Offside With You, Captain Annoying

Annabella.

~Few years back~

“Hey, look, it’s Fatface Bella!”

“Careful, don’t let her sit on the bench, she’ll snap the wood clean in half!”

“Hey, Jelly-Belly! I heard you ate your house?”

Laughter.

That sharp, echoing, playground laughter that clogs your ears and makes your throat feel like it’s full of dry sand.

I kept my eyes glued to my sneakers—the ones with the peeling soles and the dirty pink laces that used to belong to a cousin I’d never met.

If I didn’t look up, they weren’t real.

If I didn’t look up, the tears burning behind my eyelids wouldn’t spill over and give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit the target.

But they always hit the target. Kids are brutal like that. They can sniff out the weakest link in a second, and back then, I was basically a walking neon sign that read Target Practise.

---

I’m eleven now.

Safe. Mostly. But sometimes, when the hallway gets too loud or someone laughs a little too hard behind my back, I’m right back there.

Four years ago. Seven years old, wearing oversized hand-me-downs, and completely, utterly defenseless.

Let’s be real for a second. Being the fat kid is hard enough.

Being the fat kid whose mom sweeps the floors of the very school you go to? That’s a whole different level of social suicide.

My mom was the school janitor, she was assigned to always make the rink spotless and I always loved helping her so I could watch the hockey players.

She smelled like pine cleaner and bleach, and she worked herself to the bone to keep a roof over our heads.

I loved her. I still do. But at seven? I just wanted to vanish. I wanted to blend into the brickwork.

Instead, I stood out like a sore thumb. A big, clumsy, broke sore thumb.

And then there was Dorian Klient.

God, even just thinking his name makes my jaw ache. Dorian was the vice principal’s son, which basically made him royalty at St. Jude’s Elementary.

He had that perfect, messy blonde hair that looked like he’d just stepped out of a catalog, bright blue eyes, and a smile that made all the teachers do that stupid, indulgent sigh.

"Oh, that Dorian, he's such a charmer."

Charmer my foot. He was a monster in a miniature polo shirt.

Because his dad held the keys to the kingdom, Dorian could get away with murder. And his favorite pastime? Me. He hated me. I don’t even know why.

Maybe because my existence offended his perfect little world, or maybe just because I was an easy target who couldn’t fight back without risking her mom’s paycheck.

He never missed an opportunity. If I was walking down the hall, he’d make loud, exaggerated panting noises.

If I was in line for lunch, he’d tell the cafeteria lady to give me extra gravy because "she clearly needs the fuel to haul that mass around."

Everyone laughed. Every single time. Because he was Dorian, and he was popular, and who was going to side with the janitor's chubby kid?

---

It all blew up on a Tuesday. A miserable, cold Tuesday in December.

I had found a quiet corner near the folded-up bleachers in the rink, hoping to just read my library book in peace and wait out the clock.

Then came the shadow.

"Hey. Jelly-Belly."

I didn’t look up. I turned the page, my fingers trembling slightly against the paper. Just ignore him, Bella. Just ignore him and he’ll go away.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, fatso." A foot kicked the edge of my book, tearing the corner of the cover.

My heart did a violent thud against my ribs. I looked up.

Dorian was standing there, surrounded by his usual flock of sycophants. He had this smirk on his face. This awful, entitled little grin that made me want to scrub it off with a wire brush.

"What do you want, Dorian?" My voice sounded small. I hated how small it sounded.

"Just wondering how much you weigh today," he said, loud enough for the kids nearby to stop and look. "My dad says the school budget is tight because we’re spending too much on floor maintenance. I figured it’s because you’re cracking the tiles when you walk."

The boys behind him snickered.

"Leave me alone," I muttered, pulling my knees closer to my chest.

"What? Can't hear you over the sound of your chin rubbing against your chest," he jeered. He stepped closer, deliberately stomping on the toe of my sneaker. "Look at you. You're a mess. Your clothes are dirty, your mom cleans up our trash, and you look like a human beach ball. Why do you even come here? Nobody wants you here."

Something shifted inside me. It wasn't a gradual burn; it was an instant, blinding flash of white-hot rage.

All the months of whispers, the name-calling, the shame of watching my mom scrub toilets while these kids threw paper towels on the floor on purpose—it all just rushed up my throat.

"Shut up!" I screamed.

Dorian blinked, genuinely shocked for a fraction of a second, but then that ugly smirk came right back. "Make me, fatty."

He reached out and shoved my shoulder, hard. My back hit the metal bleachers with a loud, echoing clank.

I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just reacted.

I scrambled to my feet, my vision totally blurred by tears and fury, balled my hand into a fist, and threw it forward with every single ounce of weight I had.

Crack.

My fist connected straight with his face. Well, his nose, mostly, but as he stumbled backward, howling, his hands flew up to protect himself.

I lunged again, totally animalistic, grabbing at whatever I could.

We went down in a tangled heap on the hard gym floor. It was ugly. It wasn't some choreographed movie fight; it was scratching, pulling, and screaming.

Dorian was screeching like a stuck pig. "Get off me! Get her off me!"

Through the chaos, I grabbed his hand, trying to push him away so I could hit him again.

I twisted. Hard.

There was a sickening, distinct pop, followed by a shriek from Dorian that actually echoed off the high ceiling of the gym.

Then, hands were grabbing me. Strong hands. Lifting me off him like I was a rabid dog.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

It was Mr. Klient. The vice principal.

His face was purple, his eyes bulging as he looked from me to his son, who was curling into a ball on the floor, cradling his right hand and sobbing hysterically.

His index finger was bent at a completely wrong, horrifying angle.

Broken. I had broken his finger.

---

The aftermath was a blur of terror. I remember sitting in the main office, my knuckles throbbing, watching my mom walk through the door.

She still had her yellow rubber gloves tucked into her apron pocket. Her face was so pale, so tired.

Mr. Klient didn't even let her sit down. He roared. He used every big word in his vocabulary to describe me.

Vicious. Unprovoked. A menace to the student body.

"She broke my boy's finger, Martha!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. "She’s a liability! I won't have an animal like this in my school."

"Sir, please," my mom pleaded, her voice shaking. "Dorian has been teasing her for months. She’s only seven, she just snapped—"

"Are you calling my son a liar? Are you blaming the victim?" Mr. Klient’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Your daughter is expelled. Effective immediately. And as for you... well, I can't have the mother of a violent delinquent working under my roof. Consider your employment terminated."

I remember looking at my mom’s face when he said that. The way her shoulders just... collapsed.

The way she looked at the floor, defeated, because a powerful man had decided to crush us, and there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it.

We packed our things that day. We lost our income, our stability, everything.

Because Dorian Klient couldn't keep his mouth shut, and because his father was a tyrant.

I learned a lot about the world that day. I learned that being right doesn't matter if you're poor. I learned that bullies win if they have the right last name.

And I promised myself, right then and there, that I would hate Dorian Klient until the day I died.

A few weeks later, one of the neighborhood kids told me that Dorian’s family had moved away. His dad got a promotion at some fancy private school three states over.

The day Dorian Klient left town was the happiest day of my life.

I never expected to see him again.