder tightens once—warning—
then just lets go.
My body almost tips forward, knees buckling, but I catch myself.
Now I'm just standing there.
Exactly where Avery wants me.
Perfect little boy on display.
Avery watches like she's tuning an instrument.
Casey can't hold it in.
She snaps—
fist slamming, breath breaking into a shout:
"Hold still, peeboy! I'm memorising how fucking small you get! Might need the measurements later—especially for the next batch we pour all over your useless little prick!"
Avery tilts her head. Eyes glint. Voice soft. Sharp. Like glass cutting air.
"You know… the really talented chefs?"
Fingers twitch. Conducting. Air scented with sugar and humiliation.
"They can break eggs… without leaving a single bit of shell behind."
She leans closer. Voice drops.
"Perfectly clean. Perfectly precise. Perfect… just like we're going to make you."
Voices explode behind me. Rough. Free. Untamed.
Then the cracking starts.
Eggs. Multiple. Cold shells smashing against my scalp.
Yolk sliding down my face. Into my hair. Into my mouth.
Sticky. Warm. Humiliation I can taste.
Each crack a slap.
Each drip a tiny explosion inside me.
More eggs came—slap against my shoulder, plop on my back, a cold splat across the side of my face. One burst near my ear with a sound like wet paper tearing.
Avery tilts her head again. Watching. Almost tender.
"See, Spunga? Even we… just like our eggs… can break you perfectly. No mess left. No dignity. Just…"
Gesture down at me. Pinned. Helpless.
"…perfect submission."
Laughter. Exploding from behind me.
Fists crash into knees, shaking the floor.
The two of them—cackling, wild, unstoppable.
Avery tilts her head. Smirk. Calm. Controlling.
A shadow leans forward. Laughing. Hands plunging into my hair.
"…w‑wait… w-what are you..." My voice shakes. My words splinter.
She doesn't pause. "Relax, Spunga. Just giving you a proper makeover."
What is Casey doing to my hair?
Fingers curl around the strands. Kneading. Massaging. Scrubbing the yolk into my scalp like shampoo.
Twist. Smear. Flatten. Jagged tufts sticking up, defiant, matted.
Squish. Squelch. Splat. Humiliation in stereo, bouncing off my skull.
Warm yolk sliding. Clinging. Pooling at my neck. Sticky, impossible to shake.
Smell it. Sulphurous. Raw. Sweet. And her lotion, faint, chemical, slipping into my nose.
Every stroke deliberate. Teasing. Tormenting.
Yolk in my hairline. Over my brow. Dripping into my eyes.
I taste it before it hits my tongue. Warm. Raw. Shame you can't chew.
Blink. Rub. Clings anyway. Spreads further.
Nerves alive. Trembling.
Breath thick with egg. With lotion. With helplessness.
Pinned. Trapped. Every movement is hers.
Nothing mine.
Laughter bursts from around. Short. Broken. Ragged. Not enough lungs for the joke being made out of me.
A low exhale slices through it. Clipped. Sharp. Swallowed and spat back again, refusing to be contained
Not wild.
Not messy.
Just precise, satisfied cruelty leaking out of her control.
She tries to smother it, but another sound slips—almost a chuckle, almost a warning.
Even her laughter feels like something that could bruise.
Casey's fingers rake through my hair again, nails scraping scalp, gathering yolk and foam into one disgusting, glossy crown.
"God", she wheezes between laughs, "look at this. Look at you."
The sound hits sharp. Sudden. Lexxa laughs like she's kicking in a door that's already on fire. Hard. Satisfied. Ready to do it again.
Another twist. Harder. My neck jerks. Yolk pops between Casey's fingers—warm, viscous—like she's squeezing the worst parts of me to the surface.
"And there it is," she murmurs. Not sweet. Poisoned honey. "Look at you. That little… shape your hair makes when you're ruined."
A breath. Soft. Delighted.
"You're finally starting to understand your place."
Casey laughs in my ear, fingers tangled in my hair. Rubbing yolk deeper. Marking me.
"Ohhh, look at him…" she crows. "Spunga's getting a conditioner treatment."
I feel it drip behind my ear, sliding down a path I didn't know existed.
A wet finger tracing my spine.
Casey laughs again—sharp, unfiltered, almost joyous—like she's discovering a new hobby, and that hobby is me.
Lexxa's second laugh joins it, shorter, darker, almost a grunt of amusement.
"Ugh," Casey says finally, breath hitching, "you'd look so much better without that comb‑over."
She shoves the last clump upright—one harsh push—turning my hair into a sticky, yolk‑glued forest fire.
Looks at her hand—slick with yolk—and without breaking eye contact, she grabs the front of my shirt.
Slow. Deliberate.
Wipes her palm clean on me, dragging the mess downward like I'm a towel she didn't ask for.
A quiet, almost bored exhale leaves her.
"Mm. Better."
Avery watches everything.
No laughter. No noise.
Just that calm, artificial sweetness she wears like perfume.
Then she sees it—my hair.
All spiked, dripping, pathetic.
And something in her face fractures.
The kindness is brittle.
The pretend warmth dies on impact.
Her smile tightens first.
Then her eyes.
Then everything.
Something cold presses behind me. Not a touch. A presence. A weight.
Then impact. Hard. Sharp. Warm liquid blooms across my back. Ribs. Spine. Shoulders. Shirt clinging. Yolk sliding, crawling like slow poison.
Crack. Snap. Humiliation spilling. I barely have time to realise she's there.
Shocks travel through my body. Muscles twitch. Breath stutters. The air tastes of egg and defeat.
Thumb jabs the lump forming under the soaked fabric.
"Spunga got a huge zit," Lexxa says. Sharp. Pointed. "Look at that fucker."
Slam. Flinch. Warm thrum against my back. Shirt stretching. Sticky yolk pooling, sliding. Chest tightens. Breath hitches. Knees wobble. Power radiates through her arm. I topple.
Another egg. Tucked into my soaked shirt.
"Look at that huge thing! That's not just a zit…" Casey crows, voice wild, teeth showing. "That's a goddamn cyst! Look at that fucker!"
Casey presses, smears, scrubs yolk like shampoo. Squish. Squelch. Splat. Every slap a drumbeat inside my skull. Humiliation bouncing. Echoing. Smell: egg, sweat, cheap floral lotion.
Another egg shoved inside my shirt. Slammed down. Harder. Spine jolts. Ribs shudder. Knees shake. Head tips forward, chest lurching. Arms flail—trying to catch a balance that isn't mine. Warm yolk dribbles into my collar, hairline, ears.
Head tilted, Avery watches. Smiling, calm, letting it all happen.
Three girls. Two shoving, smashing, coating. One observing. Controlling. Conducting.
Eggs cracking. Sliding. Exploding. Clinging. Shirt drenched. Hair drenched. Neck. Spine. Shoulders. Warm. Raw. Sticky. Shame climbing into my nose.
I lose it all—legs, breath, spine—and drop. Collapse. Hit the floor like I'm weightless and worthless at the same time.
A wrinkle twists across Avery's nose, eyes narrowing like she's staring into a dumpster fire.
…"Tell me that's not piss blooming down your leg, Spunga."
It's only egg. She knows it's only egg.
Lexxa's heel finds my ribs anyway. "Disgusting."
Laughter hits next—Casey crumpling forward like her own body can't hold the joy of watching me fall apart. She jabs a finger into my chest, each poke its own insult.
"Look at you! A total fucking disaster! Can't even stay upright without stinking up the whole damn hallway, you little sack of nothing!"
Paper tears. Avery unfolds the giant results poster she's been clutching, every single student's scores, and holds it up so I can see my name at the top for one last second.
Then she crumples the whole thing against my face, grinding yolk and ink together until it's a pulpy wad.
Let it drop. It lands with a wet splat. "None of this ever mattered."
A smirk cuts across her face—thin, sharp, like a knife she doesn't have to use.
"I can't even stay near you. The smell is unreal."
A short, cruel snort follows—the kind that says she's enjoying the show even without touching me. Lexxa just stands there, arms crossed, watching me twitch on the floor like roadkill.
"Pathetic," she mutters, almost bored.
Casey drops into a half‑crouch beside me, laughter still bubbling out of her like a leak she doesn't want to fix.
"Seriously, Spunga… You can't do one thing right, can you? Look at yourself. Egg dripping down your face, stinking like old trash."
A pause. Teeth flashing.
"Fucking hopeless."
They turn away. Just like that.
Footsteps fading. Laughter echoing.
Leaving me in the hallway—empty now, quiet, too bright.
Egg slides down my cheek. Sticky. Warm. Heavy.
I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't even want to.
The hallway empties completely. The air settles.
The egg cools into glue on my skin.
My legs ache. My head throbs.
I stay on the floor, trembling.
Part of me wants to curl into nothing.
Part of me… aches in ways I don't understand.
I hate them.
I hate what just happened.
But I can't stop thinking about it—
Avery's grin. Casey's fingers. Lexxa's cold stare.
And a small, stupid voice in my skull whispers:
this isn't over.
Soft voice behind me, almost kind:
"You still taste it, don't you?"
She smiles—small, perfect, cruel.
"Good."
Because she's right.
I don't matter.
Never did.
Just a boy with egg running down his face.
And not daring to wipe it off.